# The Indiscretion of the Duchess/Chapter 19

CHAPTER XIX.
Unsummoned Witnesses.
LOWLY the afternoon wore away. My content had given place to urgent impatience, and I longed every moment for the summons to action. None came; and a quarter to five I went downstairs, hoping to find some means of whiling away the interval of time. Pushing open the door of the little salle-à-manger, I was presented with a back view of my host M. Bontet, who was leaning out of the window. Just as I entered, he shouted “Ready at six!” Then he turned swiftly round, having, I suppose, heard my entrance; at the same moment, the sound of a door violently slammed struck on my ear across the yard. I moved quickly up to the window. The stable door was shut; and Bontet faced me with a surly frown on his brow.
“What is to be ready at six?” I asked.
“Some refreshments for Mme. Delhasse,” he answered readily.
“You order refreshments from the stable?”
“I was shouting to the scullery: the door is, as you will perceive, sir, there to the left.”
Now I knew that this was a lie, and I might ​very likely have said as much, had not the Duke of Saint-Maclou at this moment come into the room. He bowed to me, but addressed himself to Bontet.
“Well, are the gentlemen to be here at five?” he asked.
Bontet, with an air of relief, began an explanation. One of the gentlemen—M. de Vieuville, he believed—had read out the note in his presence, and had desired him to tell the duke that he and the other gentleman would meet the duke and his friend on the sands at a quarter to six. They would be where the road ceased and the sand began at that hour.
“He seems to think,” Bontet explained, “that less attention would thus be directed to the affair.”
The precaution seemed wise enough; but why had M. de Vieuville taken Bontet so much into his confidence? The same thought struck the duke, for he asked sharply:
“Why did he read the note to you?”
“Oh, he thought nothing of that,” said Bontet easily. “The gentlemen at Pontorson know me very well: several affairs have been arranged from this house.”
“You ought to keep a private cemetery,” said the duke with a grim smile.
“The sands are there,” laughed the fellow, with a wave of his hand.
Nobody appeared to desire to continue this cheerful conversation, and silence fell upon us for some moments. Then the duke observed:
“Bontet, I want you for a few minutes. Mr. ​Aycon, shall you be ready to start in half an hour? Our friends will probably bring pistols: failing that, I can provide you, if you have no objection to using mine.”
I bowed, and they left me alone. And then, having nothing better to do, I lit a cigar, vaulted out of the window, and strolled toward the stable. My curiosity about the stable had been growing rapidly. I cast a glance round, and saw nobody in the yard. Then, with a careless air, I turned the handle of the door. Nothing occurred. I turned it more violently; still nothing happened. I bent down suddenly and looked through the keyhole. And I saw—not a key, but—an eye! And for ten seconds I looked at the eye. Then the eye disappeared; and I heard that little unmistakable “click.” The eye had a pistol—and had cocked it! Was that because it saw through the keyhole strange garments, instead of the friendly bright blue of Bontet’s blouse? And why had the eye such a dislike to strangers? I straightened myself again and took a walk along the length of the stable, considering these questions and, incidentally, looking for a window; but the only window was a clear four feet above my head.
I am puzzled even now to say whether I regret not having listened to the suspicion that was strong in my breast. Had I forecast, in the least degree, the result of my neglecting to pay heed to its warning, I should not have hesitated for a moment. But in the absence of such a presage, I felt rather indifferent about the matter. My predominant desire was to ​avoid the necessity of postponing the settlement of the issue between the duke and myself; and a delay to that must needs follow, if I took action in regard to the stable. Moreover, why should I stir in the matter? I had a right to waive any grievance of my own; for the rest, it seemed to me that justice was not much concerned in the matter; the merits or demerits of the parties were, in my view, pretty equal; and I questioned the obligation to incur, not only the delay which I detested, but, in all probability, a very risky adventure in a cause which I had very little at heart.
