Kabanata Kabanata 28 · THE PALADIN OF THE THIRD

. THE PALADIN OF THE THIRD

M. Le Chevalier de Chabrillane had been closely connected, you will

remember, with the iniquitous affair in which Philippe de Vilmorin

had lost his life. We know enough to justify a surmise that he had not

merely been La Tour d’Azyr’s second in the encounter, but actually

an instigator of the business. Andre-Louis may therefore have felt a

justifiable satisfaction in offering up the Chevalier’s life to the

Manes of his murdered friend. He may have viewed it as an act of

common justice not to be procured by any other means. Also it is to

be remembered that Chabrillane had gone confidently to the meeting,

conceiving that he, a practised ferailleur, had to deal with a bourgeois

utterly unskilled in swordsmanship. Morally, then, he was little

better than a murderer, and that he should have tumbled into the pit

he conceived that he dug for Andre-Louis was a poetic retribution.

Yet, notwithstanding all this, I should find the cynical note on which

Andre-Louis announced the issue to the Assembly utterly detestable did

I believe it sincere. It would justify Aline of the expressed opinion,

which she held in common with so many others who had come into close

contact with him, that Andre-Louis was quite heartless.

You have seen something of the same heartlessness in his conduct when he

discovered the faithlessness of La Binet although that is belied by the

measures he took to avenge himself. His subsequent contempt of the woman

I account to be born of the affection in which for a time he held her.

That this affection was as deep as he first imagined, I do not believe;

but that it was as shallow as he would almost be at pains to make it

appear by the completeness with which he affects to have put her from

his mind when he discovered her worthlessness, I do not believe; nor,

as I have said, do his actions encourage that belief. Then, again,

his callous cynicism in hoping that he had killed Binet is also an

affectation. Knowing that such things as Binet are better out of the

world, he can have suffered no compunction; he had, you must remember,

that rarely level vision which sees things in their just proportions,

and never either magnifies or reduces them by sentimental

considerations. At the same time, that he should contemplate the

taking of life with such complete and cynical equanimity, whatever the

justification, is quite incredible.

Similarly now, it is not to be believed that in coming straight from

the Bois de Boulogne, straight from the killing of a man, he should be

sincerely expressing his nature in alluding to the fact in terms of such

outrageous flippancy. Not quite to such an extent was he the incarnation

of Scaramouche. But sufficiently was he so ever to mask his true

feelings by an arresting gesture, his true thoughts by an effective

phrase. He was the actor always, a man ever calculating the effect he

would produce, ever avoiding self-revelation, ever concerned to overlay

his real character by an assumed and quite fictitious one. There was in

this something of impishness, and something of other things.

Nobody laughed now at his flippancy. He did not intend that anybody

should. He intended to be terrible; and he knew that the more flippant

and casual his tone, the more terrible would be its effect. He produced

exactly the effect he desired.

What followed in a place where feelings and practices had become what

they had become is not difficult to surmise. When the session rose,

there were a dozen spadassins awaiting him in the vestibule, and this

time the men of his own party were less concerned to guard him. He

seemed so entirely capable of guarding himself; he appeared, for all his

circumspection, to have so completely carried the war into the enemy’s

camp, so completely to have adopted their own methods, that his fellows

scarcely felt the need to protect him as yesterday.

As he emerged, he scanned that hostile file, whose air and garments

marked them so clearly for what they were. He paused, seeking the man

he expected, the man he was most anxious to oblige. But M. de La Tour

d’Azyr was absent from those eager ranks. This seemed to him odd. La

Tour d’Azyr was Chabrillane’s cousin and closest friend. Surely he

should have been among the first to-day. The fact was that La Tour

d’Azyr was too deeply overcome by amazement and grief at the utterly

unexpected event. Also his vindictiveness was held curiously in leash.

Perhaps he, too, remembered the part played by Chabrillane in the affair

at Gavrillac, and saw in this obscure Andre-Louis Moreau, who had

so persistently persecuted him ever since, an ordained avenger. The

repugnance he felt to come to the point, with him, particularly after

this culminating provocation, was puzzling even to himself. But it

existed, and it curbed him now.

To Andre-Louis, since La Tour was not one of that waiting pack, it

mattered little on that Tuesday morning who should be the next. The

next, as it happened, was the young Vicomte de La Motte-Royau, one of

the deadliest blades in the group.

