Fortune

Any excitement that was likely to arise was checked by the Frenchman’s action. With a dark and cold smile on his lips, he turned to his friends and held up a slender white hand that was covered with jewels, and besought them, almost in a tone of entreaty, to display calmness.

Then with a most courteous apology to all who had suspended their play, and remarking that it was plaguy unfortunate that he must suspend his own when the cards had smiled upon him for the first time in a long season, he ordered the landlord to have all the room’s furniture drawn close to the wall.

While this was being done, the Count of Nullepart went to the Englishman and addressed him privily.

“This fellow,” said he, “is the first swordsman in France. He is the hero of a hundred duellos, and he is quite invincible.”

“Is he so, my dear?” said the English giant in his modest voice, which seemed to feign alarm. “How pleasant it must be for the poor soul to be invincible.”

Sir Richard Pendragon turned to me and said in a manner of courtesy I had seldom heard him use, “Prithee, good Don Miguel, oblige old honest Dickon by going into the stable yonder and procuring that little rapier of Ferrara steel, which you will find strapped to the saddle of the meritorious Melanto, who is now eating his supper of oats like a good Christian horse.”

In obedience to this request, I went forth to the stable to procure the rapier of Ferrara steel. Upon returning with it into the room, I found that a goodly space had been cleared in the centre. Both parties to the duello were standing therein stripped of their doublets. The spectators, exceeding a score in number, were seated on settles which were ranged close to the wall.

It was curious to observe the looks of mingled contempt, pity, and derision of these persons when I approached the Englishman and handed to him the Italian rapier. Some of them were unable to repress their mirth. They laughed out loudly, as though my action was the height of the ridiculous.

Before I had taken the chair that was offered to me, these adversaries had crossed their swords. If I live to be an hundred years old I shall never forget the battle that ensued. At the first shock of steel against steel it was clear that each recognized in the other a foremost swordsman of the age.

The knowledge did not induce fury nor any kind of excitement. It rendered them calmer, more wary, and subtle than they would have been otherwise. And the gentlemen present, each of whom, as the Count of Nullepart informed me, was a master of the sword, began soon to realize that one of their peers had come quite unexpectedly into their midst.

It was not all at once that this was made clear to them. At first they regarded the contest with smiles that were merely mocking and incredulous. Naturally it seemed the extreme of presumption that such a fellow, whose manners and appearance were so barbarous, should venture to stand up with a delicate and slender Italian weapon before the first swordsman of the time. But so soon as their true blades had met, the company began to exchange significant glances one with another, and in a very little while they realized that this was no tyro who stood before them.

From the first it was beautiful play. Owing to his stature, it was necessary that the Englishman should lose something of elegance in the comparison with his inimitable adversary, but, stroke and counterstroke, they were perfectly matched.

The spectators inclined to the opinion at first that Monsieur du Bartas, for that was the name of their champion, the foremost in all France, was not putting forth the whole of his art; but when presently they came to perceive how easily his deftest strokes were turned aside, they began to waver.

It was a long duello, yet it was one of which every phase was memorable. These two wonderfully accomplished men began to weave a spell upon their audience; and as their actions grew quicker and the finer shades of their play declared themselves, the spectators began to lean forward out of their seats, and with the loud and ringing music of the steel was mingled “bravas” and all kinds of applause.

As the combat proceeded the excitement grew more intense. The spectators seemed not to breathe. For the first time in his career their invincible champion stood in danger. No matter what the cunning and the incomparable skill of his devices, it began to appear that unless the unforeseen occurred to save him he went in danger of his life.

It was then that the buzz of voices and the murmurs of applause grew hushed, and soon the gay shouts, the sneering smiles, the sarcasm of their commentary, yielded to a dead silence. The circle of onlookers craned ever closer to the combatants, yet now not a word was spoken; and upon the faces of many there was a mingled surprise and consternation that they sought not to conceal. For the countenance of the first swordsman in France was growing livid. The sweat had crept upon his brow. Proud and brave man though he was, he had begun to feel himself in the grip of a power beyond his own.

As with amazing skill the Englishman parried stroke after stroke, which were themselves the fine flowers of his adversary’s talent, each one of which must have sufficed to place one less in genius out of his life, I overheard a bewildered gentleman of the King’s Guard say to a companion, “This fellow must be the Devil!”

All at once and quite suddenly there came the sound of bare steel striking the ground. The celebrated Frenchman, the hero of a hundred duellos, stood without a weapon before his adversary.

It was a moment I shall never forget. The sympathies of the Count of Nullepart and myself were of course engaged upon the side of Sir Richard Pendragon; but as this noble and imperious French gentleman stood with head upheld and a look of disdain upon his lips to receive the penalty of his failure, I think, in common with all the other witnesses of this splendid encounter, the count and I would have been only too eager to avert it could we have done so.

