The actual selection of arms was left until the very last. The two men confronted each other once more, and the seconds placed the two braces of pistols on the ground in front of them. As an act of courtesy, the Captain took up one of M. Mortiz’s and balanced it carefully in his hand. It was small, far smaller than his own—almost a lady’s weapon—but neat and beautifully balanced. The Captain raised it to his shoulder and admired the lines of it, its feather weight.
“At twenty yards,” he reflected, “this should be sufficient. Why go filling him up with shot when this is all that is needed?”
M. Moritz, on the other hand, was less easily satisfied. He was testing the remaining pistols one by one. From the way he handled them it seemed that he was comfortably familiar with firearms in general, but suspicious, terrified, of anything that might possibly go wrong. He finally and with some reluctance chose one of the Captain’s. It seemed that it was the weight and calibre of the thing that decided him.
The doctor—he had constituted himself master of ceremonies—now addressed the two men. He told them that at his command they were to turn their backs on each other and take ten full paces each. They were then to turn. Once they were standing facing again, the whole affair was entirely in their hands. They could aim as soon or as high as they pleased.
The doctor spun a coin and the face of his Louis Napoleon showed up amidst the heather. The Captain had lost the toss and would have to fire into the dawn; M. Moritz, on the other hand, would have the advantage of a screen of dark pine-trees against which his opponent would be standing.
The circumstances did nothing to dismay Captain Picard: he felt easily and entirely in command of the situation. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the lesser of his two seconds, and noticed that the little man had already retreated a safe dozen paces. The sight amused him.
M. Moritz had now come forward and was standing against the line which the doctor had hollowed out with his heel. The Captain walked up and faced him. As soon as they were set, the doctor raised his right arm.
“When I drop my hand,” he said, “you will turn and take up your positions. Remember, ten paces exactly.”
His black gloved hand remained, as if suspended there indefinitely. Then, smartly, like a soldier on parade, he cut his arm to his side.
“Commence,” he said.
The Captain swung round sharply on his heel and stepped out the first pace. Then the second. And the third. But still M. Moritz had not moved. He was standing with his foot upon the dividing line, and he was raising his right arm slowly to the level of his shoulder. His hand shook a little now—but at that range it was impossible to miss.…
When he fired, Captain Picard was knocked forward on to his face with one of his own bullets. He lay there with his arms outstretched in front of him. In his right hand he still gripped the small elegant pistol that he had admired so much. His head turned convulsively to see what had befallen him, and his cheek now rested on the sandy ground.
He was like that when he died.
As soon as it was over, the seconds came forward and began rolling the body into a blanket. The doctor got up and wiped something off his hands. Then he went over to M. Moritz.
“I have everything ready,” he said. “It is a private mortuary. Our friend here”—he indicated the shorter man—”will attend to everything. I shall issue the death certificate myself.”
But M. Moritz was moody.
“The fool,” he said. “Why did he make me do it?”
The doctor did not answer.
“There’s nothing more you can want me for now,” he said at last. “So I think I might as well be getting along.”
M. Moritz nodded, and appeared to lose all interest in the man. Instead, he was watching his own two seconds clambering up the slope towards the carriage, carrying their heavy burden between them.
The doctor coughed.
“Perhaps you’d like to settle everything,” he said. “Then I shan’t have to trouble you later, in case … in case you want to get away.”
M. Moritz looked contemptuously at the man for a moment and then began to unbutton his jacket. He took out a bundle of notes and slowly counted off a handful.
“There’s your share,” he said. “And the other’s. I told him to ask you for it.”
Then he turned and went slowly in the direction of the carriage that almost filled the small hollow it rested in.
It was a different kind of vehicle this from the shoddy cabriolet that had brought the Captain. The panels in the sides were stained with travel, but under the splashes of mud that rested there the gleam and polish of paintwork still sparkled. It was a travelling coach on the noblest scale, the sort of thing in which with a change of horses one could cover sixty miles in a day. At that moment only two horses stood in the traces, but the swivel bolt in the centre shaft showed that the vehicle was made for a pair in tandem.
M. Moritz climbed up into the interior—it seemed a grotesquely large carriage for one man. The coachman folded up the steps and the horses began straining at the harness. When they were squarely on the road again, M. Moritz opened the little window in the roof and shouted brusquely at the coachman.
“Remember,” he said. “It’s the frontier on the other side of Strasbourg. I don’t want to have to pass through the city again.”
By the time they had topped the rise the other carriage was already out of sight. The doctor, not anxious to be intercepted with his burden, had chosen a track that ran close beside the pine woods all the way.
In front of M. Moritz’s driver, the road stretched white and winding. He drew out his whip, cracked it twice, and the horses broke into a trot. There was nothing now between M. Moritz and the frontier.
