Александр Дюма
The Companions of Jehu
CHAPTER III. THE ENGLISHMAN
Roland remained motionless, not only as long as he could see the carriage, but long after it had disappeared. Then, shaking his head as if to dispel the cloud which darkened his brow, he re-entered the inn and asked for a room.
“Show the gentleman to number three,” said the landlord to a chambermaid.
The chambermaid took a key hanging from a large black wooden tablet on which were arranged the numbers in white in two rows, and signed to the young traveller to follow her.
“Send up some paper, and a pen and ink,” Roland said to the landlord, “and if M. de Barjols should ask where I am tell him the number of my room.”
The landlord promised to obey Roland’s injunctions and the latter followed the girl upstairs whistling the Marseillaise. Five minutes later he was seated at a table with the desired paper, pen and ink before him preparing to write. But just as he was beginning the first line some one knocked, three times at the door.
“Come in,” said he, twirling his chair on one of its hind legs so as to face his visitor, whom he supposed to be either, M. de Barjols or one of his friends.
The door opened with a steady mechanical motion and the Englishman appeared upon the threshold.
“Ah!” exclaimed Roland, enchanted with this visit, in view of his general’s recommendation; “is it you?”
“Yes,” said the Englishman, “it is I.”
“You are welcome.”
“Oh! if I am welcome, so much the better! I was not sure that I ought to come.”
“Why not?”
“On account of Aboukir.”
Roland began to laugh.
“There are two battles of Aboukir,” said he; “one which we lost; the other we won.”
“I referred to the one you lost.”
“Good!” said Roland, “we fight, kill, and exterminate each other on the battlefield, but that does not prevent us from clasping hands on neutral ground. So I repeat, you are most welcome, especially if you will tell me why you have come.”
“Thank you; but, in the first place, read that.” And the Englishman drew a paper from his pocket.
“What is that?” asked Roland.
“My passport.”
“What have I to do with your passport?” asked Roland, “I am not a gendarme.”
“No, but I have come to offer you my services. Perhaps you will not accept them if you do not know who I am.”
“Your services, sir?”
“Yes; but read that first.”
Roland read:
In the name of the French Republic – The Executive Directory hereby orders that Sir John Tanlay, Esq., be permitted to travel freely throughout the territory of the Republic, and that both assistance and protection be accorded him in case of need.
(Signed) FOUCHÉ.
And below:
To whom it may concern – I recommend Sir John Tanlay particularly as a philanthropist and a friend of liberty.
(Signed) BARRAS.
“Have you read it?”
“Yes; what of it?”
“What of it? Well, my father, Lord Tanlay, rendered M. Barras some services; that is why M. Barras permits me to roam about France. And I am very glad to roam about; it amuses me very much.”
“Oh, I remember, Sir John; you did us the honor to say so at dinner.”
“I did say so, it is true; I also said that I liked the French people heartily.”
Roland bowed.
“And above all General Bonaparte,” continued Sir John.
“You like General Bonaparte very much?”
“I admire him; he is a great, a very great, man.”
“By Heavens! Sir John, I am sorry he is not here to hear an Englishman say that of him.”
“Oh! if he were here I should not say it.”
“Why not?”
“I should not want him to think I was trying to please him. I say so because it is my opinion.”
“I don’t doubt it, my lord,” said Roland, who did not see what the Englishman was aiming at, and who, having learned all that he wished to know through the passport, held himself upon his guard.
“And when I heard,” continued the Englishman with the same phlegm, “you defend General Bonaparte, I was much pleased.”
“Really?”
“Much pleased,” repeated the Englishman, nodding his head affirmatively.
“So much the better!”
“But when I saw you throw a plate at M. Alfred de Barjols’ head, I was much grieved.”
“You were grieved, my lord, and why?”
“Because in England no gentleman would throw a plate at the head of another gentleman.”
“My lord,” said Roland, rising with a frown, “have you perchance come here to read me a lecture?”
“Oh, no; I came to suggest that you are perhaps perplexed about finding a second?”
“My faith, Sir John! I admit that the moment when you knocked at the door I was wondering of whom I could ask this service.”
“Of me, if you wish,” said the Englishman. “I will be your second.”
“On my honor!” exclaimed Roland, “I accept with all my heart.”
“That is the service I wished to render you!”
Roland held out his hand, saying: “Thank you!”
The Englishman bowed.
“Now,” continued Roland, “as you have had the good taste, my lord, to tell me who you were before offering your services, it is but fair that, since I accept them, I should tell you who I am.”
