“Come, gentlemen, let us take our seats,” said Potel.
“And drink to the health of the Little Corporal, who is now in the paradise of heroes,” cried Renard.
The company poured into the long, low dining-hall of the restaurant Lacroix, the windows of which opened on the market-place. Each guest took his seat at the table, where, in compliance with Philippe’s request, the two adversaries were placed directly opposite to each other. Some young men of the town, among them several Knights of Idleness, anxious to know what might happen at the banquet, were walking about the street and discussing the critical position into which Philippe had contrived to force Max. They all deplored the crisis, though each considered the duel to be inevitable.
Everything went off well until the dessert, though the two antagonists displayed, in spite of the apparent joviality of the dinner, a certain vigilance that resembled disquietude. While waiting for the quarrel that both were planning, Philippe showed admirable coolness, and Max a distracting gayety; but to an observer, each was playing a part.
When the desert was served Philippe rose and said: “Fill your glasses, my friends! I ask permission to propose the first toast.”
“He said my friends, don’t fill your glass,” whispered Renard to Max.
Max poured out some wine.
“To the Grand Army!” cried Philippe, with genuine enthusiasm.
“To the Grand Army!” was repeated with acclamation by every voice.
At this moment eleven private soldiers, among whom were Benjamin and Kouski, appeared at the door of the room and repeated the toast, —
“To the Grand Army!”
“Come in, my sons; we are going to drink His health.”
The old soldiers came in and stood behind the officers.
“You see He is not dead!” said Kouski to an old sergeant, who had perhaps been grieving that the Emperor’s agony was over.
“I claim the second toast,” said Mignonnet, as he rose. “Let us drink to those who attempted to restore his son!”
Every one present, except Maxence Gilet, bowed to Philippe Bridau, and stretched their glasses towards him.
“One word,” said Max, rising.
“It is Max! it is Max!” cried voices outside; and then a deep silence reigned in the room and in the street, for Gilet’s known character made every one expect a taunt.
“May we all meet again at this time next year,” said Max, bowing ironically to Philippe.
“It’s coming!” whispered Kouski to his neighbor.
“The Paris police would never allow a banquet of this kind,” said Potel to Philippe.
“Why do the devil to you mention the police to Colonel Bridau?” said Maxence insolently.
“Captain Potel — he — meant no insult,” said Philippe, smiling coldly. The stillness was so profound that the buzzing of a fly could have been heard if there had been one.
“The police were sufficiently afraid of me,” resumed Philippe, “to send me to Issoudun, — a place where I have had the pleasure of meeting old comrades, but where, it must be owned, there is a dearth of amusement. For a man who doesn’t despise folly, I’m rather restricted. However, it is certainly economical, for I am not one of those to whom feather-beds give incomes; Mariette of the Grand Opera cost me fabulous sums.”
“Is that remark meant for me, my dear colonel?” asked Max, sending a glance at Philippe which was like a current of electricity.
“Take it as you please,” answered Bridau.
“Colonel, my two friends here, Renard and Potel, will call to-morrow on — ”
“ — on Mignonnet and Carpentier,” answered Philippe, cutting short Max’s sentence, and motioning towards his two neighbors.
“Now,” said Max, “let us go on with the toasts.”
The two adversaries had not raised their voices above the tone of ordinary conversation; there was nothing solemn in the affair except the dead silence in which it took place.
“Look here, you others!” cried Philippe, addressing the soldiers who stood behind the officers; “remember that our affairs don’t concern the bourgeoisie — not a word, therefore, on what goes on here. It is for the Old Guard only.”
“They’ll obey orders, colonel,” said Renard. “I’ll answer for them.”
“Long live His little one! May he reign over France!” cried Potel.
“Death to Englishmen!” cried Carpentier.
That toast was received with prodigious applause.
“Shame on Hudson Lowe,” said Captain Renard.
The dessert passed off well; the libations were plentiful. The antagonists and their four seconds made it a point of honor that a duel, involving so large a fortune, and the reputation of two men noted for their courage, should not appear the result of an ordinary squabble. No two gentlemen could have behaved better than Philippe and Max; in this respect the anxious waiting of the young men and townspeople grouped about the market-place was balked. All the guests, like true soldiers, kept silence as to the episode which took place at dessert. At ten o’clock that night the two adversaries were informed that the sabre was the weapon agreed upon by the seconds; the place chosen for the rendezvous was behind the chancel of the church of the Capuchins at eight o’clock the next morning. Goddet, who was at the banquet in his quality of former army surgeon, was requested to be present at the meeting. The seconds agreed that, no matter what might happen, the combat should last only ten minutes.
At eleven o’clock that night, to Colonel Bridau’s amazement, Monsieur Hochon appeared at his rooms just as he was going to bed, escorting Madame Hochon.
“We know what has happened,” said the old lady, with her eyes full of tears, “and I have come to entreat you not to leave the house to-morrow morning without saying your prayers. Lift your soul to God!”
“Yes, madame,” said Philippe, to whom old Hochon made a sign from behind his wife’s back.
