I Will Repay | Page 4

garde very carefully, steadily, ready
for his antagonist at every turn and in every circumstance.
Gradually the circle round the combatants narrowed. A few discreet
exclamations of admiration greeted Déroulède's most successful parry.
De Marny was getting more and more excited, the older man more and
more sober and reserved.
A thoughtless lunge placed the little Vicomte at his opponent's mercy.
The next instant he was disarmed, and the seconds were pressing
forward to end the conflict.
Honour was satisfied: the parvenu and the scion of the ancient race had
crossed swords over the reputation of one of the most dissolute women
in France. Déroulède's moderation was a lesson to all the hot-headed
young bloods who toyed with their lives, their honour, their reputation
as lightly as they did with their lace-edged handkerchiefs and gold
snuff-boxes.
Already Déroulède had drawn back. With the gentle tact peculiar to
kindly people, he avoided looking at his disarmed antagonist. But

something in the older man's attitude seemed to further nettle the
over-stimulated sensibility of the young Vicomte.
"This is no child's play, monsieur," he said excitedly. "I demand full
satisfaction."
"And are you not satisfied?" queried Déroulède. "You have borne
yourself bravely, you have fought in honour of your liege lady. I, on the
other hand..."
"You," shouted the boy hoarsely, "you shall publicly apologise to a
noble and virtuous woman whom you have outraged -now-at-once-on
your knees..."
"You are mad, Vicomte," rejoined Déroulède coldly. "I am willing to
ask your forgiveness for my blunder..."
"An apology-in public-on your knees..."
The boy had become more and more excited. He had suffered
humiliation after humiliation. He was a mere lad, spoilt, adulated,
pampered from his boyhood: the wine had got into his head, the
intoxication of rage and hatred blinded his saner judgment.
"Coward!" he shouted again and again.
His seconds tried to interpose, but he waved them feverishly aside. He
would listen to no one. He saw no one save the man who had insulted
Adèle, and who was heaping further insults upon her, by refusing this
public acknowledgment of her virtues.
De Marny hated Déroulède at this moment with the most deadly hatred
the heart of man can conceive. The older man's calm, his chivalry, his
consideration only enhanced the boy's anger and shame.
The hubbub had become general. Everyone seemed carried away with
this strange fever of enmity, which was seething in the Vicomte's veins.
Most of the young men crowded round De Marny, doing their best to

pacify him. The Marquis de Villefranche declared that the matter was
getting quite outside the rules.
No one took much notice of Déroulède. In the remote corners of the
saloon a few elderly dandies were laying bets as to the ultimate issue of
the quarrel.
Déroulède, however, was beginning to lose his temper. He had no
friends in that room, and therefore there was no sympathetic observer
there, to note the gradual darkening of his eyes, like the gathering of a
cloud heavy with the coming storm.
"I pray you, messieurs, let us cease the argument," he said at last, in a
loud, impatient voice. "M. le Vicomte de Marny desires a further lesson,
and, by God! he shall have it. En garde, M. le Vicomte!"
The crowd quickly drew back. The seconds once more assumed the
bearing and imperturbable expression which their important function
demanded. The hubbub ceased as the swords began to clash.
Everyone felt that farce was turning to tragedy.
And yet it was obvious from the first that Déroulède merely meant once
more to disarm his antagonist, to give him one more lesson, a little
more severe perhaps than the last. He was such a briljant swordsman,
and De Marny was so excited, that the advantage was with him from
the very first.
How it all happened, nobody afterwards could say. There is no doubt
that the little Vicomte's sword-play had become more and more wild:
that he uncovered himself in the most reckless way, whilst lunging
wildly at his opponent's breast, until at last, in one of these mad,
unguarded moments, he seemed literally to throw himself upon
Déroulède's weapon.
The latter tried with lightning-swift motion of the wrist to avoid the
fatal issue, but it was too late, and without a sigh or groan, scarce a
tremor, the Vicomte de Marny fell.

The sword dropped out of his hand, and it was Déroulède himself who
caught the boy in his arms.
It had all occurred so quickly and suddenly that no one had realised it
all, until it was over, and the lad was lying prone on the ground, his
elegant blue satin coat stained with red, and his antagonist bending over
him.
There was nothing more to be done. Etiquette demanded that Déroulède
should withdraw. He was not allowed