On the Wednesday morning, coming again an hour or so late to the

Assembly, Andre-Louis announced--in much the same terms as he had

announced the death of Chabrillane--that M. de La Motte-Royau would

probably not disturb the harmony of the Assembly for some weeks to come,

assuming that he were so fortunate as to recover ultimately from the

effects of an unpleasant accident with which he had quite unexpectedly

had the misfortune to meet that morning.

On Thursday he made an identical announcement with regard to the Vidame

de Blavon. On Friday he told them that he had been delayed by M. de

Troiscantins, and then turning to the members of the Cote Droit, and

lengthening his face to a sympathetic gravity:

“I am glad to inform you, messieurs, that M. des Troiscantins is in the

hands of a very competent surgeon who hopes with care to restore him to

your councils in a few weeks’ time.”

It was paralyzing, fantastic, unreal; and friend and foe in that

assembly sat alike stupefied under those bland daily announcements. Four

of the most redoubtable spadassinicides put away for a time, one of

them dead--and all this performed with such an air of indifference and

announced in such casual terms by a wretched little provincial lawyer!

He began to assume in their eyes a romantic aspect. Even that group of

philosophers of the Cote Gauche, who refused to worship any force

but the force of reason, began to look upon him with a respect and

consideration which no oratorical triumphs could ever have procured him.

And from the Assembly the fame of him oozed out gradually over Paris.

Desmoulins wrote a panegyric upon him in his paper “Les Revolutions,”

wherein he dubbed him the “Paladin of the Third Estate,” a name

that caught the fancy of the people, and clung to him for some time.

Disdainfully was he mentioned in the “Actes des Apotres,” the mocking

organ of the Privileged party, so light-heartedly and provocatively

edited by a group of gentlemen afflicted by a singular mental myopy.

The Friday of that very busy week in the life of this young man who even

thereafter is to persist in reminding us that he is not in any sense a

man of action, found the vestibule of the Manege empty of swordsmen

when he made his leisurely and expectant egress between Le Chapelier and

Kersain.

So surprised was he that he checked in his stride.

“Have they had enough?” he wondered, addressing the question to Le

Chapelier.

“They have had enough of you, I should think,” was the answer. “They

will prefer to turn their attention to some one less able to take care

of himself.”

Now this was disappointing. Andre-Louis had lent himself to this

business with a very definite object in view. The slaying of Chabrillane

had, as far as it went, been satisfactory. He had regarded that as a

sort of acceptable hors d’oeuvre. But the three who had followed were

no affair of his at all. He had met them with a certain amount of

repugnance, and dealt with each as lightly as consideration of his own

safety permitted. Was the baiting of him now to cease whilst the man

at whom he aimed had not presented himself? In that case it would be

necessary to force the pace!

Out there under the awning a group of gentlemen stood in earnest talk.

Scanning the group in a rapid glance, Andre-Louis perceived M. de La

Tour d’Azyr amongst them. He tightened his lips. He must afford no

provocation. It must be for them to fasten their quarrels upon him.

Already the “Actes des Apotres” that morning had torn the mask from

his face, and proclaimed him the fencing-master of the Rue du Hasard,

successor to Bertrand des Amis. Hazardous as it had been hitherto for a

man of his condition to engage in single combat it was rendered doubly

so by this exposure, offered to the public as an aristocratic apologia.

Still, matters could not be left where they were, or he should have had

all his pains for nothing. Carefully looking away from that group of

gentlemen, he raised his voice so that his words must carry to their

ears.

“It begins to look as if my fears of having to spend the remainder of my

days in the Bois were idle.”

Out of the corner of his eye he caught the stir his words created in

that group. Its members had turned to look at him; but for the moment

that was all. A little more was necessary. Pacing slowly along between

his friends he resumed:

“But is it not remarkable that the assassin of Lagron should make

no move against Lagron’s successor? Or perhaps it is not remarkable.

Perhaps there are good reasons. Perhaps the gentleman is prudent.”

He had passed the group by now, and he left that last sentence of his to

trail behind him, and after it sent laughter, insolent and provoking.

He had not long to wait. Came a quick step behind him, and a hand

falling upon his shoulder, spun him violently round. He was brought face

to face with M. de La Tour d’Azyr, whose handsome countenance was calm

and composed, but whose eyes reflected something of the sudden blaze of

passion stirring in him. Behind him several members of the group

were approaching more slowly. The others--like Andre-Louis’ two

companions--remained at gaze.

“You spoke of me, I think,” said the Marquis quietly.

“I spoke of an assassin--yes. But to these my friends.” Andre-Louis’

manner was no less quiet, indeed the quieter of the two, for he was the

more experienced actor.

