“Confess, M. Casanova,” he cried, “that I am inopportune.”
If Casanova did not confess it, neither did he deny it. He just stood there drawn to his full height — and, tall man though Branicki was, the Venetian stood an inch or so taller — and stared at the intruder as one stares at something curious, unusual, and not quite pleasant. His swarthy, aquiline face was disconcertingly contemptuous. The Count should have discerned that here was a man of a stamp very different from Tomatis, a man ready to go more than half-way to meet him if his purpose were a quarrel. Perhaps Branicki did discern it.
“Your silence admits it,” he cried. “I do not wonder. This lady is so amiable that — that, faith, I am deeply in love with her, and I intend to suffer no rival. You understand me?”
Casanova smiled, but it was a crooked smile. He looked at the bewildered little dancer, whose cheeks were flushed with dawning indignation, and then bowed too elaborately to Branicki.
“In that case,” he said, “I must renounce all pretensions.”
Branicki sneered. He does not appear to have possessed a keen ear for irony. “You are a prudent man, M. Casanova.”
“Who could be so ill-advised as to enter into rivalry with a man of your excellency’s quality?” quoted Casanova. But now the mockery of his voice was more pronounced, and his smile more wickedly sardonic.
“I account anyone a coward,” said Branicki, “who abandons his ground at the first threat of danger.”
Despite his iron self-control, Casanova quivered under the whiplash of those words. Mechanically, his hand was half-way to his sword before he recollected himself. Turning, he bowed profoundly to the scared and breathless girl, who stood leaning for support against her dressing-table. Then holding himself stiffly erect, he walked past the Count, so closely as almost to touch him. For an instant he paused face to face with the Pole, and looked deep into the man’s eyes, unpardonable contempt in his glance, in the curl of his lip, and in the slight shrug of his shoulders. There is no doubt that he intended to give Branicki ample rope; I suspect that he deliberately tempted the Count to slap his face, so that the affront might be complete. But as Branicki did not appear disposed to do so, Casanova passed out.
Instantly the Count sprang after him, and his voice hoarse with anger rang down the corridor.
“Venetian coward!” he shouted.
Casanova checked in his stride, and turned. Dressing-room doors stood open on either hand, and in the corridor loitered several officers of the court. There was no lack of witnesses that the Pole was the aggressor.
“Count Branicki,” said our adventurer, in a steady voice, “I will prove it on your body when you please and where you please that a Venetian coward does not fear a Polish nobleman.”
Thus was the quarrel engaged between these two men, one of whom had for only aim to salve the wounded vanity of an empty-headed dancer, the other to avenge the wrongs of a theatrical director. That at least is my own conclusion so far as Casanova is concerned. But even so, I am very far from wishing to impute that he descended on this occasion — or was even capable of descending — to the level of the hired bully. I am convinced that nothing would have induced him to espouse Tomatis’s quarrel had he not been deeply in sympathy with the director, and contemptuous of the nobleman who had so unworthily used him. I suggest then, no more than that he combined chivalry with profit, each acting as a spur to the other. Meanwhile, he went home to await developments.
Early next morning Prince Lubomirski, with whom he was on terms of friendship, went to visit him. Casanova was elegantly lodged in a small suite of rooms in the house of Campioni, the dancing master. There Prince Lubomirski found him still abed, but sitting up and writing busily. He laid down his pen, and gave the Prince a hearty welcome. Lubomirski sat down, and came straight to the matter on his mind.
“Branicki had been drinking last night,” he said. “I hope that a man of your experience is above being offended by the indiscretions of a gentleman in his cups.”
“To be sure I am,” said Casanova genially, “provided that being sober this morning the Count will have the discretion to apologize.”
“That is a great deal to expect of Branicki,” opined the prince.
