The Pit Town Coronet: A Family Mystery, Volume 1 (of 3)

She was married. No sooner was the ceremony over than the wicked count ordered her to present herself at the castle. The command of the feudal lord could not be disobeyed. Bride and bridegroom, accompanied by the weeping crowd, proceeded to the castle gate. Count Arduino advanced to meet her with a smile, unarmed and unattended. He was but claiming his rights. As he stepped forward to salute her, she presented her cheek to him, and suddenly stabbed him dead at her feet. The mob of relatives and friends wrecked and burned the castle, massacring the retainers to a man. The brave young bride was safely escorted home, where the wedding feast was triumphantly celebrated, and the miller's daughter lived to be the happy mother of many children, and died at a good old age. From that day the Droit de Seigneur ceased to exist in Ivrea.

This is the origin of the yearly ceremony at the little Italian town. A pretty boy of seven or eight years of age is chosen by each parish. The boys are dressed in fancy costumes and mounted on horses, escorted by the general of the Carnival, who wears a black uniform, and accompanied by his officers, who are clothed in scarlet. During the Carnival the town is under the rule of the general and his officers. The party are received in state by the mayor, the bishop, and the personages of Ivrea. A poetical address is given at each notable's house. On the second day, the children, some eight or ten in number (they are called Abba), on horseback, and escorted by the general and his officers, head a procession, which passes through the town, and which is joined by all the carriages of the place, filled with ladies in gala costume and men in fancy dresses. Everybody dresses up. Then are thrown from windows and balconies, oranges, flowers, and real confetti, not the chalk coriandoli of Milan, but good eatable sugar-plums. In the evening the little theatre is illuminated regardless of expense, a fabulous sum being expended on extra lamps. Between the acts the Carnival hymn is sung by the whole strength of the company, the Abba children, the general and his officers, who appear upon the stage; and it is a sine quâ non that every one should wear the republican red cap, even the Abba children and the lady artists. The more enthusiastic among the audience, male and female, also sport the red cap of liberty. Secreted in the omnibus box has been seated the prettiest girl in the town. The Mugnaia, as she is called, is carefully arrayed in the costume of the bygone time when the tragedy took place, and now she is escorted by the general of the Carnival to the footlights, a drum and fife band preceding her, the Carnival hymn is sung, vociferously encored and joined in by the audience. The Mugnaia now returns to the box in which she sits in royal state, the observed of all observers. Of course, she is got up regardless of expense. She, too, wears the little red cap, and, as has been said, has been chosen for her good looks. The opera is concluded, a masked ball follows.

Next day, at seven a.m., in every parish the bride who was last married proceeds in procession to the Piazza of that parish, and with a mallet she indicates the place for the annual scarlo, or bonfire. She is accompanied by her husband. The object of these scarli is to manifest the popular exultation at the annihilation of feudal tyranny. The pair now return home, preceded by a drum and fife band, and escorted by an enthusiastic crowd singing songs of liberty at the full pitch of their voices.

At two o'clock, the general of the Carnival opens the public ball with the Mugnaia. This is held in the Piazza Carlo Alberto, which is the largest square in the town. The orchestra is placed in the centre of the square. Then there is a procession headed by the Mugnaia, seated on a scarlet velvet throne, and borne in a gilded car; then comes a military band, then the carriages filled with shouting masqueraders and ladies in elaborate toilettes; flowers, sweets, and oranges, are thrown with amazing prodigality as before. In the evening, again the opera, again the masquerade. Next day the procession takes place again, and there is a public ball in the square till ten, then the Abba of each parish solemnly applies the light to his appointed scarlo. When the last scarlo is burned out a funeral march is played and all disperse to their homes. It may be mentioned that the scarlo is not literally a bonfire in our sense of the word, but what we should call a Venetian mast, bound with furze and inflammable material, decorated with gaudy ribbons and surmounted by a flag.

It is not likely that the inhabitants of Ivrea, who thus commemorate her heroic deed, will ever forget their Mugnaia.