“Oh! as you please.”
“My name is Louis de Montrevel; I am aide-de-camp to General Bonaparte.”
“Aide-de-camp to General Bonaparte. I am very glad.”
“That will explain why I undertook, rather too warmly perhaps, my general’s defence.”
“No, not too warmly; only, the plate – ”
“Oh, I know well that the provocation did not entail that plate. But what would you have me do! I held it in my hand, and, not knowing what to do with it, I threw it at M. de Barjols’ head; it went of itself without any will of mine.”
“You will not say that to him?”
“Reassure yourself; I tell you to salve your conscience.”
“Very well; then you will fight?”
“That is why I have remained here, at any rate.”
“What weapons?”
“That is not our affair, my lord.”
“What! not our affair?”
“No; M. de Barjols is the one insulted; the choice is his.”
“Then you will accept whatever he proposes?”
“Not I, Sir John, but you in my name, since you do me the honor to act as my second.”
“And if he selects pistols, what is the distance to be and how will you fight?”
“That is your affair, my lord, and not mine. I don’t know how you do in England, but in France the principals take no part in the arrangements. That duty devolves upon the seconds; what they decide is well decided!”
“Then my arrangements will be satisfactory?”
“Perfectly so, my lord.”
The Englishman bowed.
“What hour and what day?”
“Oh! as soon as possible; I have not seen my family for two years, and I confess that I am in a hurry to greet them.”
The Englishman looked at Roland with a certain wonder; he spoke with such assurance, as if he were certain that he would not be killed. Just then some one knocked at the door, and the voice of the innkeeper asked: “May I come in?”
The young man replied affirmatively. The door opened and the landlord entered, holding a card in his hand which he handed his guest. The young man took the card and read: “Charles du Valensolle.”
“From M. Alfred de Barjols,” said the host.
“Very well!” exclaimed Roland. Then handing the card to the Englishman, he said: “Here, this concerns you; it is unnecessary for me to see this monsieur – since we are no longer citizens – M. de Valensolle is M. de Barjols’ second; you are mine. Arrange this affair between you. Only,” added the young man, pressing the Englishman’s hand and looking fixedly at him, “see that it holds a chance of certain death for one of us. Otherwise I shall complain that it has been bungled.”
“Don’t worry,” said the Englishman, “I will act for you as for myself.”
“Excellent! Go now, and when everything is arranged come back. I shall not stir from here.”
Sir John followed the innkeeper. Roland reseated himself, twirled his chair back to its former position facing the table, took up his pen and began to write.
When Sir John returned, Roland had written and sealed two letters and was addressing a third. He signed to the Englishman to wait until he had finished, that he might give him his full attention. Then, the address finished, he sealed the letter, and turned around.
“Well,” he asked, “is everything arranged?”
“Yes,” said the Englishman, “it was an easy matter. You are dealing with a true gentleman.”
“So much the better!” exclaimed Roland, waiting.
“You will fight two hours hence by the fountain of Vaucluse – a charming spot – with pistols, advancing to each other, each to fire as he pleases and continuing to advance after his adversary’s fire.”
“By my faith! you are right, Sir John. That is, indeed, excellent. Did you arrange that?”
“I and M. de Barjols’ second, your adversary having renounced his rights of the insulted party.”
“Have you decided upon the weapons?”
“I offered my pistols. They were accepted on my word of honor that you were as unfamiliar with them as was M. de Barjols. They are excellent weapons. I can cut a bullet on a knife blade at twenty paces.”
“Peste! You are a good shot, it would seem, my lord.”
“Yes, I am said to be the best shot in England.”
“That is a good thing to know. When I wish to be killed, Sir John, I’ll pick a quarrel with you.”
“Oh! don’t pick a quarrel with me,” said the Englishman, “it would grieve me too much to have to fight you.”
“We will try, my lord, not to cause you such grief. So it is settled then, in two hours.”
“Yes, you told me you were in a hurry.”
“Precisely. How far is it to this charming spot?”
“From here to Vaucluse?”
“Yes.”
“Twelve miles.”
“A matter of an hour and a half. We have no time to lose, so let us rid ourselves of troublesome things in order to have nothing but pleasure before us.”
The Englishman looked at the young man in astonishment. Roland did not seem to pay any attention to this look.
“Here are three letters,” said he; “one for Madame de Montrevel, my mother; one for Mlle. de Montrevel, my sister; one for the citizen, Bonaparte, my general. If I am killed you will simply put them in the post. Will that be too much trouble?”