“So I had imagined,” Casanova agreed, “for which reason I have just written him a letter. Let me read it to you.” And he read it:
Your excellency insulted me yesterday, and as I can discern no reason why you should have done so, I can only assume that you dislike me. In the circumstances I have the honour to place myself at your disposal. To settle the matter I am ready to meet you under conditions in which my death could not be considered an assassination, and in which I might kill your excellency without being guilty of the same offence against the law. This proposal should prove to your excellency the high regard in which I hold you. I have the honour to enclose the length of my sword, and venture to hope that you will appoint a meeting for tomorrow.
Aghast at the letter, Lubomirski broke into protestations calculated to dissuade Casanova from his purpose. Failing, he departed in despair, and Casanova at once dispatched a messenger with the letter. Within an hour it was answered by Count Branicki in person.
Admitted to Casanova’s bedchamber — for the Venetian was still abed engaged in correspondence — the Count locked the door, and came unceremoniously to seat himself upon the bed. Finding this proceeding not merely irregular in the circumstances, but a thought too intimate, and not knowing what might follow out of it, Casanova prudently reached for a pistol.
“I haven’t come to kill you in your bed,” Branicki assured him pleasantly, “but merely to tell you that I never postpone a duel to the morrow. Either we fight today or we do not fight at all.”
He spoke of it lightly, much as he might have discussed a visit to the opera.
“Today is impossible, Count,” Casanova answered. “I am at work as you see, and I must finish these letters — they are to go by a courier leaving Warsaw tonight.”
“You can finish them afterwards.”
“I might conceivably not be in case to do so.”
Branicki laughed. “That is unlikely. But if so — the dead need fear no reproaches on the score of unanswered letters.”
“But I don’t understand,” protested Casanova, “why your excellency should refuse to wait until tomorrow.”
“Don’t you see that if we wait you will miss the satisfaction you desire of me. His majesty is sure to hear of it, and will have us both placed under arrest.”
Branicki was today as charming and amiable as he had last night been insolent and overbearing. Then, too, in his florid, blond way, he was a handsome man, and a handsome face in either man or woman was ever an irresistible recommendation to Casanova. He says somewhere that a handsome face is a draft at sight, which all the world is prepared to honour. Thus it happened that he found himself liking Count Branicki, whose acquaintance he was really only just beginning to make. And there is little doubt that the feeling was reciprocated by the Pole. It is curious but undeniable that these two odd fellows were actually in course of becoming friends whilst arranging to cut each other’s throats.
“Very well,” said Casanova, at length. “I consent, since I cannot neglect anything that should afford me the privilege of a meeting with you. If therefore you will call for me after dinner I shall be ready.”
“You are very kind, sir. I hoped that you would accompany me at once.”
“Not that,” said the Venetian. “I must dine first.”
“Each to his taste,” was the reply. “Myself I prefer to fight fasting. But I will wait. Meanwhile, sir, why send me the length of your sword? I never consent to meet a stranger with any weapons but pistols.”
This was a shock to Casanova, who was confident of his swordsmanship.
“I do not fight with pistols,” he protested, “and in all the circumstances I have the right to the choice of weapons.”
“Perhaps; but you are, I am sure, too gallant a man not t
o accept the weapon I propose.”
Conquered by the fellow’s amiability and good looks, Casanova yielded the point.
“So be it,” he said. “You will bring a brace of pistols to be loaded in my presence, and I will choose my own. Should we miss each other, perhaps I shall have the honour of crossing swords with you, until one of us draws first blood — that is all.”
“Excellent.” Branicki rose to depart. “I shall call for you at three o’clock. Until then not a word to anyone. And now let us shake hands. It will be an honour to meet you.”
Entirely charmed by him, Casanova shook his hand effusively, and so they parted for the moment, completely pleased with each other.
Casanova, who, like your true man of the world, was a complete epicurean, prepared himself for the ordeal by ordering and sitting down to a succulent dinner and the choicest of wines. He sent for Campioni to keep him company, but found Campioni — who more than suspected what was in the wind — dull and preoccupied. Nevertheless, Casanova ate heartily, and drank as heartily, but with discretion.