But we have wandered away from Papayani's, where the door was surrounded by an enthusiastic crowd of the poorer among the gay pleasure-seekers of the Carnival. It was a rather trying thing for the arrivals as they stepped from their carriages and passed into the building through a double line of sarcastic or appreciative critics six deep. A quiet brougham draws up at the entrance, the door is flung open by a ragged masker, with an enormous paper nose, in a tattered pierrot costume. As he opens the door he bows to the ground with an exaggerated humility; and Haggard, in his faultless evening dress, steps out, with a frown upon his face, his big form towering above the puny Italian crowd as though he were a king of men in a horde of pigmies. He hands a lady out; her pale blue silk domino hides her effectually from the inquisitive gaze of the crowd. Her tiny gloved hand clutches Haggard's arm as he hurries her into the building, which is one blaze of light, and from which issue sounds of gay music and of the rhythmic tramp of thousands of dancing feet. The lady is discreetly masked, but though her personal identity is thoroughly disguised, she does not escape a fire of compliment from the appreciative ragamuffins on the pavement. "Ah! che ragazza bellisima." "Che figlia incomparabile." And as an antithesis to this flowery Italian praise, said one British 'Arry to another British 'Arry in the crowd, "Did you see her ankles, George? Do you know who that lady is?" Certainly the white satin dress of the Watteau costume that the lady whom Haggard was escorting wore, disclosed an undeniable instep, and 'Arry's favourable criticism was not undeserved. "I know one thing," said his friend, "there was no humbug in the single stone brilliants she wore as ear-rings." The pair disappeared among the glittering and gaily-dressed crowd that thronged the portico.

M. Barbiche, formerly of the French Embassy to the Court of St. James's, his eye-glass tightly screwed into one of his wicked little eyes, was lolling against one of the pillars of the foyer. He was criticizing the arrivals to Lord Spunyarn, who yawned by his side, evidently thinking the whole affair a bore.

"Our Haggard, my friend, is what you call an old fox, I fear. Who was the charming girl in the blue domino he was dancing with? I failed to recognize her. She is no habitué here. He intrigues me, this Haggard of ours."

"Pooh!" replied the philosophic lord, as he drove an unusually large volume of cigarette smoke through both nostrils; "some milliner's apprentice probably, got up regardless of expense."

"No, my friend, the shepherdess was too well chausée for that; besides, her mask hides her face too well. Your milliner would not be so farouche as to hide her face, unless, ma foi, she had perchance a bad complexion; but our Haggard is too great a connoisseur for that. However, he shall introduce me to this mystery, and we shall see."

"I wouldn't try if I were you, Barbiche."

"And why not, my friend? Why not, if you please? Is this Haggard, this English Adonis of yours, with the manners of a prize-fighter, is he to croquer all to himself all the pretty girls of Rome? Is it not enough that he shall have the prettiest wife in Rome? No, I wrong that angel, the most beautiful and the most virtuous of her sex. Is it not enough that this man shall every morning sit down to breakfast with the lovely Mees Lucy? Ah! when I think of Mees Lucy, I remember myself once more, and I think of those happy days in the Quartier Latin, before my uncle does me the honour to die, and I embark myself in the diplomatic career. I study your language in your Dickens, in your Thackeray; at last I attain proficiency. You see it for yourself, no Englishman ever shall suspect me, when we shall converse, of being other than a Briton. It is the same thing with the charming Mees Lucy. I, a Frenchman, feel my heart beat in sympathy with hers; she is to me a compatriote. We speak to each other as I used to speak to Cascadette in those old happy times. Vlan ça y est. This Haggard of yours he shall have his most beautiful wife, her most lovely cousin, but what shall he want with this little shepherdess in the blue domino. Bah," said the indignant man as he stamps his foot and settles himself down into his enormous collar, "I say he shall introduce me. Think you, my friend, that I fear this 'la-out?' No, I am of the first force, my Shirtings, at the savate."

"What's that?" said Lord Spunyarn stolidly.

"My friend, nous autres, we do not box like you, but we use the savate. Behold, then, what is the savate." And here M. Barbiche suddenly threw himself into the attitude of an enraged and aggressive monkey. "A ruffian, he strike me, P-r-r-r-r-r," and here M. Barbiche sprang suddenly high in air, and with one adroit and well-directed kick knocked off the hat of the astonished Spunyarn.

In the tohu bohu at Papayani's this singular action of M. Barbiche excited not the slightest surprise; he simply received a vociferous round of applause from the bystanders in his immediate neighbourhood. Excited by the success of his achievement, Barbiche for the moment forgot the Embassy, the Duc de la Houspignolle, and the proprieties; he had been wound up by Papayani's music, and by more than one glass of Papayani's champagne. The Frenchman became for the moment once more Le petit Furibon, the darling of the Closerie de Lilas, the champion of the Quartier Latin, the Elisha upon whose worthy shoulders had descended the mantle of the prophet, the vanished Caouchouc.

