SCARAMOUCHE
Book I - The Robe
CHAPTER IV
The Heritage
It was M. de Vilmorin's desire that the matter should be settled out of hand.
In this he was at once objective and subjective. A prey to emotions sadly at
conflict with his priestly vocation, he was above all in haste to have done, so
that he might resume a frame of mind more proper to it. Also he feared himself a
little; by which I mean that his honour feared his nature. The circumstances of
his education, and the goal that for some years now he had kept in view, had
robbed him of much of that spirited brutality that is the birthright of the
male. He had grown timid and gentle as a woman. Aware of it, he feared that once
the heat of his passion was spent he might betray a dishonouring weakness, in
the ordeal.
M. le Marquis, on his side, was no less eager for an immediate settlement;
and since they had M. de Chabrillane to act for his cousin, and Andre-Louis to
serve as witness for M. de Vilmorin, there was nothing to delay them.
And so, within a few minutes, all arrangements were concluded, and you behold
that sinisterly intentioned little group of four assembled in the afternoon
sunshine on the bowling-green behind the inn. They were entirely private,
screened more or less from the windows of the house by a ramage of trees, which,
if leafless now, was at least dense enough to provide an effective lattice.
There were no formalities over measurements of blades or selection of ground.
M. le Marquis removed his sword-belt and scabbard, but declined not considering
it worth while for the sake of so negligible an opponent -- to divest himself
either of his shoes or his coat. Tall, lithe, and athletic, he stood to face the
no less tall, but very delicate and frail, M. de Vilmorin. The latter also
disdained to make any of the usual preparations. Since he recognized that it
could avail him nothing to strip, he came on guard fully dressed, two hectic
spots above the cheek-bones burning on his otherwise grey face.
M. de Chabrillane, leaning upon a cane -- for he had relinquished his sword
to M. de Vilmorin -- looked on with quiet interest. Facing him on the other side
of the combatants stood Andre-Louis, the palest of the four, staring from
fevered eyes, twisting and untwisting clammy hands.
His every instinct was to fling himself between the antagonists, to protest
against and frustrate this meeting. That sane impulse was curbed, however, by
the consciousness of its futility. To calm him, he clung to the conviction that
the issue could not really be very serious. If the obligations of Philippe's
honour compelled him to cross swords with the man he had struck, M. de La Tour
d'Azyr's birth compelled him no less to do no serious hurt to the unfledged lad
he had so grievously provoked. M. le Marquis, after all, was a man of honour. He
could intend no more than to administer a lesson; sharp, perhaps, but one by
which his opponent must live to profit. Andre-Louis clung obstinately to that
for comfort.
Steel beat on steel, and the men engaged. The Marquis presented to his
opponent the narrow edge of his upright body, his knees slightly flexed and
converted into living springs, whilst M. de Vilmorin stood squarely, a full
target, his knees wooden. Honour and the spirit of fair play alike cried out
against such a match.
The encounter was very short, of course. In youth, Philippe had received the
tutoring in sword-play that was given to every boy born into his station of
life. And so he knew at least the rudiments of what was now expected of him. But
what could rudiments avail him here? Three disengages completed the exchanges,
and then without any haste the Marquis slid his right foot along the moist turf,
his long, graceful body extending itself in a lunge that went under M. de
Vilmorin's clumsy guard, and with the utmost deliberation he drove his blade
through the young man's vitals.
Andre-Louis sprang forward just in time to catch his friend's body under the
armpits as it sank. Then, his own legs bending beneath the weight of it, he went
down with his burden until he was kneeling on the damp turf. Philippe's limp
head lay against Andre-Louis' left shoulder; Philippe's relaxed arms trailed at
his sides; the blood welled and bubbled from the ghastly wound to saturate the
poor lad's garments.
With white face and twitching lips, Andre-Louis looked up at M. de La Tour
d'Azyr, who stood surveying his work with a countenance of grave but remorseless
interest.
"You have killed him!" cried Andre-Louis.
"Of course."
The Marquis ran a lace handkerchief along his blade to wipe it. As he let the
dainty fabric fall, he explained himself. "He had, as I told him, a too
dangerous gift of eloquence."
And he turned away, leaving completest understanding with Andre-Louis. Still
supporting the limp, draining body, the young man called to him.
"Come back, you cowardly murderer, and make yourself quite safe by killing me
too!"
