At this new insult, Father d'Aigrigny leaped up, as if he had been moved by steel springs.It was too much; he could bear no more.Blinded with rage, he rushed to the able, caught up the other sword, and exclaimed, grinding his teeth together: "Ah! you will have blood.Well then! it shall be yours--if possible!"
And the Jesuit, still in all the vigor of manhood, his face purple, his large gray eyes sparkling with hate, fell upon his guard with the ease and skill of a finished swordsman.
"At last!" cried the marshal, as their blades were about to cross.
But once more reflection came to damp the fire of the Jesuit.He remembered how this hazardous duel would gratify the wishes of Rodin, whose fate was in his hands, and whom he hated perhaps even more than the marshal.Therefore, in spite of the fury which possessed him, in spite of his secret hope to conquer in this combat, so strong and healthy did he feel himself, and so fatal had been the effects of grief on the constitution of Marshal Simon, he succeeded in mastering his rage, and, to the amazement of the marshal, dropped the point of his sword, exclaiming: "I am a minister of the Lord, and must not shed blood.
Forgive ne, heaven! and, oh! forgive my brother also."
Then placing the blade beneath his heel, he drew the hilt suddenly towards him, and broke the weapon into two pieces.The duel was no longer possible.Father d'Aigrigny had put it out of his own power to yield to a new burst of violence, of which he saw the imminent danger.
Marshal Simon remained for an instant mute and motionless with surprise and indignation, for he also saw that the duel was now impossible.But, suddenly, imitating the Jesuit, the marshal placed his blade also under his heel, broke it in half, and picking up the pointed end, about eighteen inches in length tore off his black silk cravat, rolled it round the broken part so as to form a handle, and said to Father d'Aigrigny:
"Then we will fight with daggers."
Struck with this mixture of coolness and ferocity, the Jesuit exclaimed:
"Is this then a demon of hell?"
"No; it is a father, whose children have been murdered," said the marshal, in a hollow voice, whilst he fitted the blade to his hand, and a tear stood in the eye, that instantly after became fierce and ardent.
The Jesuit saw that tear.There was in this mixture of vindictive rage and paternal grief something so awful, and yet so sacred, that for the first time in his life Father d'Aigrigny felt fear--cowardly, ignoble fear--fear for his own safety.While a combat with swords was in question, in which skill, agility, and experience are such powerful auxiliaries to courage, his only difficulty had been to repress the ardor of his hate--but when he thought of the combat proposed, body to body, face to face, heart to heart, he trembled, grew pale, and exclaimed: "A
butchery with knives?--never!"
His countenance and the accent betrayed his alarm, so that the marshal himself was struck with it, and fearing to lose his revenge, he cried:
"After all, he is a coward! The wretch had only the courage or the vanity of a fencer.This pitiful renegade--this traitor to his country--
whom I have cuffed, kicked--yes, kicked, most noble marquis!--shame of your ancient house--disgrace to the rank of gentleman, old or new--ah! it is not hypocrisy, it is not calculation, as I at first thought--it is fear! You need the noise of war, and the eyes of spectators to give you courage--"
"Sir--have a care!" said Father d'Aigrigny, stammering through his clenched teeth, for rage and hate now made him forget his fear--
"Must I then spit on you, to make the little blood you have left rise to your face?" cried the exasperated marshal.
"Oh! this is too much! too much!" said the Jesuit, seizing the pointed piece of the blade that lay at his feet.
"It is not enough!" said the marshal, panting for breath."There, Judas!" and he spat in his face.
"If you will not fight now," added the marshal, "I will beat you like a dog, base child-murderer!"