“That is not all,” said Agathe’s godmother. “I stand in the place of your poor mother, and I divest myself, for you, of a thing which I hold most precious, — here,” she went on, holding towards Philippe a tooth, fastened upon a piece of black velvet embroidered in gold, to which she had sewn a pair of green strings. Having shown it to him, she replaced it in a little bag. “It is a relic of Sainte Solange, the patron saint of Berry,” she said, “I saved it during the Revolution; wear it on your breast to-morrow.”
“Will it protect me from a sabre-thrust?” asked Philippe.
“Yes,” replied the old lady.
“Then I have no right to wear that accoutrement any more than if it were a cuirass,” cried Agathe’s son.
“What does he mean?” said Madame Hochon.
“He says it is not playing fair,” answered Hochon.
“Then we will say no more about it,” said the old lady, “I shall pray for you.”
“Well, madame, prayer — and a good point — can do no harm,” said Philippe, making a thrust as if to pierce Monsieur Hochon’s heart.
The old lady kissed the colonel on his forehead. As she left the house, she gave thirty francs — all the money she possessed — to Benjamin, requesting him to sew the relic into the pocket of his master’s trousers. Benjamin did so, — not that he believed in the virtue of the tooth, for he said his master had a much better talisman than that against Gilet, but because his conscience constrained him to fulfil a commission for which he had been so liberally paid. Madame Hochon went home full of confidence in Saint Solange.
At eight o’clock the next morning, December third, the weather being cloudy, Max, accompanied by his seconds and the Pole, arrived on the little meadow which then surrounded the apse of the church of the Capuchins. There he found Philippe and his seconds, with Benjamin, waiting for him. Potel and Mignonnet paced off twenty-four feet; at each extremity, the two attendants drew a line on the earth with a spade: the combatants were not allowed to retreat beyond that line, on pain of being thought cowardly. Each was to stand at his own line
, and advance as he pleased when the seconds gave the word.
“Do we take off our coats?” said Philippe to his adversary coldly.
“Of course,” answered Maxence, with the assumption of a bully.
They did so; the rosy tints of their skin appearing through the cambric of their shirts. Each, armed with a cavalry sabre selected of equal weight, about three pounds, and equal length, three feet, placed himself at his own line, the point of his weapon on the ground, awaiting the signal. Both were so calm that, in spite of the cold, their muscles quivered no more than if they had been made of iron. Goddet, the four seconds, and the two soldiers felt an involuntary admiration.
“They are a proud pair!”
The exclamation came from Potel.
Just as the signal was given, Max caught sight of Fario’s sinister face looking at them through the hole which the Knights of Idleness had made for the pigeons in the roof of the church. Those eyes, which sent forth streams of fire, hatred, and revenge, dazzled Max for a moment. The colonel went straight to his adversary, and put himself on guard in a way that gained him an advantage. Experts in the art of killing, know that, of two antagonists, the ablest takes the “inside of the pavement,” — to use an expression which gives the reader a tangible idea of the effect of a good guard. That pose, which is in some degree observant, marks so plainly a duellist of the first rank that a feeling of inferiority came into Max’s soul, and produced the same disarray of powers which demoralizes a gambler when, in presence of a master or a lucky hand, he loses his self-possession and plays less well than usual.
“Ah! the lascar!” thought Max, “he’s an expert; I’m lost!”
He attempted a “moulinet,” and twirled his sabre with the dexterity of a single-stick. He wanted to bewilder Philippe, and strike his weapon so as to disarm him; but at the first encounter he felt that the colonel’s wrist was iron, with the flexibility of a steel string. Maxence was then forced, unfortunate fellow, to think of another move, while Philippe, whose eyes were darting gleams that were sharper than the flash of their blades, parried every attack with the coolness of a fencing-master wearing his plastron in an armory.
Between two men of the calibre of these combatants, there occurs a phenomenon very like that which takes place among the lower classes, during the terrible tussle called “the savante,” which is fought with the feet, as the name implies. Victory depends on a false movement, on some error of the calculation, rapid as lightning, which must be made and followed almost instinctively. During a period of time as short to the spectators as it seems long to the combatants, the contest lies in observation, so keen as to absorb the powers of mind and body, and yet concealed by preparatory feints whose slowness and apparent prudence seem to show that the antagonists are not intending to fight. This moment, which is followed by a rapid and decisive struggle, is terrible to a connoisseur. At a bad parry from Max the colonel sent the sabre spinning from his hand.
“Pick it up,” he said, pausing; “I am not the man to kill a disarmed enemy.”
There was something atrocious in the grandeur of these words; they seemed to show such consciousness of superiority that the onlookers took them for a shrewd calculation. In fact, when Max replaced himself in position, he had lost his coolness, and was once more confronted with his adversary’s raised guard which defended the colonel’s whole person while it menaced his. He resolved to redeem his shameful defeat by a bold stroke. He no longer guarded himself, but took his sabre in both hands and rushed furiously on his antagonist, resolved to kill him, if he had to lose his own life. Philippe received a sabre-cut which slashed open his forehead and a part of his face, but he cleft Max’s head obliquely by the terrible sweep of a “moulinet,” made to break the force of the annihilating stroke Max aimed at him. These two savage blows ended the combat, at the ninth minute. Fario came down to gloat over the sight of his enemy in the convulsions of death; for the muscles of a man of Maxence Gilet’s vigor quiver horribly. Philippe was carried back to his uncle’s house.
