Pierre d’Artois laid aside his mask and blade, regarding with a quizzical smile the perspiring features and shaking hand of his valet-secretary-fencing partner.
“Why such an effort? Is it then so difficult to touch me once in an afternoon? But listen, Jannicot: tonight at 12 I meet a friend by moonlight at the Spring of St. Leon. There will be no seconds, no director, not even a surgeon. One of us will remain there until his friends call for the vanquished.”
“But this is folly!” protested Jannicot. “You may go into an ambush. Or for want of speedy attention, you may die of your wounds.”
“Nonsense! For very good reasons we must meet in secret. The twentieth century frowns upon sword play, even here in France. Anyway, he is a man of honor. There will be no ambush. No surgeon will be required. I am no bungler; neither is he. One thrust, his or mine, will suffice. Surgery would be wasted effort. Therefore if I do not meet you at the appointed time…”
“But how do you know that he will be there? You have not heard from him for over a month. It is rumored that he is in Spain; others claim that he is in Morocco. He may fail you entirely.”
“The word of Santiago is good. He will not fail me. Dead, drunk, or dying, he will be there.”
“But these treacherous Spaniards! An ambush…”
“Bah! He is a man of honor. And moreover, I must keep my word, even as he will keep his. And now, Jannicot, I will sleep. Awaken me at 10.”
At the stroke of 10, d’Artois arose, and dressed with as much care and deliberation as though he were about to make his customary morning promenade.
“Idiot!” reproved d’Artois, as Jannicot came tottering in under the weight of a great tray; “am I then a python? Assassin! Would you have me gorge myself? À bas! Bring me a cut of cold meat and a bit of sauterne. And by the way, Jannicot, if you will solemnly promise not to seek me until two hours after midnight, you may drive me to within a kilometer of the Spring of St. Leon. I must not the my hand or eye. You promise? Eh bien, allons!”
The powerful Issotta roadster leaped forward into the night like some great cat upon its prey. Kilometer after kilometer they sped, up grade and down, winding their way through the curves and dips of the great highway that, running through the Pyrenees, leads to Bayonne. Like a bird of prey they swooped into and through St. Jean de Luz. Then at a slower pace they picked their way on until the slim, silvery spires of the old cathedral of Bayonne appeared high above the dark blot of the groves surrounding the city.
“Park here, Jannicot, and await my return. And if in two hours I am not with you, seek me.”
“But why two hours?”
“So that the survivor may be assured a fair departure.”
Jannicot, depressed by the thought of that secret encounter, man to man on the green at the Spring of St. Leon, shivered as he saw his master draw from the tonneau a pair of slender épées. Their sinister gleam in moonlight made him shudder. He sought to grasp his master’s hand.
“Nonsense, Jannicot! I could touch the devil himself tonight. Thus: the illogical parry, the uncanny riposte,” he continued, as his blade flickered through its deceptive, sweeping parades. “It is timing, Jannicot. You are young and active, yet have you ever deceived my parry, or avoided my riposte? It can not be done; the man is not born who can escape me. And remember your word. À bientôt!”
D’Artois saluted with his blade, tucked it under his left arm to keep its mate company, then turned and picked his way across the street, and was lost in the black depths of the grove at whose opposite end was the Spring of St. Leon.
“I am early,” reflected d’Artois, as he entered the empty clearing. He glanced at his watch. It lacked a minute of midnight. Alone…yet not entirely alone. A sinister, foreboding presence seemed to lurk about him. D’Artois shivered, toyed with the hilts of his épées, peered into the shadows, listened for the approach of his adversary. The great cathedral clock struck midnight.
And then a voice, soft, courteous.
“I trust that I have not kept you waiting long? I was detained in Spain.”
D’Artois turned to confront Don Santiago.
“Not at all,” he replied with a bow. “But your approach was silent.”
“What? Would you expect a fanfare of trumpets? Are we not both outlaws, forbidden to meet on the field of honor in France?”
“Quite so, Don Santiago. But which end will you take? Ça m’est égal!”
With a gesture of his blade, d’Artois indicated the smooth, unbroken green before them.