At this moment the strains of Arditi's immortal waltz, "Il Bacio," resounded through the place. The head of M. Barbiche kept time to the music, and he regarded the dancers with a scrutinizing gaze; his eye evidently sought Haggard and the mysterious shepherdess. As the ring of maskers which surrounded the space set apart for the dancers thinned, as numerous couples joined in the waltz, the watchful Frenchman was rewarded. "La voila, mon ami," he said, for Barbiche, when excited, forgot the English of which he was so proud.

Directly opposite Lord Spunyarn and his French friend stood Haggard and his shepherdess. She nestled at his side, clinging to his arm and gazing up into his eyes. The hood of the pale blue silk domino was now thrown back, disclosing a magnificent head of powdered hair; the complexion of the lady's neck and shoulders was dazzling, and evidently natural; her rounded arms had more of the Venus than the Juno about them; her figure, as she gazed up into Haggard's face, was seen to be perfection. The little foot beat time to the music of the waltz. But a black silk mask with a heavy fall of lace hid every feature, save a rounded chin and a pair of magnificent eyes, which seemed to be pleading to Haggard, and the shell-like ears in which blazed the diamond solitaires which had attracted the attention of the British "'Arry" in the street.

Haggard's face was suddenly lit up with pleasure, his arm slipped round the little waist, the left hand of the shepherdess was confidingly placed on the shoulder of her champion; they started and joined the numerous pairs whirling round to the music of "Il Bacio." Soon the couple excited attention, of which both seemed to be wholly unaware. Haggard, though he was a married man, was still a good dancer, and even here in a foreign ball-room, where, as a rule, the dancing Englishman is an object of ridicule, he distinguished himself. For Haggard, unlike most of the dancers present (at all events those of the male sex), was perfectly sober; not that the proverbially moderate Italians had exceeded in the use of their light but notoriously nasty wines, but an Italian easily becomes intoxicated, exalted, exhilarated, beside himself under the combined influences of a Carnival ball, the lights, the perfumes, the music, the dancing, and above all the eyes of his inamorata. Can we blame Petrarch for being cheerful when Laura smiles? But no Italian present was in so exalted a state as M. Barbiche of the French Embassy, once so well known as Le petit Furibon, of the Latin Quarter.

As the pairs gradually dropped out, Haggard and his partner became the cynosure of every eye. In vain did Pasquino whirl his Contadina with the ruddled cheeks, varying his saltatory gymnastics with an occasional scream; in vain did young Mr. Simon E. Brown, that very rough diamond from New York city, who had come to Europe for polish, and was undergoing the process (in the costume of one of the Wise Men of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl) at the hands of the Signorina Esperanza, of the Scala, or any of the motley crew, attempt to attract the public gaze: every eye was riveted with admiration on the shepherdess, that is to say, every male eye; the female organs of vision turned from her in disgust, to admire or criticize her partner, and in the end to feel dissatisfied with their own peculiar victims. For if the masked shepherdess turned the heads of most of those present, Haggard was undeniably the best-looking man in the vast arena. But even the strength of a muscular English dancing man must give way at length to the power of an Italian waltz played fast at past midnight. As for his partner, I believe she could have gone on for ever, but she had perceived that they were attracting attention; she discreetly drew the hood of her pale blue silk domino over her head and hid herself in the recesses of that mysterious garment. As ill luck would have it, the pair pulled up close to the excited Furibon.

"Ah, mon vieux," cried the Frenchman, advancing with extended hands, "you have rejoiced our eyes. Ah, gredin," whispered Furibon, as he indiscreetly poked his friend in the ribs.

"Ta ta, old man, I must be off," replied Haggard with a frown, as the shepherdess clung in evident trepidation to his arm. "For God's sake, Shirtings, take him away, or there'll be a row," muttered Haggard to his friend below his breath, his white teeth showing beneath his black moustache in a menacing manner.

The crowd of revellers was thick around them. Barbiche was, as we know, a gentleman, but our ideas of courtesy are not a Frenchman's, and, as has been said before, he had ceased to be Mr. Barbiche the viveur, for the moment he was Furibon, the daring Furibon of former days.

"Saperlotte," he hissed, and his out-stretched hand touched the pale blue domino on the shoulder.

The domino shrank as to avoid him.

Crash!

With one cruel but well-aimed blow Haggard smote the Frenchman in the mouth, and down he went among the feet of the crowd of indignant maskers.

"Look to him, Spunyarn," cried Haggard, as he hustled his way through the crowd, and in an instant disappeared, bearing in his arms the fainting form of the shepherdess.

