“But have you loved none of these men?”
“I thought I was in love with one once, but he . . .” She thought of Claude Vernay and how she had been flattered by his attention and fancied herself in love. Now that he had shown himself in his true col-ors, she was disgusted to think that she could once have felt so strongly about him. Shaking her head firmly, she said, “No, I didn’t love any of them.”
“But then how will you know when the right one comes along?”
“As I say, I’m the wrong one to ask. I’ve read many romantic nov-els about love, but they all seem foolish to me now.”
“I wish I understand more about love. I care for Bayard. He is so good to me, and I think that I can never be happy if he were not around.”
“Why, Fleur, I think that’s as close to defining love as I ever heard! Someone you can’t be happy without.”
“I do not know how it is between a man and a woman when they marry. Several men have kissed me and tried to have me, but I always fight them off.”
“I’m glad you did, Fleur. That’s a good thing. You’ll come to your husband a pure woman, and that’s good. We’ll talk about this again, but right now, we’ll work on your grammar.”
“My grammar? What is this—my grammar?”
“Oh, basically it’s the way you put words together to make sentences.”
“My grammar, she is bad?”
“Your grammar, it is not too bad. Just a few little things that we need to work on . . .”
Jean Paul sat at the back of the opera house. He had been to see Juliet three times, each time growing more impressed with the power and the sweet tone of Colin Seymour’s voice. As the last tragic scene unfolded, the scene in which Romeo died, he listened to the final song. Despite himself, he felt moved by the story and by the singer. He shook him-self slightly, suddenly angry. “You fool,” he said, “it is only a song, and this is only a made-up story.”
He started to leave and stumbled over the feet of the man next to him, who gave him a harsh look. He left the theater and stepped out into the cold night air. The streetlights made greenish dots in the darkness as he made his way along the street. He pulled his cloak around him more closely and gripped the sword cane. During his stay in New Orleans, he had concentrated totally on the task that he had agreed to do. He had not gambled, for he knew bitterly that it had caused his ruination. He had not drunk a great deal either, only at night when he could not sleep. He knew that the thing he was about to do was wrong, and Jean Paul Compier was aware of a shame that seemed to be with him constantly.
As he approached the rooming house where he stayed in the French Quarter, he saw a buggy outside and recognized it. Walk-ing closer, he spoke to the man sitting inside. “You are here, Claude.”
Claude Vernay started, for he had not heard Jean Paul’s footsteps. “Don’t sneak up on a man like that,” he snapped.
“I was not sneaking. What is it you want at this time of the night?”
“Get in the carriage. We need to talk.”
Jean Paul walked around the carriage, opened the door, and climbed in. He sat down, and Vernay pulled out a flask. “Have a drink,” he said. “Cold as the poles in here.”
“Not now.”
Vernay took a drink but did not put the flask away. In the dark-ness Compier could make out only the outlines of his face. “Where have you been?” he asked.
“What difference does it make?”
“It makes a great deal of difference.”
“I have been to the opera.”
“Ah, did you speak to Seymour? Did you—”
“No, I did not. I merely went and watched the opera.”
“What good does that do?”
“It does no good at all, but then I am not supposed to do him good, am I?”
“I can’t understand,” Vernay complained. “You’ve been here long enough, but you haven’t even approached the man. Haven’t even spo-ken to him.”
“If you want to call this thing off, I am willing.”
“Wait a minute, Jean Paul. Don’t be so touchy.” Vernay knew there was no way to force him.
Compier said, “This is not something that can be done twice. The challenge must be complete the first time, and the approach must not be crude. Now, tell me more about this man.”
“Why do you want to know about him?”
“Everything I hear about him is helpful. Why can I not just punc-ture him in the arm?”
“What good would that do me?”
“What good will it do you to kill him?”
“He and his adoptive father have kept me from what I want.”
“From the woman? If she loves you, this man would not be a problem. And I can’t understand why you do not fight him yourself.”
Vernay did not answer for a time. He drank again from the flask, then said, “That’s none of your business. I’ll be paying you a lot of money. What good is money if it won’t buy a man what he wants?”
“We are a fine pair, you and I, and I am the worst. You want to kill the man because he stands between you and a woman. And I am nothing but your lackey.”
“Come on, Jean Paul, it’s just a business matter. For you it’s not personal. You’ve killed men before.”
“I am not proud of it, and those were not intentional. They were both accidents in dueling. I overestimated the skill of those men to fight me. And I am not proud of what I am doing now.”
“Are you going to back out then?”
A long silence ensued, and then Compier said, “I would like to, but I must have money. Tell me again about him. I need to know as much as I can before I make my approach.”
Compier listened as Vernay talked. Finally he said, “It will be soon. I will find a way. Have the money ready.”
“Of course. You know I’m good for it.”
Compier stepped out of the carriage, but he looked through the window and added, “Yes, my friend, you will be good for it, or it will be a sad day for you.” He turned and walked toward the rooming house, leaving Vernay staring after him. “I’ll have to pay him. He’d kill me if I didn’t.”