“You spoke loudly enough to be overheard,” said the Marquis, answering

the insinuation that he had been eavesdropping.

“Those who wish to overhear frequently contrive to do so.”

“I perceive that it is your aim to be offensive.”

“Oh, but you are mistaken, M. le Marquis. I have no wish to be

offensive. But I resent having hands violently laid upon me, especially

when they are hands that I cannot consider clean. In the circumstances I

can hardly be expected to be polite.”

The elder man’s eyelids flickered. Almost he caught himself admiring

Andre-Louis’ bearing. Rather, he feared that his own must suffer by

comparison. Because of this, he enraged altogether, and lost control of

himself.

“You spoke of me as the assassin of Lagron. I do not affect to

misunderstand you. You expounded your views to me once before, and I

remember.”

“But what flattery, monsieur!”

“You called me an assassin then, because I used my skill to dispose of a

turbulent hot-head who made the world unsafe for me. But how much better

are you, M. the fencing-master, when you oppose yourself to men whose

skill is as naturally inferior to your own!”

M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s friends looked grave, perturbed. It was really

incredible to find this great gentleman so far forgetting himself as to

descend to argument with a canaille of a lawyer-swordsman. And what was

worse, it was an argument in which he was being made ridiculous.

“I oppose myself to them!” said Andre-Louis on a tone of amused protest.

“Ah, pardon, M. le Marquis; it is they who chose to oppose themselves

to me--and so stupidly. They push me, they slap my face, they tread on my

toes, they call me by unpleasant names. What if I am a fencing-master?

Must I on that account submit to every manner of ill-treatment from

your bad-mannered friends? Perhaps had they found out sooner that I am a

fencing-master their manners would have been better. But to blame me for

that! What injustice!”

“Comedian!” the Marquis contemptuously apostrophized him. “Does it alter

the case? Are these men who have opposed you men who live by the sword

like yourself?”

“On the contrary, M. le Marquis, I have found them men who died by the

sword with astonishing ease. I cannot suppose that you desire to add

yourself to their number.”

“And why, if you please?” La Tour d’Azyr’s face had flamed scarlet

before that sneer.

“Oh,” Andre-Louis raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, a man

considering. He delivered himself slowly. “Because, monsieur, you prefer

the easy victim--the Lagrons and Vilmorins of this world, mere sheep for

your butchering. That is why.”

And then the Marquis struck him.

Andre-Louis stepped back. His eyes gleamed a moment; the next they were

smiling up into the face of his tall enemy.

“No better than the others, after all! Well, well! Remark, I beg you,

how history repeats itself--with certain differences. Because poor

Vilmorin could not bear a vile lie with which you goaded him, he struck

you. Because you cannot bear an equally vile truth which I have uttered,

you strike me. But always is the vileness yours. And now as then for the

striker there is...” He broke off. “But why name it? You will remember

what there is. Yourself you wrote it that day with the point of your

too-ready sword. But there. I will meet you if you desire it, monsieur.”

“What else do you suppose that I desire? To talk?”

Andre-Louis turned to his friends and sighed. “So that I am to go

another jaunt to the Bois. Isaac, perhaps you will kindly have a word

with one of these friends of M. le Marquis’, and arrange for nine

o’clock to-morrow, as usual.”

“Not to-morrow,” said the Marquis shortly to Le Chapeher. “I have an

engagement in the country, which I cannot postpone.”

Le Chapelier looked at Andre-Louis.

“Then for M. le Marquis’ convenience, we will say Sunday at the same

hour.”

“I do not fight on Sunday. I am not a pagan to break the holy day.”

“But surely the good God would not have the presumption to damn a

gentleman of M. le Marquis’ quality on that account? Ah, well, Isaac,

please arrange for Monday, if it is not a feast-day or monsieur has not

some other pressing engagement. I leave it in your hands.”

He bowed with the air of a man wearied by these details, and threading

his arm through Kersain’s withdrew.

“Ah, Dieu de Dieu! But what a trick of it you have,” said the Breton

deputy, entirely unsophisticated in these matters.

“To be sure I have. I have taken lessons at their hands.” He laughed. He

was in excellent good-humour. And Kersain was enrolled in the ranks of

those who accounted Andre-Louis a man without heart or conscience.

But in his “Confessions” he tells us--and this is one of the glimpses

that reveal the true man under all that make-believe--that on that night

he went down on his knees to commune with his dead friend Philippe, and

to call his spirit to witness that he was about to take the last step

in the fulfilment of the oath sworn upon his body at Gavrillac two years

ago.