He fought for himself at each quarrel—or rather, he was engaged to fight—and was beaten many times, but he invariably returned to the ring, again and again, until he won. Victory eventually came, not because he was stronger than his opponents, but because he was fiercer. Even during the most heated fray, he kept his cool, watching for the slightest hint of weakness in his adversary and then using it against him. He began to earn the respect of his peers; once they recognized his unfailing determination, they thought twice before goading him. However weak an enemy might be, a man will hesitate to fight him if he knows the enemy’s determination is greater than his own.
Naturally, the ardor with which Georges pursued his new lifestyle produced physical results. Little by little, he gained strength and muscularity. Encouraged by his initial tries, he decided to put that year’s school holidays to good use. Not once did he crack a book that summer; instead, he learned to swim, fence, and ride. He was exhausted, always exhausted—sometimes he was so tired he became feverish—but eventually he grew accustomed to it. Again and again he pushed his body to its limits and beyond, building endurance and stamina. He augmented sport with manual labor, digging and carrying for hours on end. When night fell he shunned his warm bed, choosing instead to wrap himself in his coat and fling himself onto a bearskin on the ground. Georges was no fool; he was well aware that he might be endangering his health, even his life, by living so harshly—but after all, what would his life be worth without superiority of strength and prowess? In the end determination triumphed over nature. Weakness fled like an incompetent servant banished by his master. In three short months Georges changed so much as to be nearly unrecognized by his classmates. Now it was he who challenged and defeated those who had bullied him in the past; now it was he who was feared and, being feared, was respected.
As for the rest, in the natural way of things his face gained beauty as his body gained strength. He had always had wonderful eyes and perfect teeth; now he let his unruly black hair grow long and tamed it so that it curled romantically about his collar. His sickly pallor vanished, and healthy color came into his cheeks, giving him a poetic air of melancholy and distinction. Just as the youth had worked to become strong, so the man worked to become handsome.
When Georges finally earned his diploma and left Collège Napoleon, he was an attractive youth of about five feet four inches, slender but well formed. He knew nearly all that a young man about to enter the world should know; but of course this was not enough for him, and in this, as in everything else, he wanted to be superior to all other men. The continuing studies he set for himself became easy; freed from the strict routine of his school days and master of his own time, he soon developed a rigid schedule of his own. He rode at six o’clock every morning, went shooting at eight, and fenced from ten o’clock to noon. Between noon and two o’clock he took classes at the Sorbonne. From three to five he painted or drew in one studio or another, and his evenings were spent at the theater or at some fashionable soirée, to which his polished manners and easy grace, more than his fortune, afforded him easy access.
Thus Georges immersed himself in the world of Parisian artists, intellectuals, and aristocrats. Well versed as he was in art, science, and fashion, he soon gained a reputation as one of the most intelligent minds, the most logical thinkers, and the most distinguished gentlemen in the city.
He had almost attained his goal, but there was still one more trial to undergo. Georges did not doubt his superiority to other men, but he was yet unsure of the degree to which he had mastered his own self-control. He decided to put himself to the test.
Georges had always shied away from gambling, fearing he would become addicted to the game. Now, however, he went to Frascati’s with his pockets full of gold. He had told himself he would play three times, for three hours each time, and that his limit at each session would be ten thousand francs. Win or lose, when those three times were finished, he would play no more.
The first day Georges lost his ten thousand francs in less than an hour and a half. He spent the remaining ninety minutes watching the other men play. His purse still held the twenty thousand louis he had allotted for the second and third tries, but he kept his resolve and did not spend them that day.
On the second day he won twenty-five thousand francs, but instead of stopping while he was ahead, he forced himself to continue playing until the requisite three hours were up—and lost every cent of his spoils.
On the third day he fared badly at first and was down to his last banknote when the tide suddenly turned. He had only forty-five minutes left to play, but during that short time he had the sort of luck that, as the superstitious old crones might say, could only be ascribed to a pact with the devil. An invisible sprite seemed to be perched on his shoulder, whispering in advance which color would hit and which card would win. Gold and banknotes piled up before him, to the astonishment of his audience. Georges himself could hardly think anymore; he laid a great pile of money on the table and told the croupier to stake all of it anywhere he liked. A random choice was duly made—and Georges won.
Two professional gamblers, who had been following Georges’s run of luck and had also won a great deal that night, chose that moment to take a different approach to the game; they bet against him in the next round. Fortune, however, continued to smile on Georges: The men lost all they had won, then everything they had with them; they ended by borrowing—and losing—fifty thousand francs from the banker. Georges seemed to take no notice of them; he watched the pile of money growing before him and cast occasional, impassive glances at the clock, to see if the three hours he had allotted himself had elapsed. When the predetermined hour arrived he stood, gave his winnings to a waiting servant, and departed with the same sangfroid he had displayed at the gaming table; the same tranquility he had invariably shown, win or lose.
Arriving home, he simply threw the bills and coins into a drawer, and would not allow himself to open it for a full week. When he did finally count the money, it amounted to 230,000 francs. His return to the gaming house was awaited anxiously, but in vain. Georges was satisfied. He had mastered a passion.