Precisely at three o’clock Branicki arrived in a berline drawn by six horses, followed by two led horses in the charge of two orderlies and a couple of mounted hussars. Moreover, the Count was accompanied by his aide-de-camp and a General in full dress uniform. He was conducting the affair in the grand manner, you see.
Casanova, dressed with care and wrapped in a valuable fur pelisse — for which I am sure that he had not paid — entered the carriage, and took the seat beside Branicki to which the latter invited him. Branicki suggested that he might wish to bring a friend of his own.
“I have made no such provision,” he answered, “nor do I now see the need, since we have witnesses enough, and I leave myself with confidence in your hands.”
The Count acknowledged the compliment by tightly pressing Casanova’s hand, and they drove off. For awhile there was silence. Then Casanova felt it necessary to make polite conversation.
“Do you expect to spend the summer in Warsaw, Count?” he asked.
“Yesterday that was my intention. But today — it is possible that you are about to prevent it.”
“I trust sincerely that our little affair may not disturb any of your plans.”
“I reciprocate the wish with regard to yourself. You have been a soldier, Monsieur Casanova?”
“I have. But why do you ask?”
“Oh, merely to keep the conversation going.” And Branicki laughed frankly and pleasantly.
The carriage rolled through the snow-clad suburbs, and came to a halt at the gates of a park. They alighted, and made their way through the trees to a clearing in which there were a seat and a table of stone. On this one of the hussars placed a brace of pistols, each a couple of feet in length, and set himself to load them.
When they were ready, and even as Branicki was inviting his opponent to make his choice, there occurred the first discordant note in an affair hitherto conducted, you will agree, in the sweetest harmony. This was precipitated by a well-meant, but ill-advised, attempt on the part of the General to compose the quarrel.
“After all, gentlemen,” said he, “would it not be wiser to appeal to the king to settle your dispute, rather than fight each other?”
“For my part,” said Casanova, “I should be charmed to have his majesty arbitrate between us, provided that his excellency here will express regret for having insulted me yesterday.”
Branicki flushed with sudden anger. “Have we come to fight or to talk?” he asked, and, proffering the pistols for the second time: “Choose, sir,” he cried.
“You will bear witness hereafter, sir,” said Casanova to the General, “that I have done all that my honour will permit to avoid the duel.” And, tossing back his fur-lined cloak, he seized one of the pistols. Momentarily he was angered.
“You will find it a good weapon,” said Branicki.
“I shall test it on your brain,” answered Casanova, and saw Branicki turn pale with anger. Without answering, the Count stepped back, and Casanova now did the same, until they stood some twelve paces apart. The trees on either side of the clearing prevented a wider distance. A moment they stood regarding each other, then Branicki raised his pistol slowly. He was deliberately covering Casanova, when the latter’s arm shot up with disconcerting suddenness — a shrewd trick this to disturb the other’s aim — and he fired so abruptly that the two shots made but one report.
Branicki staggered, reeled, and fell, whereupon Casanova, flinging away his weapon, sprang forward with real concern to the Count’s assistance. He assures us that he had fired without aiming, and that he was filled with dread lest he should inadvertently have killed the Count.
Suddenly he found his way blocked by Branicki’s hussars, their sabres gleaming lividly in the wintry sunshine, and murder in their eyes. He judged that his last hour had come, as undoubtedly would have been the case if Branicki had indeed been slain. As it was, the Count’s voice rang out hoarsely to arrest this murderous intent.
“Hold, dogs! Respect Monsieur Casanova — on your lives!”
They fell back at once, and Casanova went forward to assist his adversary to rise from the snow, which his blood was already flecking. It was only then that our Venetian discovered that he was wounded himself, and that the other’s bullet was lodged in his left hand.
Branicki was carried to an inn a hundred yards from the park, Casanova walking beside him, and the two looking at each other ever and anon, but no word passing between them. At the inn the Count was put to bed and his wound examined. The bullet had passed through him, from right to left below the ribs, and there was reason to fear that his intestines were perforated.