The Marquis half turned, his face dark with anger. Then M. de Chabrillane set
a restraining hand upon his arm. Although a party throughout to the deed, the
Chevalier was a little appalled now that it was done. He had not the high
stomach of M. de La Tour d'Azyr, and he was a good deal younger.
"Come away," he said. "The lad is raving. They were friends."
"You heard what he said?" quoth the Marquis.
"Nor can he, or you, or any man deny it," flung back Andre-Louis. "Yourself,
monsieur, you made confession when you gave me now the reason why you killed
him. You did it because you feared him."
"If that were true -- what, then?" asked the great gentleman.
"Do you ask? Do you understand of life and humanity nothing but how to wear a
coat and dress your hair -- oh, yes, and to handle weapons against boys and
priests? Have you no mind to think, no soul into which you can turn its vision?
Must you be told that it is a coward's part to kill the thing he fears, and
doubly a coward's part to kill in this way? Had you stabbed him in the back with
a knife, you would have shown the courage of your vileness. It would have been a
vileness undisguised. But you feared the consequences of that, powerful as you
are; and so you shelter your cowardice under the pretext of a duel."
The Marquis shook off his cousin's hand, and took a step forward, holding now
his sword like a whip. But again the Chevalier caught and held him.
"No, no, Gervais! Let be, in God's name!"
"Let him come, monsieur," raved Andre-Louis, his voice thick and
concentrated. "Let him complete his coward's work on me, and thus make himself
safe from a coward's wages."
M. de Chabrillane let his cousin go. He came white to the lips, his eyes
glaring at the lad who so recklessly insulted him. And then he checked. It may
be that he remembered suddenly the relationship in which this young man was
popularly believed to stand to the Seigneur de Gavrillac, and the well-known
affection in which the Seigneur held him. And so he may have realized that if he
pushed this matter further, he might find himself upon the horns of a dilemma.
He would be confronted with the alternatives of shedding more blood, and so
embroiling himself with the Lord of Gavrillac at a time when that gentleman's
friendship was of the first importance to him, or else of withdrawing with such
hurt to his dignity as must impair his authority in the countryside hereafter.
Be it so or otherwise, the fact remains that he stopped short; then, with an
incoherent ejaculation, between anger and contempt, he tossed his arms, turned
on his heel and strode off quickly with his cousin.
When the landlord and his people came, they found Andre-Louis, his arms about
the body of his dead friend, murmuring passionately into the deaf ear that
rested almost against his lips:
"Philippe! Speak to me, Philippe! Philippe... Don't you hear me? 0 God of
Heaven! Philippe!"
At a glance they saw that here neither priest nor doctor could avail. The
cheek that lay against Andre-Louis's was leaden-hued, the half-open eyes were
glazed, and there was a little froth of blood upon the vacuously parted lips.
Half blinded by tears Andre-Louis stumbled after them when they bore the body
into the inn. Upstairs in the little room to which they conveyed it, he knelt by
the bed, and holding the dead man's hand in both his own, he swore to him out of
his impotent rage that M. de La Tour d'Azyr should pay a bitter price for this.
"It was your eloquence he feared, Philippe," he said. Then if I can get no
justice for this deed, at least it shall be fruitless to him. The thing he
feared in you, he shall fear in me. He feared that men might be swayed by your
eloquence to the undoing of such things as himself. Men shall be swayed by it
still. For your eloquence and your arguments shall be my heritage from you. I
will make them my own. It matters nothing that I do not believe in your gospel
of freedom. I know it -- every word of it; that is all that matters to our
purpose, yours and mine. If all else fails, your thoughts shall find expression
in my living tongue. Thus at least we shall have frustrated his vile aim to
still the voice he feared. It shall profit him nothing to have your blood upon
his soul. That voice in you would never half so relentlessly have hounded him
and his as it shall in me -- if all else fails."
It was an exulting thought. It calmed him; it soothed his grief, and he began
very softly to pray. And then his heart trembled as he considered that Philippe,
a man of peace, almost a priest, an apostle of Christianity, had gone to his
Maker with the sin of anger on his soul. It was horrible. Yet God would see the
righteousness of that anger. And in no case -- be man's interpretation of
Divinity what it might -- could that one sin outweigh the loving good that
Philippe had ever practised, the noble purity of his great heart. God after all,
reflected Andre-Louis, was not a grand-seigneur.
M. de Kercadiou stared at him blankly out of his pale