Isham Frederic Stewart
The Strollers

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.”

“It is nothing!” cried the land baron, fiercely. “His blade hardly touched me.” In his exasperation and disappointment over his failure, Mauville was scarcely conscious of his wound. “I tell you it is nothing,” he repeated.

“What do you say, Mr. Saint-Prosper?” asked the count.

“I am satisfied,” returned the young man, coldly.

“But I’m not!” reiterated the patroon, restraining himself with difficulty. “It was understood we should continue until both were willing to stop!”

“No,” interrupted the count, suavely; “it was understood you should continue, if both were willing!”

“And you’re not!” exclaimed the land baron, wheeling on Saint-Prosper. “Did you leave the army because–”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! let us observe the proprieties!” expostulated the count. “Is it your intention, sir”–to Saint-Prosper–“not to grant my principal’s request?”

A fierce new anger gleamed from the soldier’s eyes, completely transforming his expression and bearing. His glance quickly swept from the count to Mauville at the studied insult of the latter’s words; on his cheek burned a dark red spot.

“Let it go on!”

The count stepped nimbly from his position between the two men. Again the swords crossed. The count’s glance bent itself more closely on the figure of the soldier; noting now how superbly poised was his body; what reserves of strength were suggested by the white, muscular arm! His wrist moved like a machine, lightly brushing aside the thrusts. Had it been but accident that Mauville’s unlooked-for expedient had failed?

“The devil!” thought the count, watching the soldier. “Here is a fellow who has deceived us all.”

But the land baron’s zest only appeared to grow in proportion to the resistance he encountered; the lust for fighting increased with the music of the blades. For some moments he feinted and lunged, seeking an opening, however slight. Again he appeared bent upon forcing a quick conclusion, for suddenly with a rush he sought to break over Saint-Prosper’s guard, and succeeded in wounding the other slightly in the forehead. Now sure of his man, Mauville sprang at him savagely.

But dashing the blood from his eyes with his free hand, and without giving way, Saint-Prosper met the assault with a wrist of iron, and the land baron failed to profit by what had seemed a certain advantage. The wound had the effect of making the soldier more cautious, and eye, foot and hand were equally true. Mauville was breathing heavily from his exertions, but the appearance of both men, the supple movements of the one contrasting with the perfect precision of the other, would have delighted those members of the count’s society, who regarded these matches as leading to a renaissance of chivalry.

In his fury that his chance had slipped away, after wounding, and, as he supposed, blinding his opponent, Mauville, throwing prudence to the winds, recklessly attempted to repeat his rash expedient, and this time the steel of his antagonist gleamed like quicksilver, passing beneath his arm and inflicting a slight flesh wound. Something resembling a look of apprehension crossed the land baron’s face. “I have underestimated him!” he thought. “The next stroke will be driven nearer home.”

He felt no fear, however; only mute, helpless rage. In the soldier’s hand the dainty weapon was a thing of marvelous cunning; his vastly superior strength made him practically tireless in this play. Not only tireless; he suddenly accelerated the tempo of the exercise, but behind this unexpected, even passionate, awakening, the spectators felt an unvarying accuracy, a steely coldness of purpose. The blades clicked faster; they met and parted more viciously; the hard light in Saint-Prosper’s eyes grew brighter as he slowly thrust back his antagonist.

Mauville became aware his own vigor was slowly failing him; instead of pressing the other he was now obliged to defend himself. He strove to throw off the lethargy irresistibly stealing over him; to shake the leaden movements from his limbs. He vainly endeavored to penetrate the mist falling before his eyes and to overcome the dizziness that made his foeman seem like a figure in a dream. Was it through loss of blood, or weariness, or both?–but he was cognizant his thrusts had lost force, his plunges vitality, and that even an element of chance prevailed in his parries. But he uttered no sound. When would that mist become dark, and the golden day fuse into inky night?

