Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (43 page)

Next morning, at an early hour, Frédéric hurried to the establishment in which Dussardier was employed. After having passed through a succession of departments all full of clothing-materials, either adorning shelves or lying on tables, while here and there shawls were fixed on wooden racks shaped like mushrooms, he saw the young man, in a sort of railed cage, surrounded by account-books, and standing in front of a desk at which he was writing. The honest fellow left his work.

The seconds arrived before twelve o’clock.

Frédéric, as a matter of good taste, thought he ought not to be present at the discussion.

The Baron and M. Joseph declared that they would be satisfied with the simplest apology. But Regimbart’s principle being never to yield, and his contention being that Arnoux’s honour should be vindicated (Frédéric had not spoken to him about anything else), he asked that the Vicomte should apologise. M. de Comaing was indignant at this presumption. The Citizen would not abate an inch. As all conciliation proved impracticable, there was nothing to do but to fight.

Other difficulties arose, for the choice of weapons lay with Cisy, as the insulted party. But Regimbart maintained that by sending the challenge he had constituted himself the offending party. His seconds loudly protested that a slap in the face was the most cruel of offences. The Citizen carped at the words, pointing out that a blow with a plate was not a slap. Finally, they decided to refer the matter to a military man; and the four seconds went off to consult the officers in some of the barracks.

They drew up at the barracks on the Quai d‘Orsay. M. de Comaing, having approached two captains, explained to them the question in dispute.

The captains did not understand a word he was saying, due to the confusion caused by the Citizen’s incidental remarks. In short, they advised the gentlemen who consulted them to draw up a written statement; after which they would give their decision. Thereupon, they took themselves off to a café; and they even, in order to do things with more discretion, referred to Cisy as H, and Frédéric as K.

Then they returned to the barracks. The officers had gone out. They reappeared, and declared that the choice of arms manifestly belonged to H.

They all returned to Cisy’s abode. Regimbart and Dussardier remained on the sidewalk outside.

The Vicomte, when he was informed of the solution of the case, was so upset that they had to repeat for him several times the decision of the officers; and, when M. de Comaing came to deal with Regimbart’s contention, he murmured “Nevertheless,” not being very reluctant himself to yield to it. Then he let himself sink into an armchair, and declared that he would not fight.

“Eh? What?” said the Baron. Then Cisy launched into a confused flood of words. He wished to fight with firearms—to discharge a single pistol at close range.

“Or else we will put arsenic into a glass, and draw lots to see who must drink it. That’s sometimes done. I’ve read of it!”

The Baron, naturally rather impatient, addressed him in a harsh tone:

“These gentlemen are waiting for your answer. This is indecent, to put it plainly. What weapons are you going to take? Come! is it the sword?”

The Vicomte gave an affirmative reply by merely nodding his head; and it was arranged that the meeting should take place next morning at seven o’clock sharp at the Maillot gate.

Dussardier had to go back to his business, so Regimbart went to inform Frédéric about the arrangement. He had been left all day without any news, and his impatience was becoming unbearable.

“So much the better!” he exclaimed.

The Citizen was satisfied with his reaction.

“Would you believe it? They wanted an apology from us. It was nothing—a mere word! But I sent them off with a flea in their ear. The right thing to do, wasn’t it?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Frédéric, thinking that it would have been better to choose another second.

Then, when he was alone, he repeated several times in a very loud tone:

“I am going to fight! Hold on, I am going to fight! ’Tis funny!”

And, as he walked up and down his room, while passing in front of the mirror, he noticed that he was pale.

“Does that mean I’m afraid?”

He was seized with a feeling of intolerable misery at the prospect of exhibiting fear on the dueling-ground.

“And yet, suppose I happen to be killed? My father met his death the same way. Yes, I shall be killed!”