Yet Monsieur du Bartas looked not for mercy. He was known as one who neither gave quarter nor expected to receive it. None, therefore, looked for mercy for him. The Englishman had gained the victory in fair fight; it was perfectly just that he should enjoy its fruits. Such an expectation, however, merely shows how imperfect a thing is the science of reason, and how simple it is to do less than justice even to our friends. For none could have foreseen, least of all the Count of Nullepart and myself, that Sir Richard Pendragon, one of a rude and uncivilized nation, would stoop to pick up a fallen sword and, with a bow that would have become the most accomplished of courtiers, return it to his conquered adversary.

It was then that the silence of the gentlemen of the King’s Guard yielded to expressions of pleasure. They crowded round the victor, shook him by the hand, paid him most flattering addresses; and nothing would content these Frenchmen, regaled as they had been by great generosity and the highest skill, save that the Englishman and also his companions should remain with them, drink their wine, and partake of their hospitality.

Indeed, the rest of the evening was the most delectable it could have been given to any travellers to spend. We were treated with the most distinguished consideration by those who were not accustomed to exercise it on a light pretext. Yet it soon became clear that they had come to regard their guests as mysterious.

The French, as all travellers allow, are people of quick parts; and while they feasted and flattered us, it was plain to these gentlemen that we were other than we seemed. With all the courtesy possible, for even the Englishman could doff his brusque manners when it suited his humour, we declined to disclose a word of our embassy, contenting ourselves merely with inquiring whether the King was at Paris. It was our good fortune to learn that he was.

As the evening passed we felt ourselves to be the objects of a particular scrutiny. Our new friends grew most curious concerning us. After we had supped they asked us to take a hand at the cards. My two companions accepted this invitation; but I refrained from it because I was still very poor, and perhaps quite as conclusively because my northern breeding induces the virtue of caution.

No sooner had Sir Richard Pendragon and the Count of Nullepart begun to play than the interest of these gentlemen grew lively indeed. This was not so much aroused by the demeanour of the conqueror of M. du Bartas, but rather by that of the Count of Nullepart, who, in spite of his long beard and rustical Spanish, betrayed his true condition in unsuspected ways to those who were themselves high-born.

First, they observed his white and shapely hands as they lay upon the board. Again, there was the delicacy of his features, the natural politeness of his gestures; and yet again, they could not fail to detect the subtle and charming quality of the accent that lurked beneath his assumption of a rustical brogue. Thus it fell out that presently they came once more to confer among themselves, and then one of these gentlemen said with a most profound respect to the so-called Señor Fulano, “By my life, monseigneur, is not this a——”

Before this gentleman could conclude his remark the Count of Nullepart answered him in his charming natural speech and in the French tongue, “My good Clery, you are seldom prudent in the evening; and I am told it is entirely due to this misfortune of yours that you still remain without advancement. All the world knows that at Paris nowadays one must learn to see little and to speak less.”

No sooner had the gentlemen of the King’s Guard recovered from an astonishment which at first seemed to overwhelm them than they began to shout with laughter. For what reason they should thus view the matter I cannot explain; but from that moment a more formal air was imparted to the assembly. Something of ceremony declared itself, and the manner of all present became perceptibly less easy. Still this may in a measure have been due to the fact that these gentlemen put forth remarkable and in some cases highly ludicrous efforts to conduct their discourse in Castilian.

In one particular, however, our singular companion saw fit to rebuke them. They persisted in bestowing upon him the title of “Monseigneur,” so that presently he was moved to exclaim, “I pray you remember, my good friends, that I am neither more nor less than the worshipful Señor Fulano, worshipful kinsman to the worshipful burgomaster of the worshipful town of El Dorado. Beyond this I claim no title. And when the Señor Fulano comes among you to-morrow at the Louvre, which a conspiracy on the part of fortune has rendered necessary, I pray you not to call the honest person out of his true degree.”

Laughter and surprise greeted this speech; yet a kind of respect was paid to it, and during the rest of the evening they were careful to heed this request.

These gentlemen sat at their gaming far into the night. The play was high; gold pieces were numerous, being piled upon the table and exchanged freely. Also they drank an immense quantity of a very superior kind of red wine. Whatever the individual fortunes of the players, and of these I cannot speak, there was at least one among them who rose from the board considerably richer in the things of this world than when he sat down at it. I allude to Sir Richard Pendragon. Both the Count of Nullepart and myself were fain to observe that, whenever it came to the Englishman’s turn to take the dice in hand, quite as often as not he would have the singular good fortune to cast the double six.