In addition to his many virtues, Georges possessed the hot-blooded nature of a man born in the tropics. One night after a drunken binge, several of his friends took him to the home of a Parisian courtesan famed for her beauty and charm. That night, though, Georges was to produce in this modern Lais a reemergence of virtue. The entire night was spent talking to her of moral philosophy. One would have thought the mistress of the house aspired to win the Montyon Prize! Still, the young woman listened with an expression of desire in her eyes that belied the clinical tone of the conversation. For his part, Georges found the woman utterly enticing. Thoughts of this lovely Astarte haunted his virginal mind for three days after the encounter. On the fourth day he returned to her lodgings and climbed the stairs to the front door, his heart hammering in his chest. Ringing the doorbell with an almost convulsive motion and unconsciously keeping the bell cord clenched in his hand, he heard the footsteps of the housemaid. He commanded his heart to be still and his face to be impassive, and in a completely emotionless voice he asked the maid to conduct him to her mistress.
But the girl had already heard his voice from her boudoir, and she appeared on the staircase with a joyful countenance. This brooding, reserved gentleman had made a profound impression on her, and she hoped fervently that love—or at least desire—had brought him back to call on her.
She was mistaken. Georges was testing himself yet again. He had come to see if he would be able to resist the fire in his blood. He stayed for two hours talking calmly with the girl, wagering himself that he would be able to remain cool, and struggling against the torrent of desire aroused in him by her caresses. Finally, victorious once more, confident that he could control even his most primal desires, he took his leave.
As I have said, our hero did not possess the kind of bravery that led him to rush headlong into danger, but he certainly had the courag
e to face trouble when he could not avoid it. Still, the fear that he was a coward continued to plague him. He could not be sure of how he might react if true danger was imminent. Would he stay, or would he run? The idea tormented him strangely, and he resolved to take the next opportunity that came along to expose himself to real peril—and that opportunity did arrive, under very strange circumstances indeed.
One day Georges and a friend went to Lepage’s shooting gallery. As they waited for a free booth, Georges busied himself watching one of the gallery’s regulars—a man who, like himself, was known as one of the best marksmen in Paris. This paragon was firing off shot after brilliant shot, every one a bull’s-eye, each shot piercing the exact same spot as the bullet before it, with the sort of ease that is traditionally attributed to the Chevalier de Saint-Georges, and that drives neophytes to despair. He displayed his prowess in a hundred different ways, once slicing a bullet in half on the blade of a knife, and followed this feat with many others of the same sort. He was, it must be said, quite as impressed with himself—perhaps more so—than any of his spectators, and Georges’s presence only served to further excite his ego. He continued firing, self-consciously displaying his skills to their utmost. His consternation may be imagined when, instead of receiving the praise he expected from his rival, he overheard Georges remark, “He’s a good shot, certainly, but it’s a very different thing to aim at a man instead of a target.”
The man was astonished and then angry at such a dismissal of his prowess as a duelist. He finally turned to Georges when the other man expressed a negative opinion of him for the third time and, with an air half mocking, half threatening, said: “I beg your pardon, monsieur. You appear to be questioning my abilities in a way I find most insulting. Would you be so good as to explain yourself?”
“I don’t think my words require any explanation, monsieur,” Georges returned.
“Well, then, may I at least ask you to have the goodness to repeat yourself—so that I may understand the meaning of your words, and the intention with which you uttered them?”
“I said,” replied Georges with perfect calm, “that, having watched you fire one bull’s-eye after another, I believe you would not be so sure of your hand, or your eye, were you firing at a man’s breast instead of a target.”
His rival’s eyes narrowed. “And why not, pray?”
“Because,” Georges said, “it seems to me that every man must feel something, some emotion, when he pulls the trigger to shoot another man—enough to throw off his aim at least a little.”
“You have fought in many duels, monsieur?”
“No, not a one.”
“Ah! Then it doesn’t surprise me that you imagine one might feel fear, at such a moment,” the man said, with a slightly ironic smile.
Georges shook his head. “I beg your pardon, but I think you have misunderstood me. There are emotions other than fear that may make a man tremble, when he kills another man.”
“I never tremble, monsieur.”
“Very possible,” Georges said coolly. “But I maintain that at twenty-five paces—the same distance at which you are able to fire so many consecutive bull’s-eyes—you would—”
“Twenty-five paces, monsieur?”
“—you would miss a living target,” finished Georges.
The other man flushed. “I assure you, that is not the case.”
“You will forgive me,” said Georges, “if I do not take your word for it.”
“Are you calling me a liar, monsieur?”
“No; I am simply stating a fact.”
The man’s lip curled. “I don’t suppose you would care to prove this ‘fact’ through experimentation?”
Georges met his sneering gaze squarely. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“Surely, though, you want to use someone else as the test subject.”
“Myself, or someone else; it doesn’t matter,” Georges said dismissively.
“I warn you, monsieur, you are taking a great risk.”
“I think not,” said Georges with a faint smile.
The other man looked furious. “Really, sir, this is too much. You insult me deliberately.”
Georges shrugged. “You’re free to think what you like.”
“Very well,” his rival said grimly. “Choose your hour.”