Væ victis, alas for poor Furibon, where was his boasted skill as a kicker? Why had he not sprung high in air and delivered his unexpected assault? We must say of the savate respectfully, as our Gallic neighbours said of the Balaclava charge, c'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre. Seated on the floor, the unfortunate Frenchman presented a piteous appearance, as he shed mingled tears of pain and rage, tore his hair, and wiped his cut lip. "Insolente birbone!" "Bestia!" "Cane!" Such were the cries of the dancers on seeing the blow struck, but they were levelled not so much at the assailant as at his victim. In the eyes of the bystanders, Haggard was evidently looked upon as the protector of beauty in distress. But as Valour bore off fainting Beauty, and made his suddenly triumphant exit, everybody's attention was directed to the unhappy Furibon. A gentleman tearing his hair, in the eyes of Italians, is a common, interesting, and dignified object. The cause of this performance is usually romantic, time and place generally appropriate, but Italians do not tear their hair at masked balls. As everywhere else, a foreigner in distress in Rome is looked upon as a grotesque object, and poor Barbiche was no exception to the rule. At first he sat and wept, now he sat and swore, but all the time he tore hard at his hair. Haggard had disappeared with the celerity of a harlequin who jumps through a trap.

Lord Spunyarn was somewhat bewildered; he, as a boxer, as an amateur though unsuccessful athlete, knew what a good knock-down blow was; he had seen them delivered, with varying degrees of energy, force, and viciousness, but never in all his lordship's experience till now had he seen a master-stroke which combined all the above qualities in the superlative degree. At last he got poor Furibon upon his legs. The Frenchman carefully felt his front teeth, doubtful if they were still there, then he ceased to swear and to mutter in his own tongue; he ceased to be Furibon, he became once more the correct M. Barbiche of the French Embassy.

"Milor, you have seen the insult. Monsieur Haggard takes advantage of his physique, of his brutal boxing skill, to maim me, perhaps, Mon Dieu, for life, and to render me an object of contempt and ridicule to these grimacing apes," here he glowered at the laughing crowd.

"But, my dear boy, it was your own fault, you know; what did you want to lay hands on the domino for?"

"In that there is nothing, Lord Spunyarn. Black dominoes, pink dominoes, blue dominoes. Bah! they are but public property, milor, but I shall teach this Don Quixote a lesson, this chivalrous protector of dominoes. Yes," he added solemnly, as he crossed himself, "please God."

Lord Spunyarn shook his head. There seemed no other way out of it; the Frenchman had been struck, the insult was in a public place; an apology or arrangement was impossible. Spunyarn was well aware that Barbiche was by no means an antagonist to be despised. He had been a journalist, a career which in France may enable a man to attain the highest positions; from journalism he had drifted into diplomacy, as French journalists sometimes do. This was after his accession to the fortune of a deceased uncle. Of course, he was skilled with the small-sword, as all French journalists are bound to be; his reputation with the pistol was equally deadly.

"I shall send my friend to him in the morning," said M. Barbiche calmly, as leaning on Lord Spunyarn's arm he left the ball-room. "I suppose you will act for him?"

"Don't know, I'm sure. I'm not up to these things, but I don't see why you should shoot each other over it."

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders as he stepped into his perfectly-appointed but funereal-looking little brougham. As he drove home he meditated on his wrongs, and in his heart of hearts he swore that four-and-twenty hours should not elapse ere the insult should be avenged by his own skilful hand.

CHAPTER XI.

"Milor Spunyarn. I have the honour of addressing him?"

"Yes, it's quite right, that's me Please be seated."

The Frenchman sat himself down bolt upright.

"I suppose, Lord Spunyarn, that my visit is not unexpected. I had the honour to call upon your friend Monsieur Haggard, to demand satisfaction from him on the part of my friend, Monsieur Barbiche. You, I believe, were present at the whole affair. Monsieur Haggard has referred me to you as his friend."

Spunyarn bowed, stretched out his long legs towards the fire, and opening his cigarette case offered it to Monsieur de Kerguel.

"Won't you smoke?" he said.

A French gentleman in a new frock coat, on the most serious of all missions, the bearer of a hostile message to a man he has never met in his life before, is asked to smoke!

A crowd of strange thoughts passed through his mind. Are these Englishmen cowards? He drew himself up more stiffly than before, as he declined the offer.

"Have you breakfasted?" said his hospitable lordship, ignoring the gesture.

"Lord Spunyarn," replied the Frenchman, "I come to you this morning purely as the emissary of my insulted friend; not to accept of your kindness, or to trespass on your hospitality."

"Oh, of course I understand that; but you see we English don't fight duels as a rule. Of course I should be sorry to balk you, but can't it be arranged?"