Before the mist totally eclipsed his sight he determined to make one more supreme effort, and again sprang forward, but was driven back with ease. The knowledge that he was continuing a futile struggle smote him to the soul. Gladly would he have welcomed the fatal thrust, if first he could have sent his blade through that breast which so far had been impervious to his efforts. Now the scene went round and round; the golden day became crimson, scarlet; then gray, leaden, somber. Incautiously he bent his arm to counter an imaginary lunge, and his antagonist thrust out his rapier like a thing of life, transfixing Mauville’s sword arm. He stood his ground bravely for a moment, playing feebly into space, expecting the fatal stroke! When would it come? Then the slate-colored hues were swallowed in a black cloud. But while his mind passed into unconsciousness, his breast was openly presented to his antagonist, and even the count shuddered.

With his blade at guard, Saint-Prosper remained motionless; the land baron staggered feebly and then sank softly to the earth. That fatal look, the expression of a duelist, vanished from the soldier’s face, and, allowing the point of his weapon to drop to the ground, he surveyed his prostrate antagonist.

“Done like a gentleman!” cried the count, breathing more freely. “You had him at your mercy, sir”–to Saint-Prosper–“and spared him.”

A cold glance was the soldier’s only response, as without a word he turned brusquely away. Meanwhile the doctor, hastening to Mauville’s side, opened his shirt.

“He is badly hurt?” asked Barnes, anxiously, of the surgeon.

“No; only fainted from loss of blood,” replied that gentleman, cheerfully. “He will be around again in a day or two.”

The count put away his blades as carefully as a mother would deposit her babe in the cradle.

“Another page of history, my chicks!” he observed. “Worthy of the song of Pindar!”

“Why not Straws or Phazma?” queried the surgeon, looking up from his task.

“Would you have the press take up the affair? There are already people who talk of abolishing dueling. When they do they will abolish reputation with it. And what’s a gentleman got but his honor–demme!” And the royal emissary carefully brushed a crimson stain from the bespattered saint.

By this time the land baron had regained consciousness, and, his wounds temporarily bandaged, walked, with the assistance of the count, to his carriage. As they were about to drive away the sound of a vehicle was heard drawing near, and soon it appeared followed by another equipage. Both stopped at the confines of the Oaks and the friends of the thick-set man–Susan’s admirer–and the young lad, on whom she had smiled, alighted.

“Ha!” exclaimed the doctor, who had accompanied the count and his companion to the carriage. “Number two!”

“Yes,” laughed the count, as he leaned back against the soft cushions, “it promises to be a busy day at the Oaks! Really”–as the equipage rolled on–“New Orleans is fast becoming a civilized center–demme!”

CHAPTER VI
A BLOT IN THE ’SCUTCHEON

The land baron’s injuries did not long keep him indoors, for it was his pride rather than his body that had received deep and bitter wounds. He chafed and fumed when he thought how, in all likelihood, the details of his defeat could not be suppressed in the clubs and cafés. This anticipated publicity he took in ill part, fanning his mental disorder with brandy, mellow and insidious with age. But beneath the dregs of indulgence lay an image which preyed upon his mind more than his defeat beneath the Oaks: a figure, on the crude stage of a country tavern; in the manor window, with an aureole around her from the sinking sun; in the grand stand at the races, the gay dandies singling her out in all that seraglio of beauty.

“I played him too freely,” he groaned to the Count de Propriac, as the latter sat contemplatively nursing the ivory handle of his cane and offering the land baron such poor solace as his company afforded. “I misjudged the attack, besides exposing myself too much. If I could only meet him again!”

The visitor reflectively took the handle of the stick from his lips, thrust out his legs and yawned. The count was sleepy, having drowned dull care the night before, and had little sympathy with such spirited talk so early in the day. His lack-luster gaze wandered to the pictures on the wall, the duel between two court ladies for the possession of the Duc de Richelieu and an old print of the deadly public contest of François de Vivonne and Guy de Jarnac and then strayed languidly to the other paraphernalia of a high-spirited bachelor’s rooms–foils, dueling pistols and masks–trappings that but served to recall to the land baron his defeat.