“Now, if you like.”
“And the place?”
“The bois de Boulogne is very near.”
“And your weapon, monsieur?”
“My weapon! The pistol, of course. We aren’t fighting a duel, after all, merely conducting an experiment.”
The man bowed to Georges. “I am at your service, monsieur.”
“On the contrary; it is I who am at yours.”
The two young men, each with a friend, proceeded to the bois de Boulogne. Their seconds tried to dissuade them from the confrontation, but to no avail. Georges’s adversary insisted on an apology, while Georges argued that he would only be obliged to give one if the other man killed or wounded him, thereby proving that he had been wrong. Once they arrived at the woods, their friends attempted to place them thirty paces apart, but Georges refused, saying that it would only be a fair experiment if he, the target, was twenty-five paces from the marksman as they had agreed. The twenty-five steps were duly measured out.
Thus thwarted after a futile quarter of an hour, the seconds finally suggested they toss a coin to see who would fire first, but Georges refused this, too. By rights, he insisted, the other man must shoot first. His adversary, his honor wounded yet again, argued that it would give him an unfair—and, certainly, unneeded—advantage if either of two such powerful men gave the other the courtesy of shooting first. Georges held firm, however, and his rival was obliged to cede the point.
A man from the shooting club loaded each man’s pistol with the same amount of powder and the same number of bullets they had used before. Indeed, they were the exact same ones each man had used at the gallery. Georges had insisted upon that point.
The two men duly moved twenty-five paces apart and took their pistols from the seconds. The seconds then withdrew, leaving the combatants to fire on each other in the order they had agreed on.
Georges took none of the precautions usually observed by duelists: He did not try to shield any part of his body with the pistol; his hand rested at his side, giving his rival a clear shot at his chest. The other man did not quite know what to make of such conduct. He had participated in many duels, but he had never been confronted with such cool bravery. He began to doubt himself. Twice he raised the pistol, and twice he lowered it again. This was in complete violation of dueling etiquette, but Georges remained unfazed. “Take your time, sir,” was all he said.
On the third attempt, the other man fired. There was a moment of terrible suspense for the spectators; then Georges turned and bowed to each witness to show that he was unhurt. “Well, monsieur,” he said, “it seems you have proven me right. It is indeed true that when a man fires upon another man rather than at a target, he is less sure of his grip.”
His rival inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Yes,” he said. “I was wrong. And now you may fire in your turn.”
“I, fire at you?” Georges picked up his hat and handed the pistol to his second. “Why should I do that?”
The other man looked astonished. “It is your right, monsieur, and I insist upon it. I confess that I’m curious as to whether your aim will be better than mine.”
Georges shook his head. “I’m afraid you have misunderstood me,” he said, unruffled as ever. “I never said I could hit you; I simply said that you couldn’t hit me, and you did not. I have proven myself correct. As far as I’m concerned, the experiment is over.” Ignoring the other man’s protests that he must shoot in his turn, he stepped into his coach and took the road to the barrière de l’Étoile, remarking to his companion: “Well! Didn’t I tell you that there would be a difference between shooting at a target and shooting at a man?” His satisfaction was complete; h
e had passed the final test. Never again would he doubt his own courage.
The three adventures I have just related caused a good deal of talk around Paris, and our hero became even more admired. Two or three coquettes made it a point of honor to vanquish the resistance of this modern Cato, and since he no longer had any reason to reject them he was soon quite a fashionable young man indeed. He did not allow himself to be completely captivated by the whirl of society, however; and one bright day he bid farewell to Paris and to his charming mistresses, and set out for London.
There Georges was well received everywhere he went. He kept horses and dogs; rode, hunted, and shot; gambled and won and lost large sums with aristocratic insouciance. He also made the nodding acquaintance of Lord Murray during this time, but as we have seen, they did not then form any real friendship. By the end of the year he was able to leave London, as he had left Paris, with a reputation as a well-bred and charming gentleman-about-town.
That was the era when travels to the Orient were becoming all the rage. Georges visited Greece, Turkey, Asia Minor, Syria, and Egypt. He was presented to the great Muhammad Ali just before Ibrahim Pasha began his invasion of Arabia; he accompanied the viceroy’s son into battle, and received a sword of honor and two fine Arabian horses as a reward for his bravery.
En route back to France, Georges passed through Italy, where preparations for the Spanish campaign were under way. Hastening to Paris, he volunteered to join the ranks of the first battalion. Unfortunately, against all expectations, the Spanish forces were quickly broken. The campaign, which everyone had expected to be so momentous, was not much more than a military exercise in the end. At Trocadéro, however, things were a bit different. It was soon evident that this last bastion of the peninsular revolution would have to be taken by force.
The regiment to which Georges belonged was not chosen for the assault, so he changed regiments directly and became a grenadier. When the signal was given, Georges threw himself head-on at the opposing forces, and was the third to enter the fort. His name was listed with honor in the dispatches, and he received from the hands of the duke d’Angoulême the croix de la Légion d’honneur and, from those of Ferdinand VII, that of Charles III. He had enlisted in the army with the sole aim of achieving one such military distinction, and now he had received two. He was overwhelmed with joy and pride.
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