"Lord Spunyarn, you are aware that my friend was struck. In my country, no gentleman receives a blow without avenging it. Least of all a journalist or a diplomate. My friend Monsieur Barbiche was one, and is the other. In speaking of arrangement, milor, I would suggest that we are wasting time."

"But I don't quite see that," persisted Spunyarn, strong in his idea that the man who fights a duel is a fool. "You see there was a lady in the matter, and your friend insulted her. Why man, he actually touched her, I saw him do it."

"Milor, ladies who go to masked balls are accustomed to such marks of attention. What my friend did was but a condescension on his part. But there was a blow struck, milor. Besides this, Monsieur Haggard has referred me to his friend Lord Spunyarn, I suppose with a definite purpose, and not with the intention of causing me to listen to, shall we say homilies, from his lordship."

"The whole affair's a beastly nuisance. I don't understand these things, but I will try to settle the matter."

"Milor, the matter admits of no settlement," said the Breton menacingly, rising from his chair.

"I tell you plainly, Monsieur de Kerguel, it is very much against the grain that I have anything to do with the matter. Unfortunately, as you say, I was present, and I tell you that our friend Barbiche behaved like a lunatic. Why he kicked my hat off, and I don't want to call him out."

Monsieur de Kerguel smiled. "If your lordship is in any way aggrieved by my friend's conduct, you have your remedy."

"Oh, I could have had my remedy last night; if I had felt aggrieved, as you call it, I should have done exactly what Haggard did—I should have punched his head, you know."

"Milor, no man of whatever nationality, as you happily express it, 'punches the head' of a French gentleman with impunity, unless peradventure," said de Kerguel with an insolent smile, "he is a coward as well as a boxer."

"Do sit down," said Lord Spunyarn imperturbably. "He's no coward," and taking from his pocket a note, he handed it to the Frenchman.

The letter was short but emphatic.

"Dear Shirtings,

"That ass Barbiche will send a friend to you asking for a meeting. Agree to anything he wishes and oblige

"Yours,

"R. Haggard."

The Frenchman read the letter, reseated himself, and with a bow handed back the note.

"I was precipitate, Milor. All this is very irregular; but we advance, though slowly."

"Yes, I suppose we do, worse luck. I'll tell you what I'll do. Old Pepper is stopping in this hotel; there seems to be nothing else for it, I'll send for him," said his lordship with a sigh, and he rang the bell.

The waiter who answered it was directed to present his lordship's compliments to General Pepper, and to request his immediate presence.

The Indian warrior had just breakfasted, and entered the room in a few minutes. He was introduced to the Frenchman; a few words from Lord Spunyarn sufficiently explained the matter.

"I understand then, Monsieur de Kerguel," said the general, "that we are the challenged party. As such we are entitled to a choice of weapons?"

Monsieur de Kerguel bowed. "Assuredly, Monsieur le Général," he replied.

"You will excuse us then for an instant?" said he, as he motioned Spunyarn to the window. "This is a beastly affair, your lordship. It won't admit of arrangement. Do you know if the Frenchman is best at swords or pistols?"

"Can't say, I'm sure," replied his lordship; "probably he's a dab at both. I know he was a newspaper man. They all are fighting men."

"It's most unfortunate for our man; they'll have to fight. Is Haggard any good at either?"

"I don't think he can shoot, at least not in a regulation affair. I know he can use a revolver, and he is very good at single-stick."

"It's a heavy responsibility," replied the general seriously. "If it had been arranged for this morning at dawn we might have had a chance with the pistols, for perhaps the Frenchman's hand would have been unsteady. I suppose it was a good knock-down blow?"

"A regular snorter!" said his lordship with enthusiasm.

"Most unfortunate. Well, we must try our luck with a regulation sabre; they can't well refuse it; ours is the stronger and bigger man. I don't think there's any room for doubt, eh? But it's a precious nuisance. Man's got his wife here too. It's sure to be in the papers. Beastly nuisance; we shall all have to clear out, for I suppose it won't be a mere matter of scratches. It must come off at once too, or we shall be suspected of shirking. I think that's the only course," said the general as he pulled down his wristbands.

"I'm afraid so," said his lordship.

They rejoined the Frenchman.

"Monsieur de Kerguel," said the general, seating himself, "we have elected to choose sabres, regulation sabres; you have no objection, I suppose?"

"Sir, the weapon is unusual. As you are doubtless aware, between civilians the small-sword, the rapier and the pistol are what are usually employed. The sabre is unusual, and as a rule only employed in settling the little differences of officers of cavalry."