“Should that misfortune occur, I will deliver your letters myself,” said the Englishman. “Where do your mother and sister live?”
“At Bourg, the capital of the Department of Ain.”
“That is near here,” observed the Englishman. “As for General Bonaparte, I will go to Egypt if necessary. I should be extremely pleased to meet General Bonaparte.”
“If you take the trouble, as you say, my lord, of delivering my letters yourself, you will not have to travel such a distance. Within three days General Bonaparte will be in Paris.”
“Oh!” said the Englishman, without betraying the least surprise, “do you think so?”
“I am sure of it,” replied Roland.
“Truly, he is a very extraordinary man, your General Bonaparte. Now, have you any other recommendations to make to me, M. de Montrevel?”
“One only, my lord.”
“Oh! as many as you please.”
“No, thank you, one only, but that is very important.”
“What is it?”
“If I am killed – but I doubt if I be so fortunate.”
Sir John looked at Roland with that expression of wonder which he had already awakened three or four times.
“If I am killed,” resumed Roland; “for after all one must be prepared for everything – ”
“Yes, if you are killed, I understand.”
“Listen well, my lord, for I place much stress on my directions being carried out exactly in this matter.”
“Every detail shall be observed,” replied Sir John, “I am very punctilious.”
“Well, then, if I am killed,” insisted Roland, laying his hand upon his second’s shoulder, to impress his directions more firmly on his memory, “you must not permit any one to touch my body, which is to be placed in a leaden coffin without removing the garments I am wearing; the coffin you will have soldered in your presence, then inclosed in an oaken bier, which must also be nailed up in your presence. Then you will send it to my mother, unless you should prefer to throw it into the Rhone, which I leave absolutely to your discretion, provided only that it be disposed of in some way.”
“It will be no more difficult,” replied the Englishman, “to take the coffin, since I am to deliver your letter.”
“Decidedly, my lord,” said Roland, laughing in his strange way. “You are a capital fellow. Providence in person brought us together. Let us start, my lord, let us start!”
They left Roland’s room; Sir John’s chamber was on the same floor. Roland waited while the Englishman went in for his weapons. He returned a few seconds later, carrying the box in his hand.
“Now, my lord,” asked Roland, “how shall we reach Vaucluse? On horseback or by carriage?”
“By carriage, if you are willing. It is much more convenient in case one is wounded. Mine is waiting below.”
“I thought you had given the order to have it unharnessed?”
“I did, but I sent for the postilion afterward and countermanded it.”
They went downstairs.
“Tom! Tom!” called Sir John at the door, where a servant, in the severe livery of an English groom, was waiting, “take care of this box.”
“Am I going with you, my lord?” asked the servant.
“Yes!” replied Sir John.
Then showing Roland the steps of his carriage, which the servant lowered, he said:
“Come, M. de Montrevel.”
Roland entered the carriage and stretched himself out luxuriously.
“Upon my word!” said he. “It takes you English to understand travelling. This carriage is as comfortable as a bed. I warrant you pad your coffins before you are put in them!”
“Yes, that is a fact,” said Sir John, “the English people understand comfort, but the French people are much more curious and amusing – postilion, to Vaucluse!”
CHAPTER IV. THE DUEL
The road was passable only from Avignon to l’Isle. They covered the nine miles between the two places in an hour. During this hour Roland, as he resolved to shorten the time for his travelling companion, was witty and animated, and their approach to the duelling ground only served to redouble his gayety. To one unacquainted with the object of this drive, the menace of dire peril impending over this young man, with his continuous flow of conversation and incessant laughter, would have seemed incredible.
At the village of l’Isle they were obliged to leave the carriage. Finding on inquiry that they were the first to arrive, they entered the path which led to the fountain.
“Oh! oh!” exclaimed Roland, “there ought to be a fine echo here.” And he gave one or two cries to which Echo replied with perfect amiability.
“By my faith!” said the young man, “this is a marvellous echo. I know none save that of the Seinonnetta, at Milan, which can compare with it. Listen, my lord.”
And he began, with modulations which revealed an admirable voice and an excellent method, to sing a Tyrolean song which seemed to bid defiance to the human throat with its rebellious music. Sir John watched Roland, and listened to him with an astonishment which he no longer took the trouble to conceal. When the last note had died away among the cavities of the mountain, he exclaimed:
“God bless me! but I think your liver is out of order.”
Roland started and looked at him interrogatively. But seeing that Sir John did not intend to say more, he asked:
“Good! What makes you think so?”
“You are too noisily gay not to be profoundly melancholy.”
