The Storyteller. THE DUEL.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXVIII, Issue 22, 31 May 1900, Page 23

The Storyteller. THE DUEL.

In the garden of a Btately mansion n.ai Paris a young lady was walking with her fiance. She was a tall, splendid brunette, exquisitely made , very queenly and very beautiful. There v/as, perhaps, a little too much hauteur in the carriage of the small ] well-set head, a trifle Loo much fue and leaolution iv the flash of her dark eyes and the firm pose of mouth and chin, but at the present moment these undesirable qualities were subdued or at least concealed by a persuasive and bewitching sweetness, which held her companion captive, and she knew it. She was exerting all her power— for she was bent on gaining her point. She was the daughter— indeed, only child of Colonel Merincourt, who had given a reluctant consent to her engagement to his own subaltern, a young lieutenant, who was well born, but had only poor prospects. and he was therefore by no means pleased with the match. He had yielded with the amiable complaisance of a mere man to the irresistible will of his daughter, who ruled him, as she ruled all the world, with unquestioned sway. He would have been much more ready to favor the suit of Albert's rival, Gaspard Cochon, also an officer, and eon of a wealthy merchant, who could start him in life with a good income and a residence in the Champ Elyaees. The rivalry between the young men had led to much unpleasantness already, and this was the subject of conversation between the pair. Cochon belonged to the bourgeoisie, and waa not received into the same set as De Bois Hamon (for in the Army there are cliques and coteries as well as in other phases of society), and this fact accentuated his antagonism. He was older, and was much longer in the regiment. He had attained the rank of major, and it was very mortifying to see his rival and junior received in circlei whose doors were closed to him. He had been very rude and overbearing on several occasions, and had at last insulted him outright, bent ou forcing him to fight. Their brother officers had taken the matter up, and even ' the heads ' had intimated to Bois Hamon that they expected him to send a challenge. Colonel Merincourt had spoken very strongly, and had declared that he would have no poltroon for a Bon-in-law. He could not underotand Albert's hesitat on ; if he delayed much longer his honor would be irretrievably ruined. He would have to leave the regiment ; h'"s future career would be shipwrecked. The notions of honor in the French Army have instituted a code which obliges a man to fight on any— the slightest — provocation if it is decided by his brother officers that there are just grounds (save the mark !) for challenging, and such had been their verdict in tb"e present case. They all declared that Bois Hamon must fight. Two or three of them had offered their services to act as his second. The dashing yonng Vicomte de Lavelaye was constantly urging him to let him bear a challenge to that insolent V ichen, which name being also the French for pig, it will be imagined how much contempt the young gentleman threw into his utterance. He was De Bois Hamon's most intimete friend and bnther-in-arms. and burned with zeal and indignation at 'he slight that had been put on him. Still Bois Hamon hesitated. lie was not the only man in the French Army who had c bjected to duelling on principle. There are many such ; though, of course, they are not in a majority in the Army. They are not heard of. Some, melts d. 1» t themselves bo overruled. Some by careful conduct avoid quarrels. Some, holding firm, are driven out of the army, and as a consequence have their prospects ruined. They may turn to o her pursuits— perhaps succeed in them — but as far as the Army is concerned there it, no hope for tham. Bois Hamon might let himself be over-rule<l. He vas undergoing strong temptation in the present interview ; but he had solemnly promised his mother on her death-bed that he would never fight a duel. And did not bis oath to her and his filial duty bind him more thoroughly than any military code whatever ' He was a fine young fellow — a Breton — tall and broad shouldered, with curly brown hair, and a pair of dark grey eyes. He had an air of frankness and bonhomie which gave the idea that he would not be easily angered, and his behaviour hitherto had been marked by so much gentleness, courtesy, and modesty that some of his colleagues half doubted his courage, and hid rival had actually taunted him with cowardioe. 'What, mon ami!' exclaimed Rein<>, turning to him with a glance and gesture which caused his look to quail under hers as if indeed he was the coward they called him. ' You would not a! low such a taunt to pass unpunished. You would not subject me to the mortification of hearing my fiincij called a .' She faltered at the word ; to use a plain expression, it stuck in her throat. ' Coward,' said he quietly, supplying the obnoxious term, as he might have picked up her handkerchief had she dropped it, without a change of countenance, except that a slight smile curled his lips. '.No, no ; a thousand times no ! Never could such an epithet be applied to you. I know it. You know, Albert, that Ido not doubt your courage. ' I hope not, 1 said he. ' No, I could never doubt it ; but we must consider appearances. And there is my father. He is quite emphatic. He will never give me to one, he declares, with such a btain on his reput.tion. Of course, it would be a Blur — a kind of disgrace. In fact, he saya he does not see how you could remain in the regiment.' ' And suppose I were to quit it,' said he, ' would you — would it be all over with me then, Reme ; would you have nothing more to say to me ?' She turned and looked at him, and this time he met her gaze steadily, earnestly, with passion and entreaty in his own. She would not meet that look. She would not answer that question.