“It is of no import, Monsieur d’Artois. The moon is almost overhead; the ground is level; and there are no shadows to favor either.”
In silence the adversaries stripped to the waist, stamped on the short grass to try its footing, poised and flexed their blades, each selecting one of his pair. And each courteously declined to inspect the other’s blade to see that it conformed to custom and regulation.
Pierre d’Artois, slim and erect as an obelisk, faced his adversary, his sword at the carry.
“For the mastery of the world, Don Santiago…en garde!”
With sinuous, serpentine grace they went through the evolutions of the salute preliminary to a bout. Each recoiled a pace and out of reach, with that catlike, swift smoothness of a polished swordsman.
Don Santiago advanced warily, the point of his épée tracing fine, imperceptible circles in the air, a menacing, vibrant, silvery death. D’Artois, motionless, frozen in place, immobile as the pyramids, stood his ground, revealing the master who never wastes a move. And none but a master would dare await, cold-footed, the attack of that swift, hawk-like Spaniard; for immobility, while confounding the adversary, causes the passive, watchful one to “freeze”, to lose the fine alertness of his nerves.
The Spaniard’s vicious feint had no effect, drew not the sign of a parry. A fierce beat failed to shake the master’s firm wrist. But the strain of immobility seemed to tell on d’Artois: his wrist, drooping slightly, shifted his guard, leaving his forearm exposed. Don Santiago’s blade reached forth with the darting stab of a serpent’s stroke, his arm fully extended. The sword of d’Artois enveloped that of his adversary, swept it aside, leaped forward in its deadly swift advance. But the subtle Spaniard, prepared for the trap, withdrew, so that the thrust fell short. In sheer bravado, he had dropped his guard in retreating, showing how well he had gauged his adversary’s reach.
Again they came on guard. This time the play was light, swift, staccato, a dizzying interchange of attack, counterattack, parry and riposte. The honors were even; each recognized in the other a master, a cunning, deadly opponent, each with a wondrous sense of time, a keen eye, and a sure hand. Bird of prey and bird of prey had met, circling, swooping, awaiting that inevitable instant in every bout when one of the adversaries suffers a momentary dulling of the nerves, fatal relaxation of watchfulness. That moment, and that moment alone, could decide the day; for in skill they matched each other; in that cold, passionless, impersonal hatred begotten of the touch of steel upon steel they matched each other; master and master had met.
As phrase succeeded phrase, the Spaniard noted that, despite the wondrous succession of sweeping parries, infinitely varied and perfectly executed, d’Artois, when hard pressed, favored the double contre sixte. And this he bore in mind, and smiled his thin, crooked smile.
A pause in the fierceness of the fencing; a moment’s slackening of tension. Then, without sign or warning, came the Spaniard’s thrust, twice avoiding the flashing succession of double contre sixte, and home…but not for a touch; for the blade of d’Artois, point dropped, swept across his body from sixte to prime, brushing aside the blade of Santiago, then leaped forward in a riposte that was to impale the Spaniard: that wondrous, incredible parry and reply that none but a genius or madman would dare employ. But again the Spaniard withdrew, so that the advance of d’Artois fell short by the width of a finger.<
br />
Out of reach, d’Artois dropped his guard.
“Beautiful, Don Santiago! Magnifique! And I would have sworn that none but the devil himself could have escaped me.”
The Spaniard smiled coolly, and bowed in acknowledgment.
“A truce, Don Santiago! The victor will never again find a worthy opponent.”
“En garde!” snapped the Spaniard.
And once again the staccato click-click of the blades, the tinkle of blade on bell guards, the hoarse breathing of the contestants. Don Santiago with the ferocity of a tiger pressed his opponent to the utmost, ever watchful for that one fatal slip; but at last, tiring of his vain assaults, seeking a moment’s respite, slackened the tension. Slowly, rhythmically, he advanced, retreated, feinted, parried, weaving backward, forward, in a steady march, a fixed cadence. Slowly but certainly d’Artois succumbed to the spell of that soporific rhythm as to the hypnotic passes of a mesmerist, replying with a lifeless parry to a languid feint, advancing, retreating in time to the cadence beat by the Spaniard’s caressing movements, even as one who, listlessly, unconsciously beats time with his foot to the faint strains of distant music. It was not blade to blade, but will against will, the invisible matching of intangible weapons.