“And that anomaly astonishes you?”
“Nothing astonishes me, because I know that it has always its reason for existing.”
“True, and it’s all in knowing the secret. Well, I’m going to enlighten you.”
“Oh! I don’t want to force you.”
“You’re too polite to do that; still, you must admit you would be glad to have your mind set at rest about me.”
“Because I’m interested in you.”
“Well, Sir John, I am going to tell you the secret of the enigma, something I have never done with any one before. For all my seeming good health, I am suffering from a horrible aneurism that causes me spasms of weakness and faintness so frequent as to shame even a woman. I spend my life taking the most ridiculous precautions, and yet Larrey warns me that I am liable to die any moment, as the diseased artery in my breast may burst at the least exertion. Judge for yourself how pleasant for a soldier! You can understand that, once I understood my condition, I determined incontinently to die with all the glory possible. Another more fortunate than I would have succeeded a hundred times already. But I’m bewitched; I am impervious alike to bullets and balls; even the swords seem to fear to shatter themselves upon my skin. Yet I never miss an opportunity; that you must see, after what occurred at dinner. Well, we are going to fight. I’ll expose myself like a maniac, giving my adversary all the advantages, but it will avail me nothing. Though he shoot at fifteen paces, or even ten or five, at his very pistol’s point, he will miss me, or his pistol will miss fire. And all this wonderful luck that some fine day when I least expect it, I may die pulling on my boots! But hush I here comes my adversary.”
As he spoke the upper half of three people could be seen ascending the same rough and rocky path that Roland and Sir John had followed, growing larger as they approached. Roland counted them.
“Three!” he exclaimed. “Why three, when we are only two?”
“Ah! I had forgotten,” replied the Englishman. “M. de Barjols, as much in your interest as in his own, asked permission to bring a surgeon, one of his friends.”
“What for?” harshly demanded Roland, frowning.
“Why, in case either one of you was wounded. A man’s life can often be saved by bleeding him promptly.”
“Sir John,” exclaimed Roland, ferociously, “I don’t understand these delicacies in the matter of a duel. When men fight they fight to kill. That they exchange all sorts of courtesies beforehand, as your ancestors did at Fontenoy, is all right; but, once the swords are unsheathed or the pistols loaded, one life must pay for the trouble they have taken and the heart beats they have lost. I ask you, on your word of honor, Sir John, to promise that, wounded or dying, M. de Barjols’ surgeon shall not be allowed to touch me.”
“But suppose, M. Roland – ”
“Take it or leave it. Your word of honor, my lord, or devil take me if I fight at all.”
The Englishman again looked curiously at the young man. His face was livid, and his limbs quivered as though in extreme terror. Sir John, without understanding this strange dread, passed his word.
“Good!” exclaimed Roland. “This, you see, is one of the effects of my charming malady. The mere thought of surgical instruments, a bistoury or a lance, makes me dizzy. Didn’t I grow very pale?”
“I did think for an instant you were going to faint.”
“What a stunning climax!” exclaimed Roland with a laugh. “Our adversaries arrive and you are dosing me with smelling salts like a hysterical woman. Do you know what they, and you, first of all, would have said? That I was afraid.”
Meantime, the three new-comers having approached within earshot, Sir John was unable to answer Roland. They bowed, and Roland, with a smile that revealed his beautiful teeth, returned their greeting. Sir John whispered in his ear:
“You are still a trifle pale. Go on toward the fountain; I will fetch you when we are ready.”
“Ah! that’s the idea,” said Roland. “I have always wanted to see that famous fountain of Vaucluse, the Hippocrene of Petrarch. You know his sonnet?
“‘Chiari, fresche e dolci acque
Ove le belle membra
Pose colei, che sola a me perdona.’
This opportunity lost, I may never have another. Where is your fountain?”
“Not a hundred feet off. Follow the path; you’ll find it at the turn of the road, at the foot of that enormous bowlder you see.”
“My lord,” said Roland, “you are the best guide I know; thanks!”
And, with a friendly wave of the hand, he went off in the direction of the fountain, humming the charming pastoral of Philippe Desportes beneath his breath:
“‘Rosette, a little absence
Has turned thine heart from me;
I, knowing that inconstance,
Have turned my heart from thee.
No wayward beauty o’er me
Such power shall obtain;
We’ll see, my fickle lassie,
Who first will turn again.’”
Sir John turned as he heard the modulations of that fresh sweet voice, whose higher notes had something at a feminine quality. His cold methodical mind understood nothing of that nervous impulsive nature, save that he had under his eyes one of the most amazing organisms one could possibly meet.