"Monsieur de Kerguel, his lordship and I are here in the interests of our friend Haggard. You are possibly unaware that among English gentlemen the duel has ceased to be a means in these degenerate days of settling disputes. Unfortunately our principal has directed us in writing to agree to your wishes; and his lordship here has, somewhat indiscreetly, I must remark, taken you into his confidence. As he has done so, sir," said the general, "and bearing in mind that we are in a foreign country, and that unfortunately a blow has been struck, we feel ourselves reluctantly compelled to accept the proposed meeting. It is therefore our duty, sir, to protect our principal, and we cannot consent to abate one jot or tittle of our rights. Should you decline the weapon proposed no meeting can evidently take place," here the general gave a little sigh; "Lord Spunyarn is of the same opinion. It is then for you to accept or refuse; in the latter case the matter must definitely end here."

The Frenchman paused and thought.

"Unfortunately, gentlemen," he replied, "my principal has left me no choice; he naturally declines any apology——"

"You will please to observe. Monsieur de Kerguel, that we have offered none," interrupted the general; "in our humble opinion the original insult, as well as the challenge, comes from you, and we cannot deviate from our position. We decline to modify our terms in any way. And I would respectfully suggest that this interview must definitely terminate the matter one way or the other. I would remark," fiercely added the general, "that neither we nor our principal are to be cajoled or intimidated."

"It shall be as you say, general. Nothing remains then, I think, for us but to name a time and place. The weapons, the most unusual weapons, we are reluctantly compelled to accept under protest. Have you any suggestion to offer, general?"

"None whatever, sir. One party shall provide a surgeon, the other a pair of ordinary cavalry sabres. You as a resident in this infernal hole can doubtless suggest a suitable spot for the meeting. Of course you will be provided with a second friend. As to time, the sooner the better. We then, if it suits you, will bring a pair of regulation sabres. You, perhaps, will bring a doctor who will act for both men. Perhaps you will also oblige us by naming the time and place of meeting."

"Gentlemen, the mill at St. Stefano is only four miles off; it is secluded; we shall not be disturbed. You know the place? Five o'clock will, I think, suit us all? Is it agreed?"

The general bowed.

"Gentlemen, I have the honour to salute you," said Monsieur de Kerguel with a profound obeisance.

The general rang the bell, and Monsieur Barbiche's friend took his leave.

"Thank God!" piously exclaimed the general. "I had him there; Haggard is the bigger and more powerful man, of that there is no doubt. It shall not be my fault if they don't settle their differences with the longest and heaviest pair of regulation sabres to be had in Rome for love or money. It's quite against the rule, you know, but you say our man is good at single-stick, so he may have the luck to smash him or cut him down before the Frenchman spits him, as he is bound to do if he gets the chance. And I'll tell you what it is, my lord, I'll take a glass of curaçao, for I'm dry with talking."

The curaçao was duly brought, and certainly the general deserved it. The experienced warrior had perceived that De Kerguel was bent on mischief, and by his own coyness he had succeeded in beguiling the Frenchman into accepting a weapon of the use of which his principal was probably totally ignorant. The men would then theoretically meet on an equality. But a cavalry sabre is a big and comparatively awkward weapon, and supposing that both were equally unskilled in its use, Haggard, as the taller and stronger man, would certainly have the advantage. Besides this the old general meant it, when he had stated his design to provide a specially heavy pair of weapons.

In his great anxiety to secure a meeting at any price, De Kerguel had been compelled to accept the general's ultimatum with regard to weapons, "these or none;" but he knew that his principal thirsted for blood, so he gave way, and it seemed to him at the time that the trifling matter of providing the weapons was of little moment. But ere he reached his friend's hotel he felt that he had been caught napping.

Barbiche was extended upon a couch. A huge piece of black court plaister hid the wound on his swollen lip, a cup of tisane stood upon the table. He was dabbing his forehead with toilet vinegar. His head was bound with a scarlet and yellow silk handkerchief which he wore after the manner of a nightcap, as is the custom of his country. As his friend entered he sprang to his feet.

"Have you arranged it, De Kerguel? Will he meet me, or are these Englishmen brave only with their fists?"

"Do not excite yourself, Emile; you will have need of all your skill, of all your courage."

"He will come, then, this protector of the demi-monde, this model moral English husband. Say, is it sword or pistols, De Kerguel?"

"Ah! my poor Barbiche, I fear that I have, as our American friends say, 'given you away.'"

"You don't mean to say that the coward has apologized? This was no case for an apology, De Kerguel, as you know."

"I wish it had been," said his friend; "unfortunately you are to fight."

