The Strollers

From the door at the far end of the balcony Constance had again emerged and now approached their room. A flowing gown of an early period surrounded her like a cloud as she paused before Barnes’ apartment. At the throat a deep-falling collar was closely fastened; the sleeves were gathered in at elbow and wrist, and from a “coverchief,” set upon the dusky hair, fell a long veil of ample proportions. With the light shimmering on the folds of her raiment, she stood looking through the open door, regarding the manager and Saint-Prosper.

“Oh, you are not alone?” she said to the former. “You look as though you were talking together very seriously?” she added, turning to Saint-Prosper.

“Nothing of consequence, Miss Carew!” he replied, flushing beneath her clear eyes.

“Only about some scenery!” interposed the manager, so hastily that she glanced, slightly surprised, from the one to the other. “Some sets that are–”

“‘Flimsy pretexts!’ I caught that much! I only wanted to ask you about this costume. Is it appropriate, do you think, for the part we were talking about?” Turning around slowly, with arms half-raised.

“Charming, my dear; charming!” he answered, enthusiastically.

“If I only thought that an unbiased criticism!” Her dark lashes lowered; she looked toward the soldier, half shyly, half mockingly. “What do you think, Mr. Saint-Prosper?”

At that moment her girlish grace was irresistible.

“I think it is not only appropriate, but”–looking at her and not at the costume–“beautiful!”

A gleam like laughter came into her eyes; nor did she shun his kindling gaze.

“Thank you!” she said, and courtesied low.

That same evening Spedella’s fencing rooms were fairly thronged with devotees of the ancient art of puncturing. The master of the place was a tall Italian, lank and lean, all bone and muscle, with a Don Quixote visage, barring a certain villainous expression of the eyes, irreconcilable with the chivalrous knight-errant of distressed Dulcineas. But every man with a bad eye is not necessarily a rascallion, and Spedella, perhaps, was better than he looked. With a most melancholy glance he was now watching two combatants, novices in feats of arms. Dejection sat upon his brow; he yawned over a clumsy feinte seconde, when his sinister eyes fell on a figure that had just entered the hall. Immediately his melancholy vanished, and he advanced to meet the newcomer with stately cordiality.

“Well met, Mr. Mauville,” he exclaimed, extending a bony hand that had fingers like the grip of death. “What good fortune brought you here?”

“An ill wind, Spedella, rather!”

“It’s like a breath of the old days to see you; the old days before you began your wanderings!”

“Get the foils, Spedella; I’ll have a bout with the master. Gad, you’re as ill-looking as ever! It’s some time since I’ve touched a foil. I want to test myself. I have a little affair to-morrow. Hark you, my old brigand; I wish to see if I can kill him!”

“A lad of spirit!” chuckled the master, a gleam of interest illumining his cavernous eyes. “Young!–frisky!–an affair of honor to-day is but nursery sport. Two children with tin swords are more diverting. The world goes backward! A counter-jumper thinks he can lunge, because he is spry, that he can touch a button because he sells them. And I am wasting my genius with ribbon-venders–”

“I see the wolf growls as much as ever!” said the patroon. “Here’s a quiet corner. Come; tell me what I’ve forgotten.”

“Good!” returned the other. “You can tell me about your travels as we fence.”

“Hang my travels!” replied the patroon, as they leisurely engaged. “They’ve brought me nothing but regrets.”

“Feinte flanconnade– well done!” murmured Spedella. “So it was not honey you brought home from your rambles? Feinte seconde and decisive tierce! It’s long since I’ve touched a good blade. These glove-sellers and perfume-dealers–”

“You are bitter against trade, my bravo,” remarked the land baron.

“I was spoiling with languor when you came. Not bad, that feint–but dangerous, because of the possibility of misjudging the attack. Learn the paroles he affects to-morrow by quick, simple thrusts, and then you will know what feints to attack him with. Time in octave–you quitted the blade in a dangerous position. Cluck; cluck, my game cock! Intemperance has befogged your judgment; high-living has dimmed your–”

“You have it!” laughed the land baron.