But at the turn in the road the driver drew his horses in for a moment. For coming towards them was a small dogcart being recklessly driven. It was swaying from side to side and, for a moment, one of the wheels ran hysterically along the edge of a ditch. As it came nearer, M. Moritz’s coachman could see that it was a woman who was driving. Her fair hair shone around her head and the black cloak that she was wearing streamed out behind. The whip was in her hand, and the horse was cantering with its ears back and head thrust forward as though the bit were between its teeth.
“She’ll be out of it unless she’s careful,” the driver reflected. “She’s let it bolt with her.”
There was a spot a few yards distant where the road widened a little, and the coachman hurriedly pulled in at the side to let her pass. This done, he jumped down to hold the horses: he had no wish to see his pair go careering off too. Now that he was down off his seat he could no longer actually see the dogcart, but he could still hear the hammering of the hooves. And a moment later the cart swept into view over the brow of the hill. The girl who was driving was pulling desperately at the reins, and the horse began planting its feet squarely in the roadway in its endeavour to stop.
“She’ll have it down. She’ll break its knees,” the coachman told himself. “She’ll ruin it.”
But the girl had got possession of the horse by the time it came alongside them. It came to rest, scattering pebbles, and stood there, with flanks heaving and the lather already beginning to form on its neck where the harness had rubbed it.
M. Moritz drew back the curtains of the coach and peered out suspiciously. He had made no movement when the coachman had first drawn the carriage to a standstill—he had assumed merely that there was a girth or a strap that needed adjustment—but this was something different.
For all he could see they were being attacked. He knew from experience that wandering bands of soldiers who had been demobilised were the most dangerous roadside company. And he reached down again for the case of pistols. The first that came into his grasp was the Captain’s: he primed the second barrel and sprang back the hammer. Then, pulling down the window to its full extent, he looked bravely out, and found himself face to face with Anna.
At the sight of M. Moritz, she gave
a little cry and swayed in the driving-seat of the flimsy dogcart.
It was the coachman who ran forward as she fell.
Chapter XXVI
I
They were reviving her. M. Moritz had sprinkled her face with eau-de-cologne from one of the heavy silver-stoppered bottles that were set into the upholstery of the coach, and from time to time he raised a glass of brandy to her lips. The brandy had brought back the colour to her cheeks, but it seemed as if it were only her body that was coming back to consciousness. Her mind was still stunned, and her eyes, which were open now, did not seem to be seeing anything. When they spoke to her, she did not answer.
She raised herself suddenly.
“I want to see him,” she said.
M. Moritz and the coachman exchanged glances; but M. Moritz only shook his head.
“I beg you not to ask that,” he replied. “I will explain some other time.”
“But why? Tell me. Tell me now,” Anna insisted.
M. Moritz groaned.
“I … I fired a trifle high,” he said, and bowed his head. Anna covered her eyes with her hands.
“You couldn’t,” she said. “You couldn’t have done such a thing.”
M. Moritz poured himself a drink from the same flask.
“It was not of my choosing,” he said. “I had never held a pistol before. Even this morning I begged him to accept my apology.”
“And he still refused?”
“Like a gentleman,” M. Moritz replied.
“What have they done with him?” Anna asked at last. “Where has he been taken?”
M. Moritz uttered a deep sigh. He had told her all this before: it seemed that in her present grief she could no longer comprehend things.
“The doctor who attended us has taken him,” he answered. “I have made all the arrangements. He will be buried like an officer and a Christian.”
When Anna suddenly started crying, M. Moritz looked relieved.
“She will feel better now,” he told himself.
And, after bending over her for a moment, he got down on to the grass beside the coach and began to walk up and down. Once or twice he pulled out his watch and consulted it.
“Who is this man that I’ve disposed of?” he asked himself. “Her lover probably. That’s why he guarded her so jealously, so pigheadedly. And she is afraid that this affair will expose everything. She’s got a husband somewhere no doubt, and he knows nothing of it. It’s the old story.”
The sun had come out by now, and M. Moritz undid the collar of his greatcoat.
“Not that she didn’t love this man,” he went on to himself. “Anyone could see that. They were infatuated. But she’ll get over it. She’s young. She’s got the whole of her life in front of her.”
He looked at his watch again and frowned. Then he walked back towards the coach. Anna had not moved, and M. Moritz put his hand on her arm to rouse her.
“Shall I take you back to the hotel?” he asked. “There’ll be someone to look after you there.”
“There’s no one,” she answered. “I can’t go back to the hotel. I can’t. I must go on.”
“Go on?”
“To the frontier. Into Germany.”
M. Moritz raised his eyebrows.
“Then perhaps you will permit me to set you on your journey,” he said. “I am crossing myself this morning.”
He looked at Anna, but she did not answer. Her eyes were fixed in front of her, and she seemed to be seeing things that were not there; things that had been and were now no longer.
M. Moritz looked at his watch and frowned. Then he pulled up the little square window in the roof.
“To the frontier,” he called out. “To the frontier, as I told you.”