With an adroit evasion ehe shrugged her shoulders and murmured as she walked on, ' Do not let us go into such absurd suppositions. How could I imagine such a dreadful thing ? Indeed, I oould not. It is utterly beside the question. Do let us be reasonable, mon ami. Why should you hesitate ? You do not fear the result. You are his equal— more than his equal. Everybody says you are a splendid swordsman. M. de Lavelaye has been with me.' 'Ha! When he failed to move my resolution he fled to yon. He thought you might be more successful.' She tiushed a little as ahe replied. lie taja no one has any doubt of the result. You would soon disarm that poor Cochon ; and then your nonor would be satisfied, and you would ooine forth victor. It is all so simple. How absurd for a mere nothing — a quibble, what you call principle.' •Is an oath to a dying mother nothing ?' said he, in a deep tone. ' I swore to her on my knees that I would never fight a duel. If I challenge Cochon I shall break that promise ; I shall be unfaithful to God and her ; shall brand myself a false undutiful son —perhaps a murderer. Would you ask me to do that ." A slight tremor shook her. In a moment her proud spirit waß cowed. Something within her burned to say, 'No ; keep your word to God and your mother. Let me not tempt you to perfidy.' But the thought of her father stopped the words on her lips. That very morning he had declared she should not marry Bois Hamon unless he sent the challenge. The recreant should be driven out of the Army in disgrace. Ihe soldiers should not have such a one in command over them. Why, it would put an end to all discipline. The men would refuse to obey one who had such a stigma on hia brow. Then their marriage was impossible unless the duel waa fought. Her very love for Albert made her eager to get him to fight and to come forth victor, as she said. She crushed down the good impulse. She would gain her object at all costs. She would not be the mock and jeer of her acquaintances and friends, who would pity her when she lost her fiance ; who would say that, after all, her power was ml if she failed to make him fight. He waa only playing with her — he wanted an excuse to break off the engagement. All kinds of notions hurtful to her pride and dignity came to strengthen her resolve and make her more bent on conquering him and bending him to her wishes. Assuming a light airy tone, though feeling by no means easy in her mind, she rejoined : ' How tragic you become, mon cher. Heaven forbid that I should ask you to do anything very wicked. It is only to conform to the custom that prevails in the Army. We belong to the Army. As to the promise to your mother, that is another matter. Of course, she meant a real duel, such as were fought in former times.' ' She lived in the present day,' said he, drily ; ' she knew what was going on amongst us.' • Yes ; but the poor, dear lady was a devotee. She had peculiar notions. And even she could hardly object to the sort of passage - of arms that this would be— a mere pa9time so to say. How seldom are artairs of this kind fatal. Men meet and exchange passes, and it is all o\er ; they shake hands and part very good friends. I shall not ask you to be friends with Coetion— the wretch. Let him never come into my presence.' ' Who is quibbling now,' s .id he, with a laugh, which somehow grated on her ' But let us suppo-e Were he to choose pistols — he would have the right— what then ' Understand, Reine I have no quarrel with Cochon. I have too great a contempt for him to care what the fellow says to me. Why must I fight him then 1 She did understand. She glanced furtively at him, and perctived that though the words were spoken so quietly he only spoke the simple truth, as his proud, resolute look indicated, and it only added fuel to her love and her desire to conquer his resolution. He lelt nothing but contempt lor Cochon. and was convinced that the rtal cowaidice would be m yielding to the pressure that was brought to bear on him. He could have resisted the chiefs ;he was, however, not &o well fitted ro resist where she waa concerned. ' But you don't answer my question,' he added, turning to her with a peculiar look. ' Were he to choose pistols— he would have the right, as I told you, and firearms make us equal — would you bid me rmk my life and run the chance of killing him, all for a punctilio of honor .' To bow to a bad custom which the best of our men reprobate in their hearts, though they do not see their way to put an end to it , to forswear myself, and ' Somehow he could not speak of his mother again. Reine had already fallen below that dear mother in his estimation, but he would compel her to prove what her love was for him — whether it or her pride was the stronger. ' Eh, Reine,' he urged ; ' what would you say V She was silent, and covered her face with her hands, not bo much to conceal her emotion, perhaps, as to gain time to think. After a pause she met his look and said : • You know I love you, Albert ' ' I have believed it.' ' But I love your honor, your good name, more even than yourself. I cannot bear to think of you incurring such a reproach — of having the finger of scorn point< d at you — worse still, of being driven out of the army — your chosen profession — of being ruined, and, following upon it, our separation, for my father would never hear of our marriage if that happened. It is all so terrble. How can I choose but entreat that you will spare me as well as yourself. Dearest Albert, do have pity on me. Consider in what straits lam placed.' She laid her haud on his arm and lifted her eyes, no longer flashing proudly, but full of soft pleading, to his face. Never before had he seen that expression in them, it was a transformation. He recoiled sl'ghtly, but not sufficiently so as to shake off her hand. She felt her advantage and urged : 'If I love you and hope to be yours, how can I do aught but plead that you would not ruin yourself and bring upon us both all that misery 1 There is no hope for us unless you send the challenge. You will have to go away and be no more heard of, at least iv our world, and I—lI — I .' She could not finish the sentence.