With a thrill of horror, with a shudder of sudden awakening, d’Artois realized his peril, realized that the Spaniard sought to lull him to sleep, then, with an abrupt change of pace, run him through ere he could accommodate himself to the shift in cadence.
On the trail of this revelation came inspiration: two could play at that game. There would be some instant wherein Don Santiago could be caught off his guard, lulled to sleep by his own mesmeric passes, lulled by the very response of d’Artois, the victim to be.
Another languid feint; to which Don Santiago replied with a contre sixte, a meaningless gesture, seeing that the thrust of d’Artois was no true menace, but merely the response to the Spaniard’s hypnotic, caressing evolutions…and d’Artois, accelerating on the instant the speed of his advance, sank into a full lunge, chin almost on his knee, slipping under the Spaniard’s guard, clear of the point which was a shade too high. No parry, no coup d’arrêt, no retreat could avoid the deadly swiftness of that lunge. The Spaniard was trapped in his own snare!
As d’Artois slipped forward, he knew that nothing on earth could halt his impaling blade.
A blinding, elemental flame flared before his eyes as his épée sank home; a blinding, consuming flame that seared and lashed him, enfolded him. Then blackness, Cimmerian, absolute, as he pitched forward, arm extended, face to the ground.
* * * *
And meanwhile, Jannicot paced restlessly in circles about the Issotta roadster, smoking countless cigarettes, assuring himself that all would be well.
Half past 12… One o’clock… Perhaps Don Santiago had been delayed… Half past one… What duel could last that long, even between cunning, wary fencers, master opposed to master?
Forgetful of his promise, forgetful of all save his concern for d’Artois, Jannicot plunged into the blackness of the grove, picked the path, and, panic-stricken, stumbled toward the Spring of St. Leon. At the edge of the clearing he halted, stunned by the sight that confronted him. For an instant, dumb terror and dismay paralyzed him, blinded him. Then, closely examining the inert form of d’Artois, he searched, but in vain, for a wound.
“Salaud! Struck him down from ambush!” he growled as he scooped up from the spring a hatful of water, dashing it full into his master’s face. Then, still seeking to revive d’Artois, he noted the trampled grass, the signs of prolonged combat.
D’Artois stirred, muttered incoherently. Jannicot, picking him bodily from the green, staggered back to the Issotta with his burden. D’Artois, somewhat recovered, though still muttering unintelligibly, took a draft of the cognac Jannicot offered.
“I’m all right. Drive on.”
D’Artois shuddered, drew about himself his cloak. The terror of that moon-drenched clearing still overwhelmed him, dulled him, oppressed him with an indescribable horror. What had struck him? What had he touched? That abysmal flame still flared before his eyes.
The Issotta once more leaped into the darkness, speeding up that ribbon-like road with a full-throated roar. Clouds obscured the moon. A haze enveloped the car, so that its headlights could reach but a few yards ahead. Jannicot, sorely puzzled by the mystery of the evening, drove desperately. D’Artois slumped back in his seat, unnerved, still consumed with strange surmises.
Then the shrill scream of brakes: and the speeding Issotta, whipping and skidding, came to a halt but a few meters short of an obstacle, a wrecked car that blocked their path.
Jannicot leaped from the wheel, followed by d’Artois, who had partly recovered from his lethargy. Pinned under the wreckage was an apparently lifeless form, face to the ground.
D’Artois drew from his tool chest a jack with which he lifted the wreck.
“Nasty turn here… Poor devil…but he may not be dead,” he murmured, as he drew the unconscious victim clear of the debris. Then, in utter astonishment, “Don Santiago!”
“Crapule!” flared Jannicot, likewise recognizing the battered features of the Spaniard. “Served him right, having you struck down from ambush. Coward, he fled too fast!”
“But we can’t leave him here. Get a surgeon, Jannicot.”