Barbiche instantly threw himself into a Napoleonic attitude. Under such circumstances a Frenchman always feels himself a hero, and invariably unconsciously assumes the favourite pose of the Little Corporal.

"Yes, you are to fight, my poor friend, but with cavalry sabres."

Barbiche suddenly buried his face in his hands, and exclaimed in a broken voice, "Oh, my mother!"

When a Frenchman is in a very deep hole indeed, he always apostrophizes his mother; on ordinary occasions he thinks little enough about her.

"Kerguel," he cried at length, looking up reproachfully at his friend, "you must have been mad. The sabre, as you know, is only used among cavalry officers; the pistol or the small-sword are the arms of gentlemen."

"And also of journalists, my friend. Of that the rusé old general, our man's friend, was unfortunately too well aware. You had tied me down too tightly, my Barbiche; my instructions were to obtain a meeting at any price. It was the choice of Hobson, that or none."

Barbiche placed his hand to his swollen lip.

"And you were right, my friend. Let us embrace."

They did so with effusion.

De Kerguel explained all the arrangements to his principal. Then they drove to the nearest cavalry barrack, where they had acquaintances; and that excellent fencer, Monsieur Barbiche, received an hour's lesson in the use of the sabre from the maître d'armes. But he found the weapon unwieldy, and he returned to his hotel a sadder man than he left it.

Old General Pepper ate his lunch with considerable relish. He was sick and tired of Rome, its churches, its ruins, and its priests. He longed, with an ardent longing, for that paradise of retired military men, "the sweet shady side of Pall Mall;" he longed, too, for the whist tables at the Pandemonium, and his so-called friends at that establishment. He felt that if he only got safely across the frontier he would be one of the lions of the season; for he was certain that the business he was bent upon that afternoon would be no child's play. He himself was no particular friend of Haggard's; but he was proud of having done his best for his man. "After all," said he to himself, "it's six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other. It's lucky for Haggard that Spunyarn sent for me, or that cursed Frenchman would have had his life to a certainty, for the friend meant fighting; I could see it in his eye."

Such thoughts as these passed through the worthy officer's mind as he carefully packed his portmanteau. Then he paid his bill. "Now," he soliloquized, "this is what I call being sacrificed. Of one of these fellows I know absolutely nothing, and precious little of the other. But in the cause of honour I shall probably have to run half across Europe, and the worst of it is, at my own expense."

Then the general started out to secure the longest and heaviest pair of cavalry sabres he could find in Rome.

Haggard was equally active. He informed his wife and her cousin that they must leave Rome at once; the convenient excuse of an outbreak of cholera in the city was a sufficiently valid one for the ladies. By two o'clock Mrs. Haggard and Lucy, their maid Hephzibah, and Haggard's useful and polyglot valet, a Swiss, named Capt, were en route for Geneva.

"Business, my dear, will detain me here till over to-morrow," said Haggard, as he embraced his pretty wife upon the platform; "but, please God, I shall see you then." Perhaps his voice faltered a little, as the possibility flashed through his mind that perchance, in this world, he might never gaze again into those loving, trustful eyes. One more kiss at the carriage-window and the train started, for even Italian trains must start at last. Haggard stood gazing after the disappearing carriages. Then he lit a big cigar and went back to his hotel. Then, as a good man of business, he made his will. It was short and to the point. He left everything he had in the world to his dear wife, Georgina Haggard. He rang for a couple of waiters, who duly witnessed it. And then from his pocket-book he took a little packet of tissue-paper. In it was a magnificent lock of hair. Alas, its colour was other than the deep chestnut bronze of Georgie Haggard's. He twined it round his finger, smoothing its glossy threads, and then he carefully dropped it into the hottest part of the wood fire which smouldered on the hearth. It curled and twisted in the embers as if it had been a living thing; a puff of smoke, a pungent odour, and it was gone. Haggard flung himself upon the sofa, and then he slept the dreamless sleep of a little child.

Punctually as the clock struck five, Monsieur Barbiche's faultless brougham and high-stepping horse drew up at the old mill, the only building which remained of the ancient village of St. Stefano. The place was well chosen. There was not a soul about. Barbiche, his face still very pale, dressed in spotless black, in his button-hole the red ribbon, so dear to every Frenchman's heart, and accompanied by his friend De Kerguel, stepped out. They were followed by a little dried-up Italian army surgeon, who carried under his arm an ominous-looking black case. They made for the miller's orchard at once.

They were not destined to be kept in suspense, for Haggard and his party had preceded them. All three Englishmen, Haggard, the general and Lord Spunyarn, were attired in ordinary walking dress; the general and Spunyarn advanced to meet De Kerguel. Barbiche and the surgeon remained a little apart.