And, suddenly, he saw his mother before him in a black dress; incoherent images floated across his mind. His own cowardice exasperated him. A paroxysm of courage, a thirst for human blood, took possession of him. A battalion could not have made him retreat. When this feverish excitement had cooled down, he was overjoyed to feel that his nerves were perfectly steady. In order to distract himself, he went to the opera, where a ballet was being performed. He listened to the music, looked at the
danseuses
through his opera-glass, and drank a glass of punch between the acts. But when he got home again, the sight of his study, of his furniture, in the midst of which he found himself for the last time, made him feel weak.

He went down to the garden. The stars were shining; he gazed up at them. The idea of fighting about a woman gave him a greater importance in his own eyes, and surrounded him with a halo of nobility. Then he went to bed in a tranquil frame of mind.

It was not so with Cisy. After the Baron’s departure, Joseph had tried to revive his drooping spirits, but, as the Vicomte remained in the same dull mood:

“However, old boy, if you prefer to drop the whole thing, I’ll go and say so.”

Cisy did not dare answer “Certainly;” but he would have liked his cousin to do him this service without speaking about it.

He wished that Frédéric would die during the night of a stroke, or that a riot would break out so that next morning there would be enough barricades to shut up all the approaches to the Bois de Boulogne, or that some emergency might prevent one of the seconds from being present; for in the absence of seconds the duel would fall through. He felt a longing to save himself by taking an express train—no matter where. He regretted that he did not understand medicine so as to be able to take something which, without endangering his life, would cause it to look like he was dead. He finally wished to be ill in earnest.

In order to get advice and assistance from someone, he sent for M. des Aulnays. That worthy man had gone back to Saintonge on receiving a letter informing him of the illness of one of his daughters. This appeared an ominous sign to Cisy. Luckily, M. Vezou, his tutor, came to see him. Then he unburdened himself.

“What am I to do? my God! what am I to do?”

“If I were in your place, Monsieur, I should pay some strapping fellow from the market-place to go and give him a thrashing.”

“He would still know who brought it about,” replied Cisy.

And from time to time he uttered a groan; then:

“But is a man bound to fight a duel?”

“ ’Tis a relic of barbarism! What are you to do?”

Out of kindness the pedagogue invited himself to dinner. His pupil did not eat anything, but, after the meal, felt the necessity of taking a short walk.

As they were passing a church, he said:

“Suppose we go in for a little while-to look?”

M. Vezou asked for nothing better, and even offered him holy water.

It was the month of May. The altar was covered with flowers; voices were chanting; the organ was resounding through the church. But he found it impossible to pray, as the pomps of religion inspired him merely with thoughts of funerals. He fancied that he could hear the murmurs of the
De Profundis.

“Let us leave. I don’t feel well.”

They spent the whole night playing cards. The Vicomte made an effort to lose in order to exorcise any bad-luck, a thing which M. Vezou turned to his own advantage. At last, at the first streak of dawn, Cisy, who could stand it no longer, sank down on the green cloth, and was soon plunged in sleep, which was disturbed by unpleasant dreams.

If courage, however, consists in wishing to get the better of one’s own weakness, the Vicomte was courageous, for in the presence of his seconds, who came to seek him, he stiffened himself up with all the strength he could command, vanity making him realise that to attempt to draw back now would disgrace him. M. de Comaing congratulated him on looking so well.

But, on the way, the jolting of the cab and the heat of the morning sun unnerved him. His energy gave way again. He could not even distinguish any longer where they were. The Baron amused himself by increasing his terror, talking about the “corpse,” and of the way they meant to get back clandestinely to the city. Joseph made a reply; both, considering the affair ridiculous, were certain that it would be settled.

Cisy kept his head on his chest; he lifted it up slowly, and drew attention to the fact that they had not taken a doctor with them.

“’Tis needless,” said the Baron.

“Then there’s no danger?”

Joseph answered in a grave tone:

“Let us hope so!”

And nobody in the carriage made any further remark.