II
“It’s God punishing me for my wickedness,” she told herself. “It is I who have killed him. If it were not for me he would be back now with his family, with his wife and the child that he told me about.”
She thought of the other woman waiting for him, and she whimpered.
“She’s waiting for him,” she went on. “And he will never come back to her. He’s dead, and she doesn’t know it. Only I know that. She will always think that some day, after she’s given up all hope, he will return to her.”
She began crying again.
“But there’s still my father,” she tried to reassure herself. “He’ll be good to me. He’ll be kind. He’s always loved me. He understands. And Berthe. She loves me too, even though she’s only a child. I shall be at rest there. I shall go to church again: I shall confess. I shall be looked after. I shan’t be frightened any more. All I want is to be allowed to sleep. To sleep and forget everything. Perhaps even the Baron will forgive me. He’s kind too. He loves me. Everyone in Rhinehausen was always gentle to me. It was only outside that there was all this cruelty. I shall never leave Rhinehausen again. I shall stop there for ever. I will work for the sisters and do visiting. It may even be my vocation. I may find myself a nun. I shall enter the Order and then all my troubles will be over, and no one will know how wicked I have been …”
The springs of the coach were deep and generous. Even in the road which the driver had taken the joltings rarely reached them, and the massive body swung from side to side like a cradle. A slow overpowering weariness came over her. She drowsed. But it was a restless, tormented slumber. She kept hearing the Captain’s voice, feeling his hand upon her arm, knowing that he was near her. And then the terrible reality would come to her again, and she would start up with the words, “He’s dead,” upon her lips.
It was nearly three hours since they had crossed the frontier. Already the face of France seemed dimmer: they were no longer among a nation that had been defeated, a nation that was frightened of its own future. They were among the victors now. The villages that they passed through had flags out. The German eagle was everywhere; and, in one town, the band was playing. The children had red faces and fat legs, and as Anna looked at them she remembered the pale little gnomes of the Paris alleyways.
“Why did they have to suffer like that?” she asked herself. “Why did God let it happen?”
But it was not for long of the war that she was thinking. It was of one soldier in it, a soldier who had given his life uselessly for her.
“He wasn’t even killed in battle, as Charles was …” she began, and stopped herself. She realised with a feeling of shame that she had not thought of Charles for days now. He had gone from her mind already.
“Oh, I’m worthless,” she exclaimed. “Worthless. It’s because I’m so worthless that God has taken everything from me.”
And she began to weep again.
The next thing that she remembered was that M. Moritz was trying to rouse her. The coach had drawn up in the courtyard of an inn, and the coachman had already got down from his box and was lowering the steps for them. She sat up and looked out the window. It was the sort of scene that she had thought she would never see again. There was a small garden dotted with little metal tables and chairs, and in the centre was a wooden dais for dancing. Down the steps of the inn the landlord, a fat, round man with a shaven head, was coming.
It seemed for a moment like stepping back into the world she knew, a world which somehow had remained miraculously unchanged. And then she saw the bivouacs of soldiers set right up against the hotel, and the two worlds somehow related themselves again. There was nothing that was unchanged, she told herself. Nothing.
“We’ll go inside,” M. Moritz was saying. “You must try to eat something. Nobody can live for ever without food.”
The food was German; it was rich food, heavy food. There was a thick layer of cream on top of the cake that stood on the sideboard. And M. Moritz ate heartily, like a man without even the slightest weight upon his conscience. This meal and the duel from which he had just emerged might have been taking place in two different lives. He ordered Hock, cross-examined the landlord as to whether it was good year, and was concerned that Anna would eat not
hing.
“You’ll do yourself no good,” he told her. “After what you’ve been through you need to eat something. I’m only sorry the food isn’t better.”
And when Anna still showed no sign of eating—she sipped a little wine and left the rest of the glass untouched—he tried to reason with her.
“I don’t want you to go on hating me,” he said. “What I did this morning gave me no pleasure. As I told you, I did my utmost, even at the last moment, to avoid it.”
Anna paused.
“You killed him,” she said quietly.
“But in a duel,” M. Moritz replied in a tone of some surprise. “In a duel there is always one who wins and one who loses.”
He sat back in his chair and twisted the stem of his wine-glass reflectively in his fingers.
“If mine hadn’t been the lucky shot where should I be now?” he asked himself. “The Captain was the better marksman. I recognise the fact.”
“Oh stop,” Anna said. “Please stop.”
And M. Moritz obediently allowed the matter of the duel to drop from the conversation. But he went on as smoothly, as solicitously as before.
“You say your father has not seen you since you left for Paris?” he asked.
Anna nodded.
“And he is expecting you?”
“He does not even know that I am still alive.”
M. Moritz bent forward again.
“I have changed my mind,” he said. “I am not going to trust you to the railways. I shall take you back to Rhinehausen myself. I make myself responsible to your father.”
Anna raised her eyes for a moment and they met M. Moritz’s. She looked away again.
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