Scaramouche: A Romance of the French Revolution

by Rafael Sabatini

  CHAPTER IV. THE HERITAGE

  It was M. de Vilmorin's desire that the matter should be settled outof hand. In this he was at once objective and subjective. A prey toemotions sadly at conflict with his priestly vocation, he was aboveall in haste to have done, so that he might resume a frame of mind moreproper to it. Also he feared himself a little; by which I mean that hishonour feared his nature. The circumstances of his education, and thegoal that for some years now he had kept in view, had robbed him of muchof that spirited brutality that is the birthright of the male. He hadgrown timid and gentle as a woman. Aware of it, he feared that once theheat of his passion was spent he might betray a dishonouring weakness,in the ordeal.

  M. le Marquis, on his side, was no less eager for an immediatesettlement; and since they had M. de Chabrillane to act for his cousin,and Andre-Louis to serve as witness for M. de Vilmorin, there wasnothing to delay them.

  And so, within a few minutes, all arrangements were concluded, and youbehold that sinisterly intentioned little group of four assembled inthe afternoon sunshine on the bowling-green behind the inn. They wereentirely private, screened more or less from the windows of the house bya ramage of trees, which, if leafless now, was at least dense enough toprovide an effective lattice.

  There were no formalities over measurements of blades or selectionof ground. M. le Marquis removed his sword-belt and scabbard, butdeclined--not considering it worth while for the sake of so negligible anopponent--to divest himself either of his shoes or his coat. Tall, lithe,and athletic, he stood to face the no less tall, but very delicate andfrail, M. de Vilmorin. The latter also disdained to make any of theusual preparations. Since he recognized that it could avail him nothingto strip, he came on guard fully dressed, two hectic spots above thecheek-bones burning on his otherwise grey face.

  M. de Chabrillane, leaning upon a cane--for he had relinquished his swordto M. de Vilmorin--looked on with quiet interest. Facing him on theother side of the combatants stood Andre-Louis, the palest of the four,staring from fevered eyes, twisting and untwisting clammy hands.

  His every instinct was to fling himself between the antagonists, toprotest against and frustrate this meeting. That sane impulse wascurbed, however, by the consciousness of its futility. To calm him, heclung to the conviction that the issue could not really be very serious.If the obligations of Philippe's honour compelled him to cross swordswith the man he had struck, M. de La Tour d'Azyr's birth compelled himno less to do no serious hurt to the unfledged lad he had so grievouslyprovoked. M. le Marquis, after all, was a man of honour. He could intendno more than to administer a lesson sharp, perhaps, but one by whichhis opponent must live to profit. Andre-Louis clung obstinately to thatfor comfort.

  Steel beat on steel, and the men engaged. The Marquis presented to hisopponent the narrow edge of his upright body, his knees slightly flexedand converted into living springs, whilst M. de Vilmorin stood squarely,a full target, his knees wooden. Honour and the spirit of fair playalike cried out against such a match.

  The encounter was very short, of course. In youth, Philippe had receivedthe tutoring in sword-play that was given to every boy born into hisstation of life. And so he knew at least the rudiments of what wasnow expected of him. But what could rudiments avail him here? Threedisengages completed the exchanges, and then without any haste theMarquis slid his right foot along the moist turf, his long, gracefulbody extending itself in a lunge that went under M. de Vilmorin's clumsyguard, and with the utmost deliberation he drove his blade through theyoung man's vitals.

  Andre-Louis sprang forward just in time to catch his friend's body underthe armpits as it sank. Then, his own legs bending beneath the weight ofit, he went down with his burden until he was kneeling on the damp turf.Philippe's limp head lay against Andre-Louis' left shoulder; Philippe'srelaxed arms trailed at his sides; the blood welled and bubbled from theghastly wound to saturate the poor lad's garments.

  With white face and twitching lips, Andre-Louis looked up at M. de LaTour d'Azyr, who stood surveying his work with a countenance of gravebut remorseless interest.

  "You have killed him!" cried Andre-Louis.

  "Of course."

  The Marquis ran a lace handkerchief along his blade to wipe it. As helet the dainty fabric fall, he explained himself. "He had, as I toldhim, a too dangerous gift of eloquence."

  And he turned away, leaving completest understanding with Andre-Louis.Still supporting the limp, draining body, the young man called to him.

  "Come back, you cowardly murderer, and make yourself quite safe bykilling me too!"