He looked up at Casanova, and a faint smile crossed his white face.
“You have killed me, my friend,” he said, without resentment. “Therefore make haste to save yourself. My purse is at your disposal if you have need of money.”
Overcome with grief, and deeply touched by the other’s gallantry and magnanimity, Casanova thanked him effusively, refused the purse, embraced him, and stumbled out of the inn blinded by tears. All Branicki’s people had gone off in quest of surgeons, priests, and friends, and Casanova now found himself alone, wounded, without weapons, on foot in a snow-clad country that was unknown to him. Fortunately, he met a peasant in a one-horse sleigh. Holding up his hand to stop him, he showed him a ducat, uttered the single word “Warsaw”, and thus was driven back to the city.
There, instead of going to his lodgings, he repaired to the Franciscan monastery, deeming it wise — in view of the sample the hussars had afforded him of Polish ways — to claim sanctuary until he should know, in the event of Branicki’s death, what might be intended against himself. He was kindly received by the aged Prior, who placed a room at his disposal, and sent at once for Campioni, a surgeon, and Casanova’s servant. The surgeon fetched was a clumsy performer, who miserably lacerated the patient’s hand in the course of extracting the bullet.
Casanova assigns it to vanity that while the operation was being performed he, dissembling his pain, related the details of the affair to those who were present. Headed by Prince Lubomirski, and attracted by the news which had gone through Warsaw like a ripple over water, they made already a considerable crowd. Others came on the morrow; indeed not an enemy of Branicki’s remained absent, and from the solicitude they displayed, and the readiness with which they offered him their purses, he was able to judge how detested the Count’s eminent position and arrogant ways had rendered him. Knowing how pressed he was for funds, I conceive him to have been very sorely tempted by their offers. But he set a high price upon his dignity, and perceiving that only by a sacrifice of this could he accept what was tendered out of hate for Branicki rather than of love for himself, he refused with the careless air of one who has inexhaustible resources at his command. He confesses that he regretted it later.
But if Branicki had enemies, he had friends as well, and these were moving vigorously to avenge the Count �
� whose life hung for days in the balance. The Grand-Marshal, acting upon orders from the king, who esteemed Casanova, had the convent guarded by a detachment of dragoons on the pretext of making sure that the Venetian did not escape, but in reality to protect him from any desperate attempts to seize his person. Then, too, the wound in Casanova’s hand producing considerable inflammation, three surgeons in consultation decided that it must be amputated to save his life. But Casanova, suspecting that they were the agents of Branicki’s avengers, and that their object was really to offer up his hand in sacrifice to their rancour, boldly played his life against his hand, and saved it by refusing to submit to the amputation.
He remained with the Franciscans until Easter, by when Branicki was pronounced out of all danger — and it was believed that the Count owed his life to having adhered to his practice of fighting on an empty stomach. However that might be, Casanova was really relieved and thankful not to have slain a man whom he had found so very estimable.
Nevertheless, there was still a good deal of feeling against him in certain sections of Warsaw society, and upon the advice of the Russian ambassador Casanova decided to absent himself from the Polish court for a couple of months. It was to be expected that by the end of that time this feeling would have died down, and that he might return and assume the office of secretary to his majesty, upon which his heart was set.
Accordingly he set out for Kieff, mysteriously supplied with two hundred ducats for the journey, and I find it difficult to believe that this sum was other than a mark of gratitude from Tomatis, whom he was constantly seeing at this time. And Tomatis had more reason to be grateful than he knew as yet. For in avenging him upon Branicki, Casanova had also avenged him upon La Binetti, who had been the unworthy cause of the whole affair. Her relations with Count Branicki were at an end. Perceiving into what unworthy courses her vanity had led him, and how near it had been to costing him his life, the Grand Chamberlain broke with her completely, and refused to see her again.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 544