“It would be like running against a stone wall,” said the count, finally; “demme if it wouldn’t! He could have killed you!”

“Why didn’t he do it, then?” demanded the land baron, fiercely.

The count shrugged his shoulders, drank his brandy, and handed the bottle to his companion, who helped himself, as though not averse to that sort of medicine for his physical and mental ailments.

“What’s the news?” he asked abruptly, sinking back on his pillow.

“The levees are flooded.”

“Hanged if I care if it’s another deluge!” said Mauville. “I mean news of the town, not news of the river.”

“There’s a new beauty come to town–a brunette; all the bloods are talking about her. Where did she come from? Who is she? These are some of the questions asked. But she’s a Peri, at any rate! shy, hard to get acquainted with–at first! An actress–Miss Carew!”

The glass trembled in the patroon’s hand. “Do you know her?” he asked unsteadily.

Smiling, the visitor returned the cane to his lips and gazed into vacancy, as though communing with agreeable thoughts.

“I have met her,” he said finally. “Yes; I may say I have met her. Ged! Next to a duel with rapiers is one with eyes. They thrust at you; you parry; they return, and, demme! you’re stabbed! But don’t ask me any more–discretion–you understand–between men of the world–demme!”–and the count relapsed into a vacuous dream.

“What a precious liar he is!” commented the land baron to himself. But his mind soon reverted to the duel once more. “If I had only followed Spedella’s advice and studied his favorite parades!” he muttered, regretfully.

“It would have been the same,” retorted the count, brutally. “When you lost your temper, you lost your cause. Your work was brilliant; but he is one of the best swordsmen I ever saw. Who is he, anyway?”

“All I know is, he served in Algiers,” said Mauville, moodily.

“A demmed adventurer, probably!” exclaimed the other.

“I’d give a good deal to know his record,” remarked the patroon, contemplatively. “You should be pretty well acquainted with the personnel of the army?”

“It includes everybody nowadays,” replied the diplomat. “I have a large acquaintance, but I am not a directory. A person who knows everybody usually knows nobody–worth knowing! But it seems to me I did know of a Saint-Prosper at the military college at Saumur; or was it at the Ecole d’application d’état-major? Demmed scapegrace, if I am not mistaken; sent to Algiers; must be the same. A hell-rake hole!–full of German and French outcasts! Knaves, adventureres, ready for plunder and loot!”

Here the count, after this outburst, closed his eyes and seemed almost on the point of dropping off, but suddenly straightened himself.

“Let’s get the cards, or the dice, Mauville,” he said, “or I’ll fall into a doze. Such a demmed sleepy climate!”

Soon the count was shuffling and the land baron and he were playing bezique, but in spite of the latter’s drowsiness, he won steadily from his inattentive companion, and, although the noble visitor had some difficulty in keeping his eyes open, what there was of his glance was vigilantly concentrated on his little pile of the coin of the realm. His watchfulness did not relax nor his success desert him, until Mauville finally threw down the cards in disgust, weary alike of such poor luck and the half-nodding automaton confronting him; whereupon the count thrust every piece of gold carefully away in his pocket, absently reached for his hat, drawled a perfunctory farewell and departed in a brown study.

The count’s company, of which he had enjoyed a good deal during the past forty-eight hours, did not improve Mauville’s temper, and he bore his own reflections so grudgingly that inaction became intolerable. Besides, certain words of his caller concerning Saint-Prosper had stimulated his curiosity, and, in casting about for a way to confirm his suspicions, he had suddenly determined in what wise to proceed. Accordingly, the next day he left his rooms, his first visit being to a spacious, substantial residence of stone and lime, with green veranda palings and windows that opened as doors, with a profusion of gauzy curtains hanging behind them. This house, the present home of the Marquis de Ligne, stood in the French quarter, contrasting architecturally with the newer brick buildings erected for the American population. The land baron was ushered into a large reception room, sending his card to the marquis by the neat-appearing colored maid who answered the door.

