'LA REVANCHE.'

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1290, 19 November 1896, Page 40

'LA REVANCHE.'

[By Francis Gribble.]

The story ia written, in outline, on a tombstone which stands in the Berlin cemetery, in unconsecrated ground. But this is all the tombstone says

In Memory of Herbert Reichardt, Born Jan. 7, 1831. Died Nov. 19, 1872.

The story is also written, a little more fully, in the stiff formal phrases of a certain proce'sverbal, which was drawn up to explain and justify a duel. But even the proc4s-verbcil told very little. It spoke of provocation given in a caj'6. It mentioned the place and hour of the meeting ; recorded that swords were the weapons chosen, and that, at the first encounter, Herr Francois Walther’s sword passed fatally through Herr Herbert .iteichardt’s body. No more than that. Heading it, one might have fancied that the writer’s reticence was designed to hide a woman’s secret. But one would have fancied wrongly. There was no woman in the story of the quarrel ; though, none the less, there was a something in it of which the proemsverbal did not speak-, a something which it seems worth while to chronicle.

It all happened in the autumn of the year 1872. The great war with France was over ; the indemnity was paid ; the Prussian soldiers had evacuated the provinces which they had held to ransom. Some time in the September of that year, Francois Walther, for reasons of his own, had travelled from Strasburg to Berlin, and settled there. He was an Alsatian, who had been at Nancy at the time when the famous four Uhlans rode up. and summoned the city to surrender. During a great part of the German occupation he had been obliged to stay there. Afterwards, he had managed to slip through the German lines, and had joined the franc tirenrs of the "Vosges, and shot down scores of TJiilans with the deadiy aim of a man who has been used to stalk big game. Yet, when the peace was signed, and Alsace had become a German province, he had not emigrated, but had let himself become a German citizen. He had his reasons.

It was not a time when things were pleasant in Germany for anyone whose sympath'es were French. The anniversaries of the great battles —of Woerth, and and Gravelotte, and Sedan —were feted one after another with noisy demonstrations which could not fail to wound a Frenchman's sensibilities. Yet there were plenty of Germans who bore no more rancour than they could help, and who abstained from undue arrogance in private life. So that the young man was not friendless at Berlin, bur, had plenty of acquaintances to sir, and talk with in the beer gardens and the cafes. And one acquaintance introduced him to another until, at last, he came to know Herr Herbert Reichardt, officer in the Prussian Land-Wehr, and merchant of the City of Berlin. Francois Walther lived an idle life. Beyond the fact that his manners were good, and that his family was honourable, his German friends had practically no knowledge of his affairs. Only they perceived that he was a diligent attendant at a certain school of arms, that his pistol would suuff a candle at any reasonable distance, and that, with the ep6e de combat, the fencing master himself was not his equal. They laughed together, saying that he was making ready betimes for * La Revanche.’ ‘ It is wonderful,’ the fenci"g-m ‘Ster to say, ‘ how well these Frenchmen fence. Practise how we will, we Germans will never be a match for them.’

Once again he complimented the young Alsatian on his skill.

‘lf ever you are challenged, Herr Walther, you will surely kill your man,’ he said. ‘I mean to,’ was Francois Walther’s curt

reply. ‘And what is curious is that you never practise with the foil—always with the cpdc de combat .’

‘Yes, it is a means to an end,’ the young man answered in a tone that did not encourage further questions. That was on the morning of the 16th of November ; and it was on the evening of the next day that the provocation was given in the cafe. The talk, that night, had turned upon the duelling code of Ge>rmny. The young Alsatian had wished to know in what respect, if any, it differed from the code obeyed in France; and his companions—Herr Herbert Reichardt among the others —had enlightened him.

‘ls it necessary,’ the young man asked, ‘to belong to the nobility in order to claim the right of redressing injuries by arms? Would a tradesman, for instance, have the right to send a challenge, or be under the obligation to accept one ? The others answered, drawing a delicate distinction.

‘The tradesman qua tradesman has no rights which are admitted by the laws ol honour. If n tradesman insults a nobleman, the nobleman will merely hand him over to the police. But it may happen that the tradesman also holds rank as an officer in either the Land-Wehr or the Land-Sturm. In that case the law of honour will forget that he is a tradesman, and, treating him as an officer, will require him to behave as one.’ ‘And if he does not?’

All speaking at onethe Germans sketched the horrors of social outlawry which awaited such a man. Respectable houses would be closed to him ; he would be excluded from !he clubs; anyone might insult him wiih impunity. They told the story of an old profes-or < f the University whom a Court of Honour had condemned because he had not challenged a young man who had rudely busted him at the theatre door. Met everywhere with contumely, they said, the professor had corn-mi’-ted suicide. It was exaggerated, as such talk in cafes mostly is ; but, none the Lss, there was m- re than a germ of truth in it.^ The Alsatian ad-red another question. What was the nature of the insult which, among equals, could only he avenged by an appeal to arms ? ‘ I suppose,’ he said, ‘a blow is an insult of that character?’ The others assented ; and Herr Herbert Heichardt added, as with a touch of personal pride—- * I-i the case of an officer, the. blow need not be actually struck. It is enough to touch an e-ffic : rp,>n the shoulder, in the place where .-.ulotie-s wail i be, and give hi:., to v,i> ’ You inrun t > say that if i were to rise from my pLce and slip you on the shoulder, Calling you an abusive name, you would have no alternative but to call me out?’ ‘Unless you apologised I should certainly have no alternative,’ the Berliner chuckled. ‘ You are quite sure of that V

‘ Quite sure.’ The yourg man sprang from his seat, and the German merchant felt a heavy hand upon his arm, and the words l Je vous gifle,’ hissed in his ear.

