CHAPTER XXXVII
THE LETTER
De Mortemar had stowed the packet carefully away inside his coat,Gaston keenly watching his antagonist the while.
"Are you ready, milor?" he asked now with marked insolence of manner.
"At your service," replied the other quietly. "M. de Mortemar, willyou give the word?"
The two men stood opposite to one another, a table not four feet widebetween them. Each held a pistol in his left hand. Of these one wasloaded, the other not. De Mortemar had cleared the table, pushingaside the decanter of wine, the tureen of soup, the glasses. Thewindow was still open, and from that outside world which to these menhere present seemed so far away, there came the sound of the oldchurch belfry tolling the hour of eight, and still from afar thatmelancholy tune, the Norman ditty sung by young throats:
"C'est les Normands, qu'a dit ma mere, "C'est les Normands qu'ont conquis l'Angleterre!"
"Fire!" said de Mortemar.
Two arms were raised. Eye was fixed to eye for one brief second, thenlowered for the aim. There was a slight dull sound, then a terriblecurse muttered below the breath, as the pistol which Gaston deStainville had vainly tried to fire dropped from his hand.
Had his excitement blinded him when he chose his weapon, or was itjust fate, ruthless, inscrutable, that had placed the loaded pistol inLord Eglinton's hand?
"A blank!" he shouted with a blasphemous oath. "_A vous_, milor! Curseyou, why don't you fire?"
"Fire, milor, in Heaven's name," said Mortemar, who was as pale asdeath. "'Tis cruelty to prolong."
But Eglinton too had dropped his arm.
"M. le Comte de Stainville," he said calmly, "before I use this weaponagainst you, as I would against a mad dog, I'll propose a bargain foryour acceptance."
"You'd buy that packet of precious documents from me, eh?" sneeredGaston savagely, "nay, milor, 'tis no use offering millions to a dyingman. . . . Shoot, shoot, milor! the widowed Comtesse de Stainvillewill deal with those documents and no one else. . . . They are not forsale, I tell you, not for all your millions now!"
"Not even for this pistol, M. le Comte?"
And calm, serene with that whimsical smile again playing round thecorners of his expressive mouth, Lord Eglinton offered the loadedpistol to his enemy.
"My life? . . ." stammered Gaston, "you would? . . ."
"Nay, mine, M. le Comte," rejoined milor. "I'll not stir from thisspot. I offer you this pistol and you shall use it at your pleasure,after you have handed me that packet of letters."
Instinctively Gaston had drawn back, lost in a maze of surprise.
"An you'll not take the weapon, M. le Comte," said Eglintondecisively, "I shoot."
There was a moment's silence, whilst Gaston's pride fought a grimbattle with that awful instinct of self-preservation, that strangelove of fleeting life to which poor mortals cling.
Men were not cowards in those days; life was cheap and oft sold forthe gratification of petty vanity, yet who shall blame Gaston if, withcertain death before him, he chose to forego his revenge?
"Give me that pistol, milor," he said dully, "de Mortemar, hand overthat packet to Lord Eglinton."
He took the pistol from milor, and it was his own hand that trembled.
Silently de Mortemar obeyed. Milor took the packet of papers from him,then held them one by one to the flame of the candle: first the map,then the letter which bore Lydie's name writ so boldly across it. Theblack ash curled and fell from his hand on to the table, he grippedthe paper until his seared fingers could hold it no longer.
Then he once more stood up, turning straight toward Gaston.
"I am ready, M. le Comte," he said simply.
Gaston raised his left arm and fired. There was a wild, an agonizedshriek which came from a woman's throat, coupled with one of horrorfrom de Mortemar's lips, as _le petit Anglais_ stood for the space ofa few seconds, quite still, firm and upright, with scarce a changeupon his calm face, then sank forward without a groan.
"Madame, you are hurt!" shouted de Mortemar, who was almost dazed withsurprise at the sight of a woman at this awful and supreme moment. Hehad just seen her, in the vivid flash when Gaston raised his arm andfired: she had rushed forward then, with the obvious intention ofthrowing herself before the murderous weapon, and now was makingpathetic and vain efforts to raise her husband's inanimate body fromthe table against which he had fallen.
"Coward! coward!" she sobbed in anguish, "you have stilled the bravestheart in France!"
"Pray God that I have not," murmured Gaston fervently, as, impelled bysome invisible force, he threw the pistol from him, then sank on hisknees and buried his face in his hands.
But Mortemar had soon recovered his presence of mind, and had alreadyreached his wounded friend, calling quickly to Jean Marie whoapparently had followed in the wake of Madame la Marquise in her wildrush from her coach to the inner room.
Together the two men succeeded in lifting Lord Eglinton and in gentlyinsinuating his body backward into a recumbent position. ThusLydie--still on her knees--received her lord in her arms. Her eyeswere fixed upon his pallid face with passionate intensity. It seemedas if she would wrest from those closed lids the secret of life ordeath.
"He'll not die? . . ." she whispered wildly; "tell me that he'll notdie!"
A deep red stain was visible on the left side, spreading on the finecloth of the coat. With clumsy though willing fingers, Mortemar wasdoing his best to get the waistcoat open, and to stop temporarily therapid flow of blood with Lydie's scarf, which she had wrenched fromher shoulders.
"Quick, Jean Marie! the leech!" he ordered, "and have the roomsprepared . . ."
Then, as Jean Marie obeyed with unusual alacrity and anon hisstentorian voice calling to ostler and maids echoed through thesilence of the house, Lydie's eyes met those of the young man.
"Madame! Madame! I beseech you," he said appalled at the terrible lookof agony expressed on the beautiful, marble-like face, "let me attendyou . . . I vow that you are hurt."
"No! no!" she rejoined quickly, "only my hand . . . I tried to clutchthe weapon . . . but 'twas too late . . ."
But she yielded her hand to him. The shot had indeed pierced thefleshy portion between thumb and forefinger, leaving an ugly gash: thewound was bleeding profusely and already she felt giddy and sick. DeMortemar bound up the little hand with his handkerchief as best hecould. She hardly heeded him, beyond that persistent appeal, terriblein its heartrending pathos:
"He'll not die . . . tell me that he'll not die."
Whilst not five paces away, Gaston de Stainville still knelt, prayingthat the ugly stain of murder should not for ever sully his hand.
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