Thus perished a man destined to do great deeds had he lived his life amid environments which were suited to him; a man treated by Nature as a favorite child, for she gave him courage, self-possession, and the political sagacity of a Cesar Borgia. But education had not bestowed upon him that nobility of conduct and ideas without which nothing great is possible in any walk of life. He was not regretted, because of the perfidy with which his adversary, who was a worse man than he, had contrived to bring him into disrepute. His death put an end to the exploits of the Order of Idleness, to the great satisfaction of the town of Issoudun. Philippe therefore had nothing to fear in consequence of the duel, which seemed almost the result of divine vengeance: its circumstances were related throughout that whole region of country, with unanimous praise for the bravery of the two combatants.
“But they had better both have been killed,” remarked Monsieur Mouilleron; “it would have been a good riddance for the Government.”
The situation of Flore Brazier would have been very embarrassing were it not for the condition into which she was thrown by Max’s death. A brain-fever set in, combined with a dangerous inflammation resulting from her escapade to Vatan. If she had had her usual health, she might have fled the house where, in the room above her, Max’s room, and in Max’s bed, lay and suffered Max’s murderer. She hovered between life and death for three months, attended by Monsieur Goddet, who was also attending Philippe.
As soon as Philippe was able to hold a pen, he wrote the following letters: —
To Monsieur Desroches:
I have already killed the most venomous of the two reptiles; not
however without getting my own head split open by a sabre; but the
rascal struck with a dying hand. The other viper is here, and I
must come to an understanding with her, for my uncle clings to her
like the apple of his eye. I have been half afraid the girl, who
is devilishly handsome, might run away, and then my uncle would
have followed her; but an illness which seized her suddenly has
kept her in bed. If God desired to protect me, he would call her
soul to himself, now, while she is repenting of her sins.
Meantime, on my side I have, thanks to that old trump, Hochon, the
doctor of Issoudun, one named Goddet, a worthy soul who conceives
that the property of uncles ought to go to nephews rather than to
sluts.
Monsieur Hochon has some influence on a certain papa Fichet, who
is rich, and whose daughter Goddet wants as a wife for his son: so
the thousand francs they have promised him if he mends up my pate
is not the chief cause of his devotion. Moreover, this Goddet, who
was formerly head-surgeon to the 3rd regiment of the line, has
been privately advised by my staunch friends, Mignonnet and
Carpentier; so he is now playing the hypocrite with his other
patient. He says to Mademoiselle Brazier, as he feels her pulse,
“You see, my child, that there’s a God after all. You have been
the cause of a great misfortune, and you must now repair it. The
finger of God is in all this (it is inconceivable what they don’t
say the finger of God is in!). Religion is religion: submit,
resign yourself, and that will quiet you better than my drugs.
Above all, resolve to stay here and take care of your master:
forget and forgive, — that’s Christianity.”
Goddet has promised to keep the Rabouilleuse three months in her
bed. By degrees the girl will get accustomed to living under the
same roof with me. I have bought over the cook. That abominable
old woman tells her mistress Max would have led her a hard life;
and declares she overheard him say that if, after the old man’s
death, he was obliged to
marry Flore, he didn’t mean to have his
prospects ruined by it, and he should find a way to get rid of
her.
Thus, all goes well, so far. My uncle, by old Hochon’s advice, has
destroyed his will.
To Monsieur Giroudeau, care of Mademoiselle Florentine. Rue de Vendome, Marais:
My dear old Fellow, — Find out if the little rat Cesarine has any
engagement, and if not, try to arrange that she can come to
Issoudun in case I send for her; if I do, she must come at once.
It is a matter this time of decent behavior; no theatre morals.
She must present herself as the daughter of a brave soldier,
killed on the battle-field. Therefore, mind, — sober manners,
schoolgirl’s clothes, virtue of the best quality; that’s the
watchword. If I need Cesarine, and if she answers my purpose, I
will give her fifty thousand francs on my uncle’s death. If
Cesarine has other engagements, explain what I want to Florentine;
and between you, find me some ballet-girl capable of playing the
part.
I have had my skull cracked in a duel with the fellow who was
filching my inheritance, and is now feeding the worms. I’ll tell
you all about it some day. Ah! old fellow, the good times are
coming back for you and me; we’ll amuse ourselves once more, or we
are not the pair we really are. If you can send me five hundred
more cartridges I’ll bite them.
Adieu, my old fire-eater. Light your pipe with this letter. Mind,
the daughter of the officer is to come from Chateauroux, and must
seem to be in need of assistance. I hope however that I shall not
be driven to such dangerous expedients. Remember me to Mariette
and all our friends.
Agathe, informed by Madame Hochon of what had happened, rushed to Issoudun, and was received by her brother, who gave her Philippe’s former room. The poor mother’s tenderness for the worthless son revived in all its maternal strength; a few happy days were hers at last, as she listened to the praises which the whole town bestowed upon her hero.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 392