If surroundings indicate the man, the apartments in which the visitor stood spoke eloquently of the marquis’ taste. Eschewing the stiff, affected classicalism of the Empire style, the furniture was the best work of André Boule and Riesener; tables, with fine marquetry of the last century, made of tulip wood and mahogany; mirrors from Tourlaville; couches with tapestry woven in fanciful designs after Fragonard, in the looms of Beauvais–couches that were made for conversation, not repose; cabinets exemplifying agreeable disposition of lines and masses in the inlaid adornment, containing tiny drawers that fitted with old-time exactness, and, without jamming, opened and shut at the touch. The marquis’ character was stamped by these details; it was old, not new France, to which he belonged.

Soon the marquis’ servant, a stolid, sober man, of virtuous deportment, came down stairs to inform the land baron his master had suffered a relapse and was unable to see any one.

“Last night his temperature was very high,” said the valet. “My master is very ill; more so than I have known him to be in twenty years.”

“You have served the marquis so long?” said the visitor, pausing as he was leaving the room. “Do you remember the Saint-Prosper family?”

“Well, Monsieur. General Saint-Prosper and my master were distant kinsmen and had adjoining lands.”

“Surely the marquis did not pass his time in the country?” observed Mauville.

“He preferred it to Paris–when my lady was there!” added François, softly.

In spite of his ill-humor, the shadow of a smile gleamed in the land baron’s gaze, and, encouraged by that questioning look, the man continued: “The marquis and General Saint-Prosper were always together. My lady had her own friends.”

“So I’ve heard,” commented the listener.

François’ discreet eyes were downcast. Why did the visitor wish to learn about the Saint-Prosper family? Why, instead of going, did he linger and eye the man half-dubiously? François had sold so many of his master’s secrets he scented his opportunities with a sixth sense.

“The marquis and General Saint-Prosper were warm friends?” asked the land baron at length.

“Yes, Monsieur; the death of the latter was a severe shock to the Marquis de Ligne, but, mon Dieu!”–lifting his eyes–“it was as well he did not live to witness the disgrace of his son.”

“His son’s disgrace,” repeated the land baron, eagerly. “Oh, you mean running in debt–gaming–some such fashionable virtue?”

“If betraying his country is a fashionable virtue,” replied the valet. “He is a traitor.”

Incredulity overspread the land baron’s features; then, coincident with the assertion, came remembrance of his conversation with the marquis.

“He certainly called him that,” ruminated the visitor. Not only the words, but the expression of the old nobleman’s face recurred to him. What did it mean unless it confirmed the deliberate charge of the valet? The land baron forgot his disappointment over his inability to see the marquis, and began to look with more favor on the man.

“He surrendered a French stronghold,” continued the servant, softly. “Not through fear; oh, no; but for ambition, power, under Abd-el-Kader, the Moorish leader.”

“How do you know this?” said the patroon, sharply.

“My master has the report of the military board of inquiry,” replied the man, steadily.

“Why has the matter attracted no public attention, if a board of inquiry was appointed?”

“The board was a secret one, and the report was suppressed. Few have seen it, except the late King of France and my master.”

“And yourself, François?” said the patroon, his manner changing.

“Oh, Monsieur!” Deprecatorily.

“Since it has been inspected by such good company, I confess curiosity to look at it myself. But your master is ill; I can not speak with him; perhaps you–”

“I, Monsieur!” Indignantly.

“For five hundred francs, François?”

Like oil upon the troubled waters, this assurance wrought a swift change in the valet’s manner.

“To oblige Monsieur!” he answered, softly, but his eyes gleamed like a lynx’s. His stateliness was a sham; his perfidy and hypocrisy surprised even the land baron.

“You have no compunctions about selling a reputation, François?”