The button of his foil touched the old bravo’s breast; the steel was bent like a bow.

Spedella forgot his English and swore in soft and liquid Italian. “I looked around to see how those ribbon-venders were getting on,” he said after this euphonious, foreign prelude. “They pay me; I have to keep an eye on them. All the same,” he added, generously, “there isn’t another man in New Orleans could have stopped that stroke–except myself!”

“Will I do–for to-morrow?” asked the patroon, moodily.

The master cocked his head quizzically; his deep-set eyes were soft and friendly.

“The devil’s with him, if you don’t put your spur in him, my bantam!”

CHAPTER V

THE MEETING BENEATH THE OAKS

The mist was lifting from the earth and nature lay wrapped in the rosy peace of daybreak as the sun’s shafts of gold pierced the foliage, illumining the historic ground of the Oaks. Like shining lances, they gleamed from the interstices in the leafy roof to the dew-bejeweled sward. From this stronghold of glistening arms, however, the surrounding country stretched tranquil and serene. Upon a neighboring bank sheep were browsing; in the distance cow-bells tinkled, and the drowsy cowherds followed the cattle, faithful as the shepherds who tended their flocks on the Judean hills.

Beneath the spreading trees were assembled a group of persons variously disposed. A little dapper man was bending over a case of instruments, as merry a soul as ever adjusted a ligature or sewed a wound. Be-ribboned and be-medaled, the Count de Propriac, acting for the land baron, and Barnes, who had accompanied the soldier, were consulting over the weapons, a magnificent pair of rapiers with costly steel guards, set with initials and a coronet. Member of an ancient society of France which yet sought to perpetuate the memory of the old judicial combat and the more modern duel, the count was one of those persons who think they are in honor bound to bear a challenge, without questioning the cause, or asking the “color of a reason.”

“A superb pair of weapons, count!” observed the doctor, rising.

“Yes,” said the person addressed, holding the blade so that the sunlight ran along the steel; “the same Jacques Legres and I fought with!”

Here the count smiled in a melancholy manner, which left no doubt regarding the fate of the hapless Jacques. But after a moment he supplemented this indubitable assurance by adding specifically:

“The left artery of the left lung!”

“Bless my soul!” commented the medical man. “But what is this head in gold beneath the guard?”

“Saint Michael, the patron saint of duelists!” answered the count.

“Patron!” exclaimed the doctor. “Well, all I have to say is, it is a saintless business for Michael.”

The count laughed and turned away with a business-like air.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?”

At his words the contestants immediately took their positions. The land baron, lithe and supple, presented a picture of insolent and conscious pride, his glance lighted by disdain, but smoldering with fiercer passions as he examined and tested his blade.

“Engage!” exclaimed the count.

With ill-concealed eagerness, Mauville began a vigorous, although guarded attack, as if asserting his supremacy, and at the same time testing his man. The buzzing switch of the steel became angrier; the weapons glinted and gleamed, intertwining silently and separating with a swish. The patroon’s features glowed; his movements became quicker, and, executing a rapid parry, he lunged with a thrust so stealthy his blade was beaten down only as it touched the soldier’s breast.

Mauville smiled, but Barnes groaned inwardly, feeling his courage and confidence fast oozing from him. Neither he nor the other spectators doubted the result. Strength would count but little against such agility; the land baron was an incomparable swordsman.

“Gad!” muttered the count to himself. “It promises to be short and sweet.”

As if to demonstrate the verity of this assertion, Mauville suddenly followed his momentary advantage with a dangerous lunge from below. Involuntarily Barnes looked away, but his wandering attention was immediately recalled. From the lips of the land baron burst an exclamation of mingled pain and anger. Saint-Prosper had not only parried the thrust, but his own blade, by a rapid riposte, had grazed the shoulder of his foe.

Nor was the manager’s surprise greater than that of the count. The latter, amazed this unusual strategem should have failed when directed by a wrist as trained and an eye as quick as Mauville’s, now interposed.

“Enough!” he exclaimed, separating the contestants. “Demme! it was superb. Honor has been satisfied.”