Love was now paramount. His resolution was melting- like wax under that gaze and that trembling voice. He asked in a hoarse whisper would she marry him at once instead of waiting a year, as she had arranged, if he sent the challenge. ' I will,' she replied eagerly. 'If you yield to my father so far, he cannot in reason object to onr immediate union. O, Albert, how happy you will make me ! ' He lifted her hand to Ins lips, then left her almost without another word. * t * He hastened to his own apartments, and sent for De. Lavelaye. The Vicomte came very quickly — he was expecting the sululuuu--. But even in the short time that had elapsed since the message was despatched to him the unhappy young man had time to cool down and to recover his senses, though not sufficiently to be able to retract his determination, when questioned by his friend a* to the object with which he had sent for him. Yes , he had yielded to Mademoiselle Merin 'ourt's entreatks, he admitted, and had promised to fight. De Lavelaye saw how matters stood, and, anxious to save Inn friend, as he conceived, from the const quences of his scruples — for in his eyes, as in tho«e of his brother-oilicers. refusal to fight would be utter disgrace — he ridiculed his doubt-, and b Ay him be true to himself, as well as to his lady-love ; then hurried away on his fatal mission, despite JJois Hamon's efforts to detain him. When he returued in a very short time he was in a more tober mood. Major Cochon had chosen pistols, and had proposed the next morning at five for the encounter. There would be barely daylight then, for it was October. As the meeting was now inevitable, he tried to get Bois Hamon to go and dine with him, so as to divert his mind from the affair and not leave him a pr^y to the harassing thoughts which had again evidently taken up a lo Igment in his breast. But the youg lieutenant had no wish for dinner, and would not leave his apartments. De Lavelaye .stayed with him for home hours and did his best to cheer and rally him out of the deep gloom into which he had fallen, which he well knew had no element of personal fear, but which was nevertheless quite as disheartening and discouraging, at a conjuncture, too, when he would need all his nerve and coolness for the work that was before him. He urged him more than once to go and lie down. Bois Hamon kept pacing the room, gnawing at his moustache, occasionally clenching his hands, and showing by other signs the agitation of his mind and the feelings of grief and remorse with which he viewed his present position. 1 Forsworn ! Forsworn !' he kept repeating. He was breaking the solemn promise he had given his dying mother ; outraging his conscience in order to purchase happiness for himself. To obtain the applause of men, to retain his position and win a fair bride and other desirable things, he was about to do an act his soul abhorred at the expense of honour and filial duty. That was the true cowardice indeed. Needless to say De Lavelaye tried to combat his morbid views and to rouse more soldierly sentiments : but nothing could obliterate the fact that the death-bed promise would be broken, and he had to leave him at length under the full sway of this painful consciousness, looking himself not a little disturbed and anxious at the turn events had taken. He almost forced his unhappy friend into the bedroom, and insisted that he should have some sleep at all event*, if he would not eat. so as to be in something of a fit condition for the meeting that was to take place now in a very few hours. Yielding to his persuasion. Bois Hamon threw himself on the bed without undressing, only to spring from it again and begin the eternal pacing of his room, a prey to the worrying thoughts which now, like so many hornets, crowded round him and left him no peace. Was there any esoipj for him. Would he run away, leaving his reputation to be torn into shred-*, his honor blasted, his career shipwrecked ; but keeping his word to that beloved mother whose admirable teachings had moulded his youth, whose noble example was the most precious legacy ever lett to a son, and whose last words had been, • Remember, Albert, it is better a thousand times to lose everything than do an act which conscience and the law of (Jod forbid ' And she, Irs love of whom he had thought so highly, had urged him to this act ; nay, had made their union contingent on his fighting and risking his own life as well as another's. What was her love worth then ? 