If “the eye” could, by being “ready at six,” get out of the stable while the duke and I were engaged otherwise and elsewhere, why—“Let him,” said I, “and go to the devil his own way. He’s sure to get there at last!” So I reasoned—or perhaps, I should rather say, so I felt; and I must repeat that I find it difficult now to be very sorry that my mood was what it was.
My half hour was passing. I crossed back to the window and got in again. The duke, whose impatience rivaled my own, was waiting for me. A case of pistols lay on the table and, having held them up for me to see, he slipped them inside his coat.
“Are you ready, sir?” he asked. “We may as well be starting.”
I bowed and motioned him to precede me. He also, in spite of his impatience, seemed to me to be in a better humor than earlier in the day. The interview with Mme. Delhasse must have been satisfactory to both parties. Had ​not his face showed me the improvement in his temper, his first words after we left the premises of the inn (at a quarter past five exactly) would have declared it; for he turned to me and said:
“Look here, Mr. Aycon. You’re running a great risk for nothing. Be a sensible man. Go back to Avranches, thence to Cherbourg, and thence to where you live—and leave me to settle my own affairs.”
“Before I accept that proposal,” said I, “I must know what ‘your own affairs’ include.”
“You’re making a fool of yourself—or being made a fool of—which you please,” he assured me; and his face wore for the moment an almost friendly look. I saw clearly that he believed he had won the day. The old lady had managed to make him think that—by what artifice I knew not. But what I did know was that I believed not a jot of the insinuation he was conveying to me, and had not a doubt of the truth, and sincerity of Marie Delhasse.
“The best of us do that sometimes,” I answered. “And when one has begun, it is best to go through.”
“As you please. Have you ever practiced with your left hand?”
“No,” said I.
“Then,” said he, “you’ve not long to live.”
To do him justice, he said it in no boasting way, but like a man who would warn me, and earnestly.
“I have never practiced with my right either,” I remarked. “I think I get rather a pull by the arrangement.”
​He walked on in silence for a few yards. Then he asked:
“You’re resolved on it?”
“Absolutely,” I returned. For I understood that he did but offer the same terms as before—terms which included the abandonment of Marie Delhasse.
On we went, our faces set toward the great Mount, and with the sinking sun on our left hands. We met few people, and as we reached the sands yet fewer. When we came to a stand, just where the causeway now begins (it was not built then), nobody was in sight. The duke took out his watch.
“We are punctual to the minute,” said he. “I hope those fellows won’t be very late, or the best of the light will be gone.”
There were some large flat blocks of stone lying by the roadside, and we sat down on them and waited. We were both smoking, and we found little to say to one another. For my part, I thought less of our coming encounter than of the success of the scheme which I had laid for Marie’s safety. And I believe that the duke, on his part, gave equally small heed to the fight; for the smile of triumph or satisfaction flitted now and again across his face, called forth, I made no doubt, by the pleasant conviction which Mlle. Delhasse had instilled into his mind, and which had caused him to dub me a fool for risking my life in the service of a woman who had promised all he asked of her.
But the sun sank; the best of the light went; ​and the officers from Pontorson did not come. It was hard on six.
“If we fight to-night, we must fight now!” cried the duke suddenly. “What the plague has become of the fellows?”
“It’s not too dark for me,” said I.
“But it soon will be for me,” he answered. “Come, are we to wait till to-morrow?”
“We’ll wait till to-morrow,” said I, “if you’ll promise not to seek to see or speak to Mlle. Delhasse till to-morrow. Otherwise we’ll fight tonight, seconds or no seconds, light or no light!”
I never understood perfectly the temper of the man, nor the sudden gusts of passion to which, at a word that chanced to touch him, he was subject. Such a storm caught him now, and he bounded up from where he sat, cursing me for an insolent fellow who dared to put him under terms—for a fool who flattered himself that all women loved him—and for many other things which it is not well to repeat. So that at last I said:
“Lead the way, then: you know the best place, I suppose.”