At ten minutes past seven they arrived in front of the Maillot gate. Frédéric and his seconds were there, the entire group being dressed all in black. Regimbart, instead of a cravat, wore a stiff horsehair collar, like a soldier; and he carried a long violin-case adapted for occasions of this kind. They exchanged frigid bows. Then they all plunged into the Bois de Boulogne, taking the Madrid road, in order to find a suitable place.

Regimbart said to Frédéric, who was walking between him and Dussardier:

“Well, and this dread—what do we care about it? If you need anything, don’t worry; I know what to do. Fear is natural to man!”

Then, in a low tone:

“Don’t smoke any more; it has a weakening effect.”

Frédéric threw away his cigar, which was disturbing him, and went on with a firm step. The Vicomte advanced behind, leaning on the arms of his two seconds. Occasional passers-by crossed their path. The sky was blue, and from time to time they heard rabbits skipping about. At the turn of a path, a woman in a Madras kerchief was chatting with a man in a smock; and in the large avenue under the chestnut-trees some grooms in linen vests were walking horses up and down.

Cisy recalled the happy days when, mounted on his own chestnut horse, and with his monocle in his eye, he had ridden along beside carriage-doors. These recollections intensified his anguish. An intolerable thirst parched his throat. The buzzing of flies mingled with the throbbing of his arteries. His feet sank into the sand. It seemed to him as if he had been walking for an eternity.

The seconds, without stopping, examined with keen glances both sides of the road. They hesitated as to whether they would go to the Catelan Cross or under the walls of the Bagatelle. At last they took a turn to the right; and they drew up in a kind of clearing between some pine-trees.

The spot was chosen in such a way that the level ground was cut equally into two divisions. The two places at which the principals in the duel were to take their stand were marked out. Then Regimbart opened his case. It was lined with red sheep’s leather, and contained four charming swords hollowed in the centre, with handles which were adorned with filigree. A ray of light, passing through the leaves, fell on them, and they appeared to Cisy to glitter like silver vipers on a sea of blood.

The Citizen showed that they were of equal length. He took one himself, in order to separate the combatants in case of necessity. M. de Comaing held a walking-stick. There was an interval of silence. They looked at each other. All the faces had in them apprehension or cruelty.

Frédéric had taken off his coat and his waistcoat. Joseph aided Cisy to do the same. When his cravat was removed a religious medal could be seen on his neck. This made Regimbart smile contemptuously.

Then M. de Comaing (in order to allow Frédéric another moment for reflection) tried to raise a quibble. He demanded the right to put on a glove, and to catch hold of his adversary’s sword with the left hand. Regimbart, who was in a hurry, made no objection to this. At last the Baron, addressing Frédéric:

“Everything depends on you, Monsieur! There is never any dishonour in acknowledging one’s faults.”

Dussardier made a gesture of approval. The Citizen gave vent to his indignation:

“Do you think we came here as a mere sham, damn it! Be on your guard, each of you!”

The combatants were facing one another, with their seconds by their sides.

He uttered the single word:

“Go!”

Cisy became dreadfully pale. The end of his blade was quivering like a horsewhip. His head fell back, his hands dropped down helplessly, and he sank unconscious on the ground. Joseph raised him up and while holding a scent-bottle to his nose, gave him a good shaking.

The Vicomte reopened his eyes, then suddenly grasped at his sword like a madman. Frédéric had held his in readiness, and now awaited him with steady eye and uplifted hand.

“Stop! stop!” cried a voice, which came from the road simultaneously with the sound of a horse at full gallop, and the hood of a cab broke the branches. A man leaned out waving a handkerchief, still exclaiming:

“Stop! stop!”

M. de Comaing, believing that this meant the intervention of the police, lifted up his walking-stick.

“Make an end of it. The Vicomte is bleeding!”

“I?” said Cisy.

In fact, he had in his fall skinned his left thumb.

“But this was by falling,” observed the Citizen.

The Baron pretended not to understand.

Arnoux had jumped out of the cab.

“Have I arrived too late? No! Thanks be to God!”

He threw his arms around Frédéric, felt him all over, and covered his face with kisses.