The other two young men were waiting for him; the surgeon stood a little apart. Sir John carried his box of pistols in his hands. Laying it upon a table-shaped rock, he drew a little key from his pocket, apparently fashioned by a goldsmith rather than a locksmith, and opened the box. The weapons were magnificent, although of great simplicity. They came from Manton’s workshop, the grandfather of the man who is still considered one of the best gunsmiths in London. He handed them to M. de Barjols’ second to examine. The latter tried the triggers and played with the lock, examining to see if they were double-barrelled. They were single-barrelled. M. de Barjols cast a glance at them but did not even touch them.
“Our opponent does not know these weapons?” queried M. Valensolle.
“He has not even seen them,” replied Sir John, “I give you my word of honor.”
“Oh!” exclaimed M. de Valensolle, “a simple denial suffices.”
The conditions of the duel were gone over a second time to avoid possible misunderstanding. Then, these conditions determined, the pistols were loaded. They were then placed, loaded, in the box, the box left in the surgeon’s charge, and Sir John, with the key in his pocket, went after Roland.
He found him chatting with a little shepherd boy who was herding three goats on the steep rocky slope of the mountain, and throwing pebbles into the fountain. Sir John opened his lips to tell Roland that all was ready; but the latter, without giving the Englishman time to speak, exclaimed:
“You don’t know what this child has been telling me, my lord! A perfect legend of the Rhine. He says that this pool, whose depth is unknown, extends six or eight miles under the mountain, and a fairy, half woman half serpent, dwells here. Calm summer nights she glides over the surface of water calling to the shepherds of the mountains, showing them, of course, nothing more than her head with its long locks and her beautiful bare shoulders and arms. The fools, caught by this semblance of a woman, draw nearer, beckoning to her to come to them, while she on her side signs to them to go to her. The unwary spirits advance unwittingly, giving no heed to their steps. Suddenly the earth fails them, the fairy reaches out her arms, and plunges down into her dripping palaces, to reappear the next day alone. Where the devil did these idiots of shepherds get the tale that Virgil related in such noble verse to Augustus and Mecænas?”
He remained pensive an instant, his eyes bent upon the azure depths, then turning to Sir John:
“They say that, no matter how vigorous the swimmer, none has ever returned from this abyss. Perhaps were I to try it, my lord, it might be surer than M. de Barjols’ bullet. However, it always remains as a last resort; in the meantime let us try the bullet. Come, my lord, come.”
Then turning to the Englishman, who listened, amazed by this mobility of mind, he led him back to the others who awaited them. They in the meantime had found a suitable place.
It was a little plateau, perched as it were on a rocky proclivity, jutting from the mountain side, exposed to the setting sun, on which stood a ruined castle where the shepherds were wont to seek shelter when the mistral overtook them. A flat space, some hundred and fifty feet long, and sixty wide, which might once have been the castle platform, was now to be the scene of the drama which was fast approaching its close.
“Here we are, gentlemen,” said Sir John.
“We are ready, gentlemen,” replied M. de Valensolle.
“Will the principals kindly listen to the conditions of the duel?” said Sir John. Then addressing M. de Valensolle, he added: “Repeat them, monsieur; you are French and I am a foreigner, you will explain them more clearly than I.”
“You belong to those foreigners, my lord, who teach us poor Provençals the purity of our language; but since you so courteously make me spokesman, I obey you.” Then exchanging bows with Sir John, he continued: “Gentlemen, it is agreed that you stand at forty paces, that you advance toward each other, that each will fire at will, and wounded or not will have the right to advance after your adversary’s fire.”
The two combatants bowed in sign of assent, and with one voice, and almost at the same moment, they said:
“The pistols!”
Sir John drew the little key from his pocket and opened the box. Then approaching M. de Barjols he offered it to him open. The latter wished to yield the choice of weapons to his opponent; but with a wave of his hand Roland refused, saying in a tone almost feminine in its sweetness:
“After you, M. de Barjols. Although you are the insulted party, you have, I am told, renounced your advantages. The least I can do is to yield you this one, if for that matter it is an advantage.”
M. de Barjols no longer insisted. He took one of the two pistols at random. Sir John offered the other to Roland, who took it, and, without even examining its mechanism, cocked the trigger, then let it fall at arm’s-length at his side.
During this time M. de Valensolle had measured forty paces, staking a cane as a point of departure.
“Will you measure after me?” he asked Sir John.