  The Marquis half turned, his face dark with anger. Then M. deChabrillane set a restraining hand upon his arm. Although a partythroughout to the deed, the Chevalier was a little appalled now that itwas done. He had not the high stomach of M. de La Tour d'Azyr, and hewas a good deal younger.

  "Come away," he said. "The lad is raving. They were friends."

  "You heard what he said?" quoth the Marquis.

  "Nor can he, or you, or any man deny it," flung back Andre-Louis."Yourself, monsieur, you made confession when you gave me now the reasonwhy you killed him. You did it because you feared him."

  "If that were true--what, then?" asked the great gentleman.

  "Do you ask? Do you understand of life and humanity nothing but how towear a coat and dress your hair--oh, yes, and to handle weapons againstboys and priests? Have you no mind to think, no soul into which you canturn its vision? Must you be told that it is a coward's part to kill thething he fears, and doubly a coward's part to kill in this way? Had youstabbed him in the back with a knife, you would have shown the courageof your vileness. It would have been a vileness undisguised. But youfeared the consequences of that, powerful as you are; and so you shelteryour cowardice under the pretext of a duel."

  The Marquis shook off his cousin's hand, and took a step forward,holding now his sword like a whip. But again the Chevalier caught andheld him.

  "No, no, Gervais! Let be, in God's name!"

  "Let him come, monsieur," raved Andre-Louis, his voice thick andconcentrated. "Let him complete his coward's work on me, and thus makehimself safe from a coward's wages."

  M. de Chabrillane let his cousin go. He came white to the lips, his eyesglaring at the lad who so recklessly insulted him. And then he checked.It may be that he remembered suddenly the relationship in which thisyoung man was popularly believed to stand to the Seigneur de Gavrillac,and the well-known affection in which the Seigneur held him. And so hemay have realized that if he pushed this matter further, he might findhimself upon the horns of a dilemma. He would be confronted with thealternatives of shedding more blood, and so embroiling himself with theLord of Gavrillac at a time when that gentleman's friendship was of thefirst importance to him, or else of withdrawing with such hurt to hisdignity as must impair his authority in the countryside hereafter.

  Be it so or otherwise, the fact remains that he stopped short; then,with an incoherent ejaculation, between anger and contempt, he tossedhis arms, turned on his heel and strode off quickly with his cousin.

  When the landlord and his people came, they found Andre-Louis, his armsabout the body of his dead friend, murmuring passionately into the deafear that rested almost against his lips:

  "Philippe! Speak to me, Philippe! Philippe... Don't you hear me? O Godof Heaven! Philippe!"

  At a glance they saw that here neither priest nor doctor could avail.The cheek that lay against Andre-Louis's was leaden-hued, the half-openeyes were glazed, and there was a little froth of blood upon thevacuously parted lips.

  Half blinded by tears Andre-Louis stumbled after them when they bore thebody into the inn. Upstairs in the little room to which they conveyedit, he knelt by the bed, and holding the dead man's hand in both hisown, he swore to him out of his impotent rage that M. de La Tour d'Azyrshould pay a bitter price for this.

  "It was your eloquence he feared, Philippe," he said. "Then if I canget no justice for this deed, at least it shall be fruitless to him. Theth
ing he feared in you, he shall fear in me. He feared that men might beswayed by your eloquence to the undoing of such things as himself. Menshall be swayed by it still. For your eloquence and your arguments shallbe my heritage from you. I will make them my own. It matters nothingthat I do not believe in your gospel of freedom. I know it--every word ofit; that is all that matters to our purpose, yours and mine. If all elsefails, your thoughts shall find expression in my living tongue. Thusat least we shall have frustrated his vile aim to still the voice hefeared. It shall profit him nothing to have your blood upon his soul.That voice in you would never half so relentlessly have hounded him andhis as it shall in me--if all else fails."

  It was an exulting thought. It calmed him; it soothed his grief, and hebegan very softly to pray. And then his heart trembled as he consideredthat Philippe, a man of peace, almost a priest, an apostle ofChristianity, had gone to his Maker with the sin of anger on his soul.It was horrible. Yet God would see the righteousness of that anger. Andin no case--be man's interpretation of Divinity what it might--could thatone sin outweigh the loving good that Philippe had ever practised, thenoble purity of his great heart. God after all, reflected Andre-Louis,was not a grand-seigneur.