"Gentlemen," said De Kerguel, as he courteously raised his hat, "we owe you an apology."

General Pepper's ruddy face assumed a purple hue. "Did these fellows mean to cry off after all?" But he was soon reassured.

"We have thought it better," said the Frenchman with a smile, "to avoid mixing up any one else in this unfortunate affair. Hence, gentlemen, we have dispensed with the usual second témoin. Dr. Battista, of the Papal Zouaves, is present. We had better perhaps lose no time."

"Be good enough," said the general, "to look at these." And from under his blue military cloak, which lay upon the ground, he drew a pair of regulation sabres, perhaps a little exceeding the ordinary length. They were heavy, murderous-looking weapons.

"I cannot object, gentlemen," said the Frenchman, as he carefully measured them and weighed them in either hand. "But——" here he eloquently shrugged his shoulders.

The expectant adversaries lost no time. They divested themselves of their coats and vests, and, bare-headed, each advanced to receive his weapon.

The general traced two lines on the dusty earth, about eight feet apart. Barbiche and Haggard took their places. The old general stood between them, but a little to one side; he held his stick, with the point raised a little from the ground, ready to dash aside the blades the instant that blood should be drawn.

"En garde, messieurs," exclaimed De Kerguel.

Both men put themselves at once on the defensive: their blades crossed, but the attitudes were different and characteristic. Barbiche, drawing himself up to his full height, raised his left arm while standing face to face with his adversary, brought the point of his weapon close to his finger tips in salute, and then fell at once into the regulation position of the French fencing schools—the right foot well forward, both knees considerably bent, the left arm high in air, the elbow at a right angle. He kept his sword pointed at the eyes of his adversary; but he never rested for an instant. He evidently meant business. Haggard, on the contrary, assumed a totally different posture. His left arm was behind his back, the hand clenched, the right leg perfectly straight. He held the sabre lower, but the point was kept unwaveringly at the chest of his enemy; his teeth were set. On his face was that quasi-good-humoured smile, which is alike assumed by the British boxer and the British ballet-girl when exhibiting their arts.

The Frenchman's blade scintillated in the setting sun around Haggard's more stiffly held weapon. As it grated against it, first on one side then on the other, Barbiche made pass after pass, feint after feint at his impassive adversary. Suddenly he sprang forward with cat-like agility, his left hand touching the ground, and he made a rapid pass from below upwards at the Englishman; his point passed dangerously near his ribs. It was the well-known extension en seconde; a favourite trick among Parisian swordsmen of the Romantic school. The attempt failed, and was followed by a rapid succession of miscellaneous thrusts and passes in bewildering variety. The Frenchman never withdrew his blade; but his very anxiety to make a hit was defeating itself. Such tactics with the light rapier or small-sword are doubtless correct; but Barbiche forgot the weight of his weapon, and the muscles of his arm were already beginning to tire.

As that experienced swordsman, General Pepper, standing with stick extended, viewed the fight, it seemed to him that Haggard, by remaining purely on the defensive, ran a considerable risk, but that was Haggard's business. Perhaps after all his principal meant to take a flesh wound, and so end the matter. "But," thought the general to himself, "he'll find out his mistake, if that dancing devil gets in one of his vicious thrusts." Spunyarn looked on, and the perspiration streamed from his face. De Kerguel was no less excited, but he preserved a calm exterior.

More than two minutes had now elapsed since the combat had first commenced. These things take longer to tell than to do. Suddenly, in an instant, Barbiche made a furious lunge at his opponent; the Englishman parried it with ease, dropping his point lower than usual. As if blind to the consequences, the Frenchman rushed forward with a short sharp cry, his sword passed across Haggard's chest without touching him, but poor Barbiche had literally impaled himself on his adversary's extended weapon. His sabre dropped from his hand. He flung both his arms high in air, giving one bitter shriek. His face assumed the expression of one enduring intense torture, and then was calm again. The body, for he was dead, slipped off Haggard's sword in a heap at his feet. Haggard flung his weapon to the ground, and all four men crowded round the corpse.

"He is stone dead," said the surgeon.

There was a solemn silence.

"Save yourselves, gentlemen," at length cried De Kerguel. "I will see to my unfortunate friend. It was his own fault and mine," he said with a sigh.

The Englishmen saluted. Haggard resumed his garments, and they hurried from the field, unobserved and unmolested.

Next morning Rome rang with the affair; by noon all three Englishmen were safely over the frontier.