For the next two days Jean Paul Compier drank steadily. His think-ing processes seemed to be impaired, but he knew well it was the distaste he had for the job that troubled him. Finally he came up with a scheme and sought Vernay late at night, when no one saw him.
“This man doesn’t go out to a public place very often. I can’t very well jump on the stage and start an argument with him.” Compier held back his actual plan of attack.
“That’s no problem,” Vernay said quickly. “He’s being honored at a dinner the day after tomorrow. It’ll be a fancy affair. There’ll be a meal, and afterwards there’ll be drinking and a great deal of talk.”
“Can you get me an invitation?”
“Certainly.”
“Do it.”
“All right. And I must be there when the duel takes place. I want to see him wallowing in his own blood!”
The dinner was well attended by the cream of New Orleans society. The mayor, George Ahern, was master of ceremonies, and there were several speakers. The party was composed entirely of men. Jean Paul Compier had given his invitation and taken his seat silently. He spoke to no one during the dinner and ate practically nothing. Finally, after the speeches, the mayor said, “Some of you may need to leave, but our guest of honor will be here for a short time in case any of you haven’t met him.”
Compier watched as some of the men filed out. Most remained, however, talking and laughing. The cigar smoke made a purple haze in the room, and Compier watched carefully as a group of men con-gregated around Colin Seymour. He studied Seymour’s face as he had ever since he had come to New Orleans. He was impressed by the clean good looks of the man and more by his simplicity of manners. It would be easier if he were a bully or a bore, he thought but then forced the idea out of his mind. He stood and crossed the room to the circle of men. Slowly he worked himself forward, and finally he
and Colin were face-to-face.
“How do you do, sir?” Colin said. “I don’t believe we have met.”
“No, we have not,” Compier said. “But I knew your adoptive father.”
“Did you really? I don’t remember meeting you.”
“We would not have met. I knew Lord Beaufort when he was a younger man, and I must tell you, sir, he was a man I despised. He had no honor at all in him.”
Compier had spoken loudly enough so that the group immedi-ately fell silent and stared at him. The silence seemed to spread out-ward, and the other men, seeing something was happening, stopped speaking, and some moved forward so they could hear better.
“You are mistaken, sir. My father was incapable of doing a dis-honorable thing.”
“You are innocent, perhaps, my lord, but the man you call your father brought shame and disgrace on my sister. He got her with child and cast her out. She died a derelict.”
“You are a liar!”
A gasp went around the room, and Compier felt a sense of grim satisfaction. At least, he thought, I have done part of what I came to do. “I will overlook your insult, my lord. You do not know me.”
“I know you are a liar, and I will prove it any way you choose.”
Compier smiled. “My name is Jean Paul Compier. If you lived in France, you should know that name.”
Claude Vernay had been standing back on the outer circle. He moved forward and faced Compier briefly, then turned to say, “Lord Beaufort, I am no friend of yours, but I warn you: have nothing to do with this man. He is the deadliest swordsman in Europe. It would be suicide.”
Colin ignored Vernay’s words and studied Compier’s face. “I don’t know what your motive is, sir. Perhaps it’s mistaken identity, but—”
“It is not mistaken identity, my lord. The marquis was a vicious man.”
Colin stood silent. He felt no fear, but a great prejudice against the code duello had been settling in him, and he had resolved that he would never again take part in such a thing. He said so now. “I will not fight you, Compier. I despise this whole business of dueling. It’s foolish.” His voice rose, and he said, “A man’s honor is not in his trig-ger finger or in his agility with a sword. The worst villain in the world may possess these qualities.”
Compier smiled thinly. “Those are the words of a coward—as Armand de Cuvier was. I called him out when he disgraced my sister, and he refused to meet me. Instead he sent hired assassins to kill me, and they almost did.”
“That’s another lie!”
“Though you are not the true son of the man you call your father, you are the same sort of coward he was.”
“You are a liar, and I will proclaim it anywhere in this city.” He hesitated. “But if it takes some sort of senseless duel, I will fight you.” A slight smile came to Colin’s face, although he was paler than usual. “If you wish to fight, fine. We will stand three feet apart with loaded pistols pointed at one another’s hearts. On the count of three, we will fire.”
Compier stared at him. “It is not the code duello, my lord, and I am the challenged party. I would be a fool to commit suicide. You may place no value on your own life, but I value my own. We will fight with swords. I have the choice of weapons.”
Colin asked, “Why should I fight you with weapons that you have spent a lifetime mastering? I will meet you with bowie knives or with axes or with clubs, or as I said, with pistols at a distance of three feet. I will not let you kill me simply because you are an accomplished butcher. Good day, sir.”
He turned and walked out, and Compier said as he left the room, “You will fight me, my lord, or be branded a coward.”
Bayard, who was also in attendance, was momentarily shocked into silence by Compier’s sudden appearance and his words. His face reddened. “I think you are the coward, Frenchman. You will not fight unless you are certain to win.”
Compier’s mind worked quickly. He knew about Bayard and that the two had become good friends. “You are brash, sir, and young. Shut your mouth, or I will shut it for you.”
“I’ll speak what I think, and I think you are a scoundrel!”