“Reputation is that!” said the man, contemptuously snapping his fingers, emboldened by his compact with the caller. “Francs and sous are everything.”

“Lord, how servants imbibe the ideas of their betters!” quoth the patroon, as he left the house and strode down the graveled walk, decapitating the begonias with his cane.

Furtively the valet watched his departing figure. “Why does he want it?” he thought.

Then he shrugged his shoulders. “What do I care!”

“François!” piped a shrill and querulous treble from above, dispelling the servant’s conjectures.

“Coming, my lord!” And the valet slowly mounted the broad stairway amid a fusillade of epithets from the sick chamber. An hour before the marquis had ordered him out of his sight as vehemently as now he summoned him, all of which François endured with infinite patience and becoming humility.

Passing into the Rue Royale, the favorite promenade of the Creole-French, the land baron went on through various thoroughfares with French-English nomenclature into St. Charles Street, reaching his apartments, which adjoined a well-known club. He was glad to stretch himself once more on his couch, feeling fatigued from his efforts, and having rather overtaxed his strength.

But if his body was now inert, his mind was active. His thoughts dwelt upon the soldier’s reticence, his disinclination to make acquaintances, and the coldness with which he had received his, Mauville’s, advances in the Shadengo Valley. Why, asked Mauville, lying there and putting the pieces of the tale together, did not Saint-Prosper remain with his new-found friends, the enemies of his country? Because, came the answer, Abd-el-Kader, the patriot of Algerian independence, had been captured and the subjection of the country had followed. Since Algeria had become a French colony, where could Saint-Prosper have found a safer asylum than in America? Where more secure from “that chosen curse” for the man who owes his weal to his country’s woe?

In his impatience to possess the promised proof, the day passed all too slowly. He even hoped the count would call, although that worthy brought with him all the “flattering devils, sweet poison and deadly sins” of inebriation. But the count, like a poor friend, was absent when wanted, and it was a distinct relief to the land baron when François appeared at his apartments in the evening with a buff-colored envelope, which he handed to him.

“The suppressed report?” asked the latter, weighing it in his hand.

“No, Monsieur; I could not find that. My master must have destroyed it.”

The land baron made a gesture of disappointment and irritation.

“But this,” François hastened to add, “is a letter from the Duc d’Aumale, governor of Algeria, to the Marquis de Ligne, describing the affair. Monsieur will find it equally as satisfactory, I am sure.”

“How did you get it?” said the patroon, thoughtfully.

“My master left the keys on the dresser.”

“And if he misses this letter–”

“Oh, Monsieur, I grieve my master is so ill he could not miss anything but his ailments! Those he would willingly dispense with. My poor master!”

“There! Take your long, hypocritical face out of my sight!” said Mauville, curtly, at the same time handing him the promised reward, which François calmly accepted. A moment later, however, he drew himself up.

“Monsieur has not paid for the right to libel my character,” he said.

“Your character!”

“My character, Monsieur!” the valet replied firmly, and bowed in the stateliest fashion of the old school as he backed out of the room with grand obsequiousness. Deliberately, heavily and solidly, resounded the echoing footsteps of François upon the stairway, like the going of some substantial personage of unimpeachable rectitude.

As the front door closed sharply the land baron threw the envelope on the table and quietly surveyed it, the remnants of his pride rising in revolt.

“Have I then sunk so low as to read private communications or pry into family secrets? Is it a family secret, though? Should it not become common property? Why have they protected him? Did the marquis wish to spare the son of an old friend? Besides”–his glance again seeking the envelope–“it is my privilege to learn whether I have fought with a gentleman or a renegade.” But even as he meditated, he felt the sophistry of this last argument, while through his brain ran the undercurrent: “He has wooed her–won her, perhaps!” Passion, rather than injured hauteur, stirred him. At the same time a great indignation filled his breast; how Saint-Prosper had tricked her and turned her from himself!

And moving from the mantel upon which he was leaning, Mauville strode to the table and untied the envelope.