The Lane That Had No Turning, Complete. Gilbert Parker
did not stir. He could not make up his mind what to do. Cry out? No one could come in time to prevent the onslaught—and onslaught there would be, he knew. There was a merciless hatred in the Seigneur’s face, a deadly purpose in his eyes; the wild determination of a man who did not care whether he lived or died, ready to throw himself upon a hundred in his hungry rage. It seemed so mad, so monstrous, that the beautiful summer day through which came the sharp whetting of the scythe, the song of the birds, and the smell of ripening fruit and grain, should be invaded by this tragic absurdity, this human fury which must spend itself in blood.
Fournel’s mind was conscious of this feeling, this sense of futile, foolish waste and disfigurement, even as the Seigneur said “Three!” and, rushing forward, thrust.
As Fournel saw the blade spring at him, he dropped on one knee, caught it with his left hand as it came, and wrenched it aside. The blade lacerated his fingers and his palm, but he did not let go till he had seized the sword at his feet with his right hand. Then, springing up with it, he stepped back quickly and grasped his weapon fiercely enough now.
Yet, enraged as he was, he had no wish to fight; to involve himself in a fracas which might end in tragedy and the courts of the land. It was a high price to pay for any satisfaction he might have in this affair. If the Seigneur were killed in the encounter—he must defend himself now—what a miserable notoriety and possible legal penalty and public punishment! For who could vouch for the truth of his story? Even if he wounded Racine only, what a wretched story to go abroad: that he had fought with a hunchback—a hunchback who knew the use of the sword, which he did not, but still a hunchback!
“Stop this nonsense,” he said, as Louis Racine prepared to attack again. “Don’t be a fool. The game isn’t worth the candle.”
“One of us does not leave this room alive,” said the Seigneur. “You care for life. You love it, and you can’t buy what you love from me. I don’t care for life, and I would gladly die, to see your blood flow. Look, it’s flowing down your face; it’s dripping from your hand, and there shall be more dripping soon. On guard!”
He suddenly attacked with a fierce energy, forcing Fournel back upon the wall. He was not a first-class swordsman, but he had far more knowledge of the weapon than his opponent, and he had no scruple about using his knowledge. Fournel fought with desperate alertness, yet awkwardly, and he could not attack; it was all that he could do, all that he knew how to do, to defend himself. Twice again did the Seigneur’s weapon draw blood, once from the shoulder and once from the leg of his opponent, and the blood was flowing from each wound. After the second injury they stood panting for a moment. Now the outside world was shut out from Fournel’s senses as it was from Louis Racine’s. The only world they knew was this cool room, whose oak floors were browned by the slow searching stains of Time, and darkened by the footsteps of six generations that had come and gone through the old house. The books along the walls seemed to cry out against the unseemly and unholy strife. But now both men were in that atmosphere of supreme egoism where only their two selves moved, and where the only thing that mattered on earth was the issue of this strife. Fournel could only think of how to save his life, and to do that he must become the aggressor, for his wounds were bleeding hard, and he must have more wounds, if the fight went on without harm to the Seigneur.
“You know now what it is to insult a Frenchman—On guard!” again cried the Seigneur, in a shriller voice, for everything in him was pitched to the highest note.
He again attacked, and the sound of the large swords meeting clashed on the soft air. As they struggled, a voice came ringing through the passages, singing a bar from an opera:
“Oh eager golden day, Oh happy evening hour,
Behold my lover cometh from fields of wrath and hate!
Sheathed is his sword; he cometh to my bower;
In war he findeth honour, and love within the gate.”
The voice came nearer and nearer. It pierced the tragic separateness of the scene of blood. It reached the ears of the Seigneur, and a look of pain shot across his face. Fournel was only dimly aware of the voice, for he was hard pressed, and it seemed to come from infinite distances. Presently the voice stopped, and some one tried the door of the room.
It was Madelinette. Astonished at finding it locked, she stood still a moment uncertain what to do. Then the sounds of the struggle within came to her ears. She shook the door, leaned her shoulders against it, and called, “Louis! Louis!” Suddenly she darted away, found Havel the faithful servant in the passage, and brought him swiftly to the door. The man sprang upon it, striking with his shoulder. The lock gave, the door flew open, and Madelinette stepped swiftly into the room, in time to see George Fournel sway and fall, his sword rattling on the hard oak floor.
“Oh, what have you done, Louis!” she cried, then added hurriedly to Havel: “Draw the blind there, shut the door, and tell Madame Marie to bring some water quickly.”
The silent servant vanished, and she dropped on her knees beside the bleeding and insensible man, and lifted his head.
“He insulted you and me, and I’ve killed him, Madelinette,” said Louis hoarsely.
A horrified look came to her face, and she hurriedly and tremblingly opened Fournel’s waistcoat and shirt, and felt his heart.
She was freshly startled by a struggle behind her, and, turning quickly, she saw Madame Marie holding the Seigneur’s arm to prevent him from ending his own life.
She sprang up and laid her hand upon her husband’s arm. “He is not dead—you need not do it, Louis,” she said quietly. There was no alarm, no undue excitement in her face now. She was acting with good presence of mind. A new sense was working in her. Something had gone from her suddenly where her husband was concerned, and something else had taken its place. An infinite pity, a bitter sorrow, and a gentle command were in her eyes all at once—new vistas of life opened before her, all in an instant.
“He is not dead, and there is no need to kill yourself, Louis,” she repeated, and her voice had a command in it that was not to be gainsaid. “Since you have vindicated your honour, you will now help me to set this business right.”
Madame Marie was on her knees beside the insensible man. “No, he is not dead, thank God!” she murmured, and while Havel stripped the arm and leg, she poured some water between Fournel’s lips. Her long experience as the Little Chemist’s wife served her well now.
Now that the excitement was over, Louis collapsed. He swayed and would have fallen, but Madelinette caught him, helped him to the sofa, and, forcing him gently down on his side, adjusted a pillow for him, and turned to the wounded man again.
An hour went busily by in the closely-curtained room, and at last George Fournel, conscious, and with wounds well bandaged, sat in a big arm-chair, glowering round him. At his first coming-to, Louis Racine, at his wife’s insistence, had come and offered his hand, and made apology for assaulting him in his own house.
Fournel’s reply had been that he wanted to hear no more fool’s talk and to have no more fool’s doings, and that one day he hoped to take his pay for the day’s business in a satisfactory way.
Madelinette made no apology, said nothing, save that she hoped he would remain for a few days till he was recovered enough to be moved. He replied that he would leave as soon as his horses were ready, and refused to take food or drink from their hands. His servant was brought from the Louis Quinze Hotel, and through him he got what was needed for refreshment, and requested that no one of the household should come near him. At night, in the darkness, he took his departure, no servant of the household in attendance. But as he got into the carriage, Madelinette came quickly to him, and said:
“I would give ten years of my life to undo to-day’s work.”
“I have no quarrel with you, Madame,” he said gloomily, raised his hat, and was driven away.
CHAPTER IV. MADELINETTE MAKES A DISCOVERY