“Spare yourselves the trouble, Messieurs,” counseled a calm, sonorous voice from behind them. “He has been dead over two hours…wrecked…driving out of Spain in great haste…”
“Two hours? Out of Spain?”
“Look at the tracks.”
The stranger with a gesture indicated the trace of the wrecked car’s wheels, then, disregarding their questions, continued his way down the road to Spain, speaking in a low tone, apparently to someone accompanying him.
“Santiago, though you defied me, you are a man after my own heart; for even Death, my servant, could not prevent you from keeping your word.”
THE PEACOCK’S SHADOW
Originally published in Weird Tales, November 1926.
“Mon vieux, what do you say to a bit of housebreaking?”
This, from Pierre d’Artois, a gentleman of France and a master of the sword, seemed unusual, to say the least.
“Well, why not?” I agreed, not to be outdone by the d’Artois nonchalance. “But whose house do we invade? What the devil, do you fear I will become homesick if from time to time there is not something to remind me of my own native land of liberty?”
“Mais non! No, we are not going as prohibition agents. Not at all! And it is no ordinary house into which we are to break. We invade the château of Monsieur the Marquis de la Tour de Maracq,” announced Pierre as he stepped on the accelerator of his favorite car, the Issotta roadster.
“But what of Monsieur the Marquis?” I suggested with what seemed to be a touch of reason.
“He is very busy at Biarritz at a fencing tournament.”
Well, this solved one riddle: I now knew why d’Artois, that fierce old ferrailleur, had overlooked a chance to demonstrate his exquisite mastery of the sword.
“But, mon Pierre, what of the housebreaking? What loot are we after?” I ventured as we cleared Pont de Mousserole and left behind us the gray battlements of Bayonne.
“The truth of it is, I am playing what you call the hunch,” he evaded, then continued: “But he is the good hunch. There has been an elopement, and it is for me to locate the lady.”
Worse and worse yet! A quiet month in Bayonne…
“Who is the girl?”
D’Artois laughed.
“A princess, and the daughter of a king.”
“Not bad for a marquis. And young and beautiful?” I retorted to the mockery I saw in his keen old eyes.
“Beautiful, yes; if you like such beauty. But young, no. In fact, older than I am.”
&nbs
p; “The devil!”
“The truth! Thirty-seven hundred years old at least.”
This was too much!
“Mais non. I do not jest,” continued Pierre. “She was stolen from the Guimet museum of Lyons and carried all the way to the château of the marquis.”
“Well, and that is a case for the police, is it not?”
“No. For one is not really certain; it is but strongly suspected that he accomplished the almost impossible feat of looting the museum and carrying the mummy to his château. Monsieur the Prefect of Police, not being any too sure of himself, has taken me into his confidence and asked me to investigate unofficially. A false move would ruin him, since Monsieur the Marquis is a man of influence.”
“But why should anyone steal a mummy, especially de la Tour de Maracq, who is rich as an Indian prince, and of a house as old as Charlemagne?”
“A scholar, a soldier, a man of letters,” enumerated d’Artois, continuing my thought, “and a fantastic madman, if this report is correct. He is too talented for sanity.”
“Even as yourself,” I hinted.
“Touché.” acknowledged d’Artois. “But I do not elope with ladies 3700 years old.”
He fingered a pack of Bastos, but thinking better of so foul a deed, decided to light the Coronado I had given him.
“All very quaint. But let’s get to facts,” I urged. “What have you to work on in this love affair?”
“I have the good hunch. And it is more of a love affair than you realize.”
Which was logical enough. Those whom gold could not tempt, might indeed steal objects of art, jewels over which to gloat in secret, a relic, an antique rug; but a shriveled mummy! Well, tastes vary.
And the case should be simple of solution, at least as regarded the marquis; for the missing lady could not be concealed with any degree of facility. A simple matter of walking or climbing into the château, and leaving again with our princess; or else reporting that she was not to be found, and that Monsieur the Marquis was not her abductor. A jewel could be hidden; but a mummy…
E. Hoffmann Price's Pierre d'Artois: Occult Detective & Associates Page 2