“Needless, sir,” replied the latter: “M. de Montrevel and myself rely entirely upon you.”
M. de Valensolle staked a second cane at the fortieth pace.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “when you are ready.”
Roland’s adversary was already at his post, hat and cloak removed. The surgeon and the two seconds stood aside. The spot had been so well chosen that neither had any advantage of sun or ground. Roland tossed off hat and coat, stationed himself forty paces from M. de Barjols, facing him. Both, one to right the other to the left, cast a glance at the same horizon. The aspect harmonized with the terrible solemnity of the scene about to take place.
Nothing was visible to Roland’s right and to M. de Barjols’ left, except the mountain’s swift incline and gigantic peak. But on the other side, that is to say, to M. de Barjols’ right and Roland’s left, it was a far different thing.
The horizon stretched illimitable. In the foreground, the plain, its ruddy soil pierced on all sides by rocks, like a Titan graveyard with its bones protruding through the earth. Then, sharply outlined in the setting sun, was Avignon with its girdle of walls and its vast palace, like a crouching lion, seeming to hold the panting city in its claws. Beyond Avignon, a luminous sweep, like a river of molten gold, defined the Rhone. Beyond the Rhone, a deep-hued azure vista, stretched the chain of hills which separate Avignon from Nimes and d’Uzes. And far off, the sun, at which one of these two men was probably looking for the last time, sank slowly and majestically in an ocean of gold and purple.
For the rest these two men presented a singular contrast. One, with his black hair, swarthy skin, slender limbs and sombre eyes, was the type of the Southern race which counts among its ancestors Greeks, Romans, Arabs and Spaniards. The other, with his rosy skin, large blue eyes, and hands dimpled like a woman’s, was the type of that race of temperate zones which reckons Gauls, Germans and Normans among its forebears.
Had one wished to magnify the situation it were easy to believe this something greater than single combat between two men. One might have thought it was a duel of a people against another people, race against race, the South against the North.
Was it these thoughts which we have just expressed that filled Roland’s mind and plunged him into that melancholy revery.
Probably not; the fact is, for an instant he seemed to have forgotten seconds, duel, adversary, lost as he was in contemplation of this magnificent spectacle. M. de Barjols’ voice aroused him from this poetical stupor.
“When you are ready, sir,” said he, “I am.”
Roland started.
“Pardon my keeping you waiting, sir,” said he. “You should not have considered me, I am so absent-minded. I am ready now.”
Then, a smile on his lips, his hair lifted by the evening breeze, unconcerned as if this were an ordinary promenade, while his opponent, on the contrary, took all the precaution usual in such a case, Roland advanced straight toward M. de Barjols.
Sir John’s face, despite his ordinary impassibility, betrayed a profound anxiety. The distance between the opponents lessened rapidly. M. de Barjols halted first, took aim, and fired when Roland was but ten paces from him.
The ball clipped one of Roland’s curls, but did not touch him. The young man turned toward his second:
“Well,” said he, “what did I tell you?”
“Fire, monsieur, fire!” said the seconds.
M. de Barjols stood silent and motionless on the spot where he had fired.
“Pardon me, gentlemen,” replied Roland; “but you will, I hope, permit me to be the judge of the time and manner of retaliating. Since I have felt M. de Barjols’ shot, I have a few words to say to him which I could not say before.” Then, turning to the young aristocrat, who was pale and calm, he said: “Sir, perhaps I was somewhat too hasty in our discussion this morning.”
And he waited.
“It is for you to fire, sir,” replied M. de Barjols.
“But,” continued Roland, as if he had not heard, “you will understand my impetuosity, and perhaps excuse it, when you hear that I am a soldier and General Bonaparte’s aide-de-camp.”
“Fire, sir,” replied the young nobleman.
“Say but one word of retraction, sir,” resumed the young officer. “Say that General Bonaparte’s reputation for honor and delicacy is such that a miserable Italian proverb, inspired by ill-natured losers, cannot reflect discredit on him. Say that, and I throw this weapon away to grasp your hand; for I recognize in you, sir, a brave man.”
“I cannot accord that homage to his honor and delicacy until your general has devoted the influence which his genius gives him over France as Monk did – that is to say, to reinstate his legitimate sovereign upon the throne.”
“Ah!” cried Roland, with a smile, “that is asking too much of a republican general.”
“Then I maintain what I said,” replied the young noble. “Fire! monsieur, fire!” Then as Roland made no haste to obey this injunction, he shouted, stamping his foot: “Heavens and earth! will you fire?”