He laughed, and the other men at the table laughed too. The joke was in bad taste. No doubt the young man had been drinking more Rhine wine than was good for him. He would be sorry in the morning. Meanwhi'e it was kinder to take his jesting in good part —the more so, p-rhaps, since he snuffed candles at twenty paces, and had sometimes disarmed the fencing-master. For all the evidence, it was hard to believe the insult seriously meant. The thing was so opposed to the everyday experience of their lives. In theory, these smug prosperous Berlin merchants might be proud of their right to avenge themselves like officers and gentlemen. In practice they never had any quarrels on their hands which could not be better settled in the Law Courts. They could not understand this fiery young Alsatian, who first lured them on to boast about their duels, and then required that they should make good their words. They tried to calm him. ‘ When one is received politely in Berlin,’ they said, ‘one has no right to behave as though one were always thinking of the Revanche. ’

But Francois Walther waved his hand and silenced them.

‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘As a Herman citizen, I have no business with the Revanche ; and, in any case, I know better than to try to avenge the wrongs of a na.tion on an individual. But I have business with Herr Reichardt, and the things I have to say to him had better be said in public.’ A hush followed on his words, and the Alsatian turned to the Berlin merchant, and in tones of studied insolence continued—

‘lt seems, sir, that you have no disposition to resent my blow unless I first explain the reason why I struck you.’ Herr Herbert Reichardt tried to laugh again ; but the laugh sounded strangely in the silenc3 which the curiosity of everyone within earshot of the table hid produced. "When Francois Walther resumed there was an emotion in his voice which none of them had ever heard in it before.

‘ Herr Herbert Reichardt,’ he said. ‘ you are an officer of the Prussian Land-Wehr. As an officer in the Prussian Land-Wehr. you Rerved in the war which resulted in the humiliation of my unhappy country. Am I not right P The Berlin merchant nodded, the others wondered. If there were no question of the Revanche what could this speech be leading up to ?

‘You were a lieutenant in one of the regiments stationed at N Tcy during the Prussian occupation of Loriaine?’ The Berliner nodded again, but with a puzzled look upon his face. Think how he might, he could not imagine what was coming next.

‘ And now, Lieutenant Reichardt, be good enough to throw your memory back. Try to remember a certain morning in November, just two years ago to-day. You were angry that, morning, because a certain French soldier —a prisoner of war, not seeing you pass neglected to salute you ; and yon struck him with your hand upon the face. Yon have the idea—you Prussians—that the blow of an officer is no insult to the common soldier. This common soldier thought differently, and he struck back. By your iron discipline, the punishment for that is death ; and that same evening that soldier was shot, by your orders, in the prison-yard. Do you remember the incident. Lieutenant Reichardt?’ Herr Herbert Reichardt shook his head.

‘ One is only too glad to forget the horrors of war in time of peace,’ he said ; and his tores were clearly meant to be conciliatory. But the young Alsatian was in no mood to be conciliated.

‘ You do not remember ?’ he repeated. ‘ No. Why should you ? But I remember. I have good reason to remember. For the man who was thus foully murdered by your orders was my brother.’

The other tried to interject a word of protest, but he was not heard. The eyes of the Alsatian flashed, and the words flowed in an angry toirent from his lips. ‘Yes, Lieutenant Reichardt, he w>.h mv brother. Does it surprise von that, when I heard the story of his death, I vowed that I would hunt down his murderer until I found him ? I think not. It took me two years to find him ; but now I have found him, and have struck him, just as he struck my brother, and I find him such a coward that he does not d-re to resent my blow.’ Again there was a pause. Lieutenant Reichardt was trying to collect his thoughts—trying to transform himself once more from the prosperous Berlin merchant to the truculent Prussian soldier. He felt like a man with a double personality. It seemed so cruel that the soldier’s brutality should be avenged on 'lie merchant’s head. He would have given worlds for a sense of justice to sustain him in this quarrel that was being forced on him. But he hul none. He could not doubt that, as a soldier, he bed done many things of which, as'a meichant, he did not approve. But while he pondered Francois Walther spoke the final word which stung him into selfrespect.

' Have I insulted you enough? or is it necessary to spit in a Prussian officer’s face before he will consider himself affronted?’

And then at last the officer asserted himself, and the merchant was forgotten. His face was pale, but he spoke calmly—‘You need not frighten yourself, sir.’ he said. ‘Be good enough to give me your card, and my friends shall wait on you before the morning. ’

But he s’ id It with Ihe full knowledge that he was sr ntc.uir.g himself to a death as certain as that to which he had condemned the French soldier in the Nancy prison. And the rest of the story is rightly written in outline on. the tombstone, and more fully in the stiff phrases of the proces-verbal. — The Idler. wcaorm ranr 11 i i— ni»i n yll ■■ ■ imhiimji