'Bah! it is worthless' Her own pride, her own will, are dearer to her. omy mother " And ho flung himself on hir> knees by the bed. ' What am Ito do ? — to fly. Alap, too 1 ite ' lam bound to fight now. De Lavelaye would be involved in my disgrace ; he would never forgive me. I must light Cochon. Forgive me. dearest mother ; forgive and pray lor your unhappy son.' He began walking up and down again Blacker and blacker grew his thoughts and feelings, By degrees his face hardened and became stern, a fierce light stole intu his eye°, the lines of his mouth grew rigid. His whole soul recoiled from the course his meditations took But the evil influenu' gained the mastery. He would satisfy them — thu*.^ military tyrants who had forced him into his present straits. They should get their duel with a vengeance, and then . With a fierce, grating laugh lie flung himself down once more on the b.'d. and, utterly weaned out. fell into a troubled slumber. It was thus De Lavelaje found him. Moti Dim ! What madness '" he exclaimed. ' What have yni been doing with yourself, man jxiuvn Albert / Let me feel your pulse. You are not fit to meet a child, let al< w an envious comrade who wants to put you out of his way and who is no bad shot, confound him! Here, take a pull out of thi.-." producing a silver fla9k. 'But, first, shall I ring for your \alet and order breakfast V ' No, no, There would not be t'me, and I could not eat. Let us begone,'

The Vicomte loiked at him with a good deal of concern. His face was ghastly pale, his brown locks tossed on his forehead, his very dress was disordered, and he was so restless and impatient that De Lavelaye augured the worst from such symptoms. Wrapping their cloaks about them, they boon gained the Bo^s de Boulogne, and hastening to an unfrequented spot beyond the Aro^ de Triomphe they arrived upon the ground just as several dupky forms emerged from the trees on either hand. la a few minutes the preliminaries were arranged, and the two antagonists were placed opposite each other. Several of their brother ollicers were presem <tnd a suigcuii. Tbcsc gathered in a group at one side, whilst the two seconds eagerly and rapidly settled the lmal points ; the principals standing motionless and silent as htatues, in all the plenitude of youthful life and vigor, each ready at a word or signal to send the other into Eternity. Thus tor a whim, a potty triumph, a woman's smile, men will meet Uejth withoir, recku.g what is beyond. Faintly the day broke over the sleeping city. Paris, the capital of the world, where the two forces of Good and Evil are ranged in eternal conflict, was still in that deatL-like slumber which precedes the dawn — when the latt reveller had staggered home, when even the watch* rs by the hick bed dozed and dreamed, and the sorrowstri- ken closed their eyes wearily as the night waned and a new day brought no gladness to them. There, under the shadow of the trees, as the bltssed light of Heaven broke o\or the land, those two faced each other. The last formality was gone through, the last word waa spoken. The attending group stood silent. The signal was given, both fired together, De Bois Hamon's cheek was grazel by a bullet, but his opponent fell, shot through the heart. They bent over him ; they felt his heart. Yes ; he was dead. He would never more use sword or pistol. He was gone to the dread account, while his slayer stood silently by, enduring his own thoughts, perhaps as much dead to the hopes and joys of this life as his unhappy victim. * * • Two hours after this Heine was summoned to a small room on the entresol, where her lover awaited her. He had refused to enter the salon. Even in that moment, when the expression of his eyes startled and froze her, she could notice that he was dressed in mufti and it struck her as strange and alarming. ' Well,' she exclaimed, eagerly, ' is it over ? ' 'It is over,' he replied. ' I have shot Cochon.' ' Mon Dieu !' she turned pale. 'Is he is he ? ' ' Yes, he is dead. I hope you are satisfied ? You have made me kill a man. What an achievement for a dainty lady ! But there is something else you have killed besides Cochon. Shall I tell you ? ' ' 0 Albert, what is the meaning of this? Why do you speak thus .' lam so sorry the meeting was fatal. But — why are you not in regimentals at this hour .' ' ' Because I am no longer in the army,' he replied, almoßt fiercely. ' I have sent in my resignation to the chiefs. lam a free man, as far as those tyrants are concerned, with only the burden of an ineffaceable sin on my soul, aud a little business to transact before I disappear from your world. I have come to farewell.' 'To say farewell,' she murmured, brokenly. ' Yes. I have shot Cochon and I have thrown up my commission. If that is not ruin enough for your taate, why you have come to take back your promise — in fact, that is what I expect. Of course," he added, in bitter irony, ' you could not think of marrying me now.' She had no word-, at command. She could only shrink into herself, gazing at him with fright and bewilderment. 