"Comment, mon ami," said he, "you have quarrelled with the trees, then?"
"That's it, sir," said I. "Let's hope there won't be more damage done to-morrow morning than there is to-night."
At this he laughed, rather savagely I thought, for he was most bitter to the general all through it, perhaps because he was a devil at heart, perhaps because he really did feel strong about the woman.
"Sacré nom d'un nom!" he went on presently, "that would not please me. He has smacked me with his glove. I will return it to him round a bullet. Let me have the pistol in my hand a moment."
He took it up, for I had loaded it, and aimed it at the nearest tree. I could have laughed when he did not even touch the bark.
"Halloa, sir!" said I, "that won't do in the morning. He's a big man, is the general; but he hasn't quite got the girth of that tree."
"The devil take him, no," said he; "but he will die, nevertheless"—and with this he turned on his heel and went swaggering off to the great house like the dirