Kabanata Kabanata 4 · THE HERITAGE

. THE HERITAGE

It was M. de Vilmorin’s desire that the matter should be settled out

of hand. In this he was at once objective and subjective. A prey to

emotions sadly at conflict with his priestly vocation, he was above

all in haste to have done, so that he might resume a frame of mind more

proper to it. Also he feared himself a little; by which I mean that his

honour feared his nature. The circumstances of his education, and the

goal that for some years now he had kept in view, had robbed him of much

of that spirited brutality that is the birthright of the male. He had

grown timid and gentle as a woman. Aware of it, he feared that once the

heat of his passion was spent he might betray a dishonouring weakness,

in the ordeal.

M. le Marquis, on his side, was no less eager for an immediate

settlement; and since they had M. de Chabrillane to act for his cousin,

and Andre-Louis to serve as witness for M. de Vilmorin, there was

nothing to delay them.

And so, within a few minutes, all arrangements were concluded, and you

behold that sinisterly intentioned little group of four assembled in

the afternoon sunshine on the bowling-green behind the inn. They were

entirely private, screened more or less from the windows of the house by

a ramage of trees, which, if leafless now, was at least dense enough to

provide an effective lattice.

There were no formalities over measurements of blades or selection

of ground. M. le Marquis removed his sword-belt and scabbard, but

declined--not considering it worth while for the sake of so negligible an

opponent--to divest himself either of his shoes or his coat. Tall, lithe,

and athletic, he stood to face the no less tall, but very delicate and

frail, M. de Vilmorin. The latter also disdained to make any of the

usual preparations. Since he recognized that it could avail him nothing

to strip, he came on guard fully dressed, two hectic spots above the

cheek-bones burning on his otherwise grey face.

M. de Chabrillane, leaning upon a cane--for he had relinquished his sword

to M. de Vilmorin--looked on with quiet interest. Facing him on the

other side of the combatants stood Andre-Louis, the palest of the four,

staring from fevered eyes, twisting and untwisting clammy hands.

His every instinct was to fling himself between the antagonists, to

protest against and frustrate this meeting. That sane impulse was

curbed, however, by the consciousness of its futility. To calm him, he

clung to the conviction that the issue could not really be very serious.

If the obligations of Philippe’s honour compelled him to cross swords

with the man he had struck, M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s birth compelled him

no less to do no serious hurt to the unfledged lad he had so grievously

provoked. M. le Marquis, after all, was a man of honour. He could intend

no more than to administer a lesson; sharp, perhaps, but one by which

his opponent must live to profit. Andre-Louis clung obstinately to that

for comfort.

Steel beat on steel, and the men engaged. The Marquis presented to his

opponent the narrow edge of his upright body, his knees slightly flexed

and converted into living springs, whilst M. de Vilmorin stood squarely,

a full target, his knees wooden. Honour and the spirit of fair play

alike cried out against such a match.

The encounter was very short, of course. In youth, Philippe had received

the tutoring in sword-play that was given to every boy born into his

station of life. And so he knew at least the rudiments of what was

now expected of him. But what could rudiments avail him here? Three

disengages completed the exchanges, and then without any haste the

Marquis slid his right foot along the moist turf, his long, graceful

body extending itself in a lunge that went under M. de Vilmorin’s clumsy

guard, and with the utmost deliberation he drove his blade through the

young man’s vitals.

Andre-Louis sprang forward just in time to catch his friend’s body under

the armpits as it sank. Then, his own legs bending beneath the weight of

it, he went down with his burden until he was kneeling on the damp turf.

Philippe’s limp head lay against Andre-Louis’ left shoulder; Philippe’s

relaxed arms trailed at his sides; the blood welled and bubbled from the

ghastly wound to saturate the poor lad’s garments.

With white face and twitching lips, Andre-Louis looked up at M. de La

Tour d’Azyr, who stood surveying his work with a countenance of grave

but remorseless interest.

“You have killed him!” cried Andre-Louis.

“Of course.”

The Marquis ran a lace handkerchief along his blade to wipe it. As he

let the dainty fabric fall, he explained himself. “He had, as I told

him, a too dangerous gift of eloquence.”

And he turned away, leaving completest understanding with Andre-Louis.

Still supporting the limp, draining body, the young man called to him.

“Come back, you cowardly murderer, and make yourself quite safe by

killing me too!”

The Marquis half turned, his face dark with anger. Then M. de

Chabrillane set a restraining hand upon his arm. Although a party

throughout to the deed, the Chevalier was a little appalled now that it

was done. He had not the high stomach of M. de La Tour d’Azyr, and he

was a good deal younger.

“Come away,” he said. “The lad is raving. They were friends.”

“You heard what he said?” quoth the Marquis.

“Nor can he, or you, or any man deny it,” flung back Andre-Louis.

“Yourself, monsieur, you made confession when you gave me now the reason

why you killed him. You did it because you feared him.”

“If that were true--what, then?” asked the great gentleman.

“Do you ask? Do you understand of life and humanity nothing but how to

wear a coat and dress your hair--oh, yes, and to handle weapons against

boys and priests? Have you no mind to think, no soul into which you can

turn its vision? Must you be told that it is a coward’s part to kill the

thing he fears, and doubly a coward’s part to kill in this way? Had you

stabbed him in the back with a knife, you would have shown the courage

of your vileness. It would have been a vileness undisguised. But you

feared the consequences of that, powerful as you are; and so you shelter

your cowardice under the pretext of a duel.”

The Marquis shook off his cousin’s hand, and took a step forward,

holding now his sword like a whip. But again the Chevalier caught and

held him.

“No, no, Gervais! Let be, in God’s name!”

“Let him come, monsieur,” raved Andre-Louis, his voice thick and

concentrated. “Let him complete his coward’s work on me, and thus make

himself safe from a coward’s wages.”

M. de Chabrillane let his cousin go. He came white to the lips, his eyes

glaring at the lad who so recklessly insulted him. And then he checked.

It may be that he remembered suddenly the relationship in which this

young man was popularly believed to stand to the Seigneur de Gavrillac,

and the well-known affection in which the Seigneur held him. And so he

may have realized that if he pushed this matter further, he might find

himself upon the horns of a dilemma. He would be confronted with the

alternatives of shedding more blood, and so embroiling himself with