1 Don't trouble to pause and answer, or to find an excuse,' he went oi» vehemently. ' I release you from your promise. 1 no longer wish that you should keep it. I have gone through hell in one night, but the worct torment was that you should turn demon to make a murderer of me. Yes, a murderer. Don't affect any feminine terrors, for you are no true woman — very fair, to be sure ; exceedingly bweet and gracious when yon are gaining your point, but you have the heart of a fury in that fair form. Keep it for some of the swashbucklers yonder — your accomplices. I'll have none of it. You have killed my love with Cochon ; you have ruined me body and soul : but, bad as I am, black as my conscience is at this moment, 1 would not touch that hand — it is stained. Off, temptress as sho held out her hands towards him, her face streaming, her eyes full of an imploring anguish. ' Try no more of your arts on me We part now and for ever.' 'O no, no! <) Albert, stay — hear me! One word only! JJrontc mm Albert, -he wailed ; but he flung her off and rushed from the room, his last look one of scorn and detestation. Then she sank down and lay there in a heap, without form or motion, and it whs thus her father found her. What passed between them in that huur caused a breach which time was slow to heal. She never saw De Bois Hamon again. » * * Years parsed. Shutting herself in from the curiosity of the world, she would not speak of him. She would answer no questions, receive no sympathy ; but entrenched in her pride and her s>rrow — if it was sorrow — she went through life mechanically, outwardly calm, tearle-s, with a dull, dead pain at her heart, straining under the burden of remorse which was not repentance, which weighed upon her spirits without softening or changing her nature. i'r.<m a proud, stately, blooming girl, she changed into the proud, hard, unhappy woman, ami to might have gone to her grave were it not that at the end of 12 years she heard news of De Bois Hamon. One day the Vicomte de Lavelaye sought her presence and, almoot in spite of herself, mfoimed her that he had seen and spoken with him. He had been taking some friends through the great Cistercian Monastery, near S , when he recognised his old friend in the Brother who was guiding- them through it. Of course, be

contrived to have a conversation, the monk first obtaining leave to speak to him. ' There, hidden from the world, he is working out his heroic penance for what he calls his crime.' said De Lavelaye. 1 He told me that for Jong he wandered about aimlessly, harassed by remorse and self-hatred, until a happy thought led him to Rome, w'^ere he threw himßelf at the feet of the Holy Father, who treated mm with the most paternal kindness, and committed him to Monsignor (afterwards Cardinal J ), to whom he made his confession, and after some time he entered the monastery, possessed by the desire to do penance. He is now one ot its happiest and holiest inmates. It was not from him I heard the last particular, but from the Father Abbot, who told me that he is regarded almost with veneration by all in the monastery. Indeed, I couid see by his expression that he enjoys a peace and contentment which few of us know in the Army, anyhow. ParbJeu,' added the Vicomte, with a laugh, ' he would almost tempt me to follow his example.' Seeing how moved she was, he added little more, and departed, leaving her to her thoughts ; but he was able to see that the prevailing emotion was one of intense relief. Those blessed tears had an effeot that was almost miraoulous, bringing about a change in her whole manner and life which her father welcomed with gratitude, though its ruling motive was one which he rather neglected himself — that is to say, Religion. Nowhere in the world, perhaps, is charity better understood and practised than in gay, wordly Paris. The greatest ladies, the leaders of fashion, delight to lay aside their silken robes and diamonds and pass hours in the desolate homes of the poor, to which they bringmany comfort^and, aboveall, cheering wordsof consolation and sympathy, gaining for themselves in return priceless gifts of grace and wisdom. There is no more certain means of happiness than in trying to soothe and cheer the unhappiness of others — our poorer brethern. Amongst thes-e noble Samaritans Reine de Morinoourt began to mingle, and was soon one of the most earnest and the most indefatigable, penetrating even into the Faubourg Saint Antoine, the haunt of the most terrible Reds, who, with all their lawlessness, have nothing but respect and politeness for these ministering angels — and in that fertile field she is still working. — Catholic Herald.