“You are his friend, then, the friend of Lord Beaufort?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are the friend of a villain. He is like his adoptive father, a man with no shame, and you should feel shame at being the companion of such a man.”
Bayard stepped forward and slapped Compier’s face. Compier could have dodged the blow easily, but he said, “Don’t be a fool. Get away, boy.”
Bayard repeated, “I think you are the coward.” He slapped him again, and the mayor said, “Stop this, Bayard.”
“I’ll meet you with any kind of weapon, Compier.”
“With the blade, then,” Compier said. “I will ask my friend to call on you.”
Compier left the room. Vernay stayed long enough to hear almost all the men telling Bayard d’Or that he must not meet the man. Bayard was adamant, and Vernay left feeling a grim satisfaction.
He waited until night and went to Compier’s room. “You did well,” he said. “I see exactly what you’re doing. You think Seymour will not allow his young friend to fight.”
“He is a man of honor—unlike me and unlike you. Yes, I think he will do all he can to dissuade young d’Or, but d’Or is like I was at his age. But I won’t have to fight him. You understand that.”
“I don’t think it’ll be necessary. Seymour will come to his rescue. Then he will die.”
“Perhaps not. He may kill me. That would be a great economy for you.”
“Don’t be foolish. He can’t stand in front of you. No one can. I’ve got the money ready. It’ll be in cash. After the duel, I’ll pay you.”
Chapter twenty-three
Simone opened the door to see Colin. His face was drawn tight, and he said merely, “Hello, Simone.”
“Colin, come in.” Simone stepped back, and Colin entered the house. She saw that she was stiff and tense.
“I just heard about Bayard’s challenging Compier. I came right over to talk to him.”
“It’s—it’s terrible, Colin.” Simone’s voice was barely above a whis-per. She clasped her hands, and he saw that they were trembling. She pressed her lips together in an attempt to gain control and said, “Father’s talking to him now, and I’ve tried everything. He just won’t listen. Has he lost his mind?”
“Could we go into the parlor? I’d like to wait until he gets through talking with your father.”
“Oh, of course, come in. It’s cold out here in the foyer.” Simone led him to the parlor. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and she picked up a poker and jabbed at the logs. They settled and hissed, sending a storm of golden sparks up the chimney. Putting the poker back in the holder, Simone turned to Colin, and her eyes mirrored the fright she felt. “He’ll be killed, Colin. I know he will.”
“We mustn’t let him do it, Simone. I feel responsible. I should have taken up Compier’s challenge.”
“I heard that he was deadly with any sort of weapon.”
“That’s true. Armand spoke of him often. He didn’t admire him, but everyone knew about him. I think all he’s ever done is fight with a sword.”
“What’s he doing over here?”
Colin shook his head and said, “He claims he wants to start a fencing academy here in New Orleans—at least that’s what I heard.”
The two stood silent for a moment. Simone walked over to the window and stared out. Colin went to stand beside her. “You mustn’t let this destroy you, Simone.”
“We’ve never had anything like this happen. Now I know how you felt when Claude challenged Armand. I was unmoved by it. Oh, what a terrible beast I was!”
Colin put his hand on her shoulder. “You’ve changed since then.”
“I’m glad you think so, but I can hardly speak. I didn’t realize what a terrible thing fear was. It’s worse than being physically ill. Oh, Colin, what are we going to do?”
“W
e have to talk sense to Bayard. He’s fallen into this ‘honor’ business again. All of this is part of that stupid code duello men-tality. Why can’t people see that it’s brutal and cruel? How many good men have died because of some mistaken idea of honor?” He took her arm and led her over to the sofa in front of the fire. “Here, sit down,” he said.
“I’m too frightened even to pray. That’s silly, isn’t it? When we’re afraid, that’s when we need to go to God.”
“You’re right about that. Well, we’ll agree to pray for Bayard, that he’ll come out of this safely.”
“Son, don’t you see how foolish this is? The man’s nothing but an assassin.”
“I’m sorry that we don’t agree on this, Father, but I don’t see any way I can refuse to meet him.”
Louis d’Or paced the floor in his study. His voice was tight with anxiety. “Bayard, God has just come into your life. We all see it, son. Something happened to you when you nearly died out in the bayou. You’ve become a different sort of person, and a great future lies before you. Are you going to throw it all away because of your fool-ish pride?”
Bayard listened, and although he desperately wanted to please his father, he had stubbornly set himself to do the thing. Finally his father threw up his hands and said, “I can’t believe you’re going to do this. I thought you had more sense.” He turned and walked out of the room.
As soon as he left, Bayard sat down in a chair beside the bookcase. His nerves were on edge, and he started when the door opened. Seeing Fleur come in, he stood up at once, and when she put out her hands, he took them.
“Your father, he talk to you about this fight. I hope you listen to him.”
“I’d like to, Fleur, but I can’t.”
A steadfastness in her gaze held him. “I think you are wrong.”
“Everyone thinks I’m wrong.”
“And that don’t tell you nothing? Your father, your sister, your mother, and me. And I hear that everyone who is talking about say you are crazy to fight this man. He is a butcher!”
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