Roads of Destiny | Page 6

Lucie de Verennes man and wife, pocketed a gold piece that the
marquis tossed him, and shuffled out again into the night.
"Wine," ordered the marquis, spreading his ominous fingers at the host.
"Fill glasses," he said, when it was brought. He stood up at the head of

the table in the candlelight, a black mountain of venom and conceit,
with something like the memory of an old love turned to poison in his
eyes, as it fell upon his niece.
"Monsieur Mignot," he said, raising his wineglass, "drink after I say
this to you: You have taken to be your wife one who will make your
life a foul and wretched thing. The blood in her is an inheritance
running black lies and red ruin. She will bring you shame and anxiety.
The devil that descended to her is there in her eyes and skin and mouth
that stoop even to beguile a peasant. There is your promise, monsieur
poet, for a happy life. Drink your wine. At last, mademoiselle, I am rid
of you."
The marquis drank. A little grievous cry, as if from a sudden wound,
came from the girl's lips. David, with his glass in his hand, stepped
forward three paces and faced the marquis. There was little of a
shepherd in his bearing.
"Just now," he said, calmly, "you did me the honor to call me
'monsieur.' May I hope, therefore that my marriage to mademoiselle has
placed me somewhat nearer to you in--let us say, reflected rank--has
given me the right to stand more as an equal to monseigneur in a
certain little piece of business I have in my mind?"
"You may hope, shepherd," sneered the marquis.
"Then," said David, dashing his glass of wine into the contemptuous
eyes that mocked him, "perhaps you will condescend to fight me."
The fury of the great lord outbroke in one sudden curse like a blast
from a horn. He tore his sword from its black sheath; he called to the
hovering landlord: "A sword there, for this lout!" He turned to the lady,
with a laugh that chilled her heart, and said: "You put much labour
upon me, madame. It seems I must find you a husband and make you a
widow in the same night."
"I know not sword-play," said David. He flushed to make the
confession before his lady.

"'I know not sword-play,'" mimicked the marquis. "Shall we fight like
peasants with oaken cudgels? /Hola/! Francois, my pistols!"
A postilion brought two shining great pistols ornamented with carven
silver, from the carriage holsters. The marquis tossed one upon the
table near David's hand. "To the other end of the table," he cried; "even
a shepherd may pull a trigger. Few of them attain the honour to die by
the weapon of a De Beaupertuys."
The shepherd and the marquis faced each other from the ends of the
long table. The landlord, in an ague of terror, clutched the air and
stammered: "M-M-Monseigneur, for the love of Christ! not in my
house! --do not spill blood--it will ruin my custom--" The look of the
marquis, threatening him, paralyzed his tongue.
"Coward," cried the lord of Beaupertuys, "cease chattering your teeth
long enough to give the word for us, if you can."
Mine host's knees smote the floor. He was without a vocabulary. Even
sounds were beyond him. Still, by gestures he seemed to beseech peace
in the name of his house and custom.
"I will give the word," said the lady, in a clear voice. She went up to
David and kissed him sweetly. Her eyes were sparkling bright, and
colour had come to her cheek. She stood against the wall, and the two
men levelled their pistols for her count.
"/Un/--/deux/--/trois/!"
The two reports came so nearly together that the candles flickered but
once. The marquis stood, smiling, the fingers of his left hand resting,
outspread, upon the end of the table. David remained erect, and turned
his head very slowly, searching for his wife with his eyes. Then, as a
garment falls from where it is hung, he sank, crumpled, upon the floor.
With a little cry of terror and despair, the widowed maid ran and
stooped above him. She found his wound, and then looked up with her
old look of pale melancholy. "Through his heart," she whispered. "Oh,

his heart!"
"Come," boomed the great voice of the marquis, "out with you to the
carriage! Daybreak shall not find you on my hands. Wed you shall be
again, and to a living husband, this night. The next we come upon, my
lady, highwayman or peasant. If the road yields no other, then the churl
that opens my gates. Out with you into the carriage!"
The marquis, implacable and huge, the lady wrapped again in