Still muttering in fury, cursing now me, now the neglectful seconds, he strode rapidly on to the sands and led the way at a quick pace, walking nearly toward the setting sun. The land trended the least bit outward here, and the direction kept us well under the lee of a rough stone wall that fringed the sands on the landward side. Stunted bushes raised their heads above the wall, and the whole made a perfect screen. Thus we walked for some ten minutes ​with the sun in our eyes and the murmur of the sea in our ears. Then at a spot where the bushes rose highest the duke abruptly stopped, saying, “Here,” and took the case of pistols out of his pocket. He examined the loading, handing each in turn to me. While this was being done neither of us spoke. Then he held them both out, the stocks towards me; and I took the one nearest to my hand. The duke laid the other down on the sands and motioned me to follow his example; and he took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wound it round his right hand, confining the fingers closely.
“Tie the knot, if you can,” said he, holding out his hand thus bound.
“So far I am willing to trust you,” said I; but he bowed ironically as he answered:
“It will be awkward enough anyhow for the one of us that chances to kill the other, seeing that we have no seconds or witnesses; but it would look too black against me, if my right hand were free while yours is in a sling. So pray, Mr. Aycon, do not insist on trusting me too much, but tie the knot if your wounded arm will let you.”
Engrossed with my thoughts and my schemes, I had not dwelt on the danger to which he called my attention, and I admit that I hesitated.
“I have no wish to be called a murderer,” said I. “Shall we not wait again for M. de Vieuville and his friend?”
“Curse them!” said he, fury in his eye again. “By Heavens, if I live, I’ll have a word with them for playing me such a trick! The ​light is all but gone now. Come, take your place. There is little choice.”
“You mean to fight, then?”
“Not if you will leave me in peace: but if not——”
“Let us go back to the inn and fight to-morrow: and meanwhile things shall stand as they are,” said I, repeating my offer, in the hope that he would now be more reasonable.
He looked at me sullenly; then his rage came again upon him, and he cried:
“Take your place: stand where you like, and, in God’s name, be quick!” And he paused, and then added: “I cannot live another night——” And he broke off again, and finished by crying: “Quick! Are you ready?”
Seeing there was no help for it, I took up a position. No more words passed between us, but with a gesture he signed to me to move a little: and thus he adjusted our places till we were opposite one another, about two yards between us, and each presenting his side direct to the sun, so that its slanting rays troubled each of us equally, and that but little. Then he said:
“I will step back five paces, and do you do the like. When we are at the distance, do you count slowly, ‘One—two—three,’ and at ‘Three’ we will fire.”
I did not like having to count, but it was necessary that one of us should; and he, when I pressed him, would not. Therefore it was arranged as he said. And I began to step back, but for an instant he stayed me. He was calm now, and he spoke in quiet tones.
​“Even now, if you will go!” said he. “For the girl is mine; and I think that, and not my life or death, is what you care about.”
“The girl is not yours and never will be,” said I. But then I remembered that, the seconds not having come, my scheme had gone astray, and that if he lived in strength, Marie would be well-nigh at his mercy. And on that I grew stern, and the desire for his blood came on me; and he, I think, saw it in my face, for he smiled, and without more turned and walked to his place. And I did the like; and we turned round again and stood facing one another.
All this time my pistol had hung in the fingers of my right hand. I took it now in my left, and looked to it, and cried to the duke:
“Are you ready?”
And he answered easily:
“Yes, I’m ready.”
Then I raised my arm and took my aim,—and if the aim were not true on his heart, my hand and not my will deserves the praise of Mercy,—and I cried aloud:
“One!” and paused; and cried “Two!”
And as the word left my lips—before the final fatal “Three!” was so much as ready to my tongue—while I yet looked at the duke to see that I was not taking him unawares—loud and sharp two shots rang out at the same instant in the still air: I felt the whizz of a bullet, as it shaved my ear; and the duke, without a sound, fell forward on the sands, his pistol exploding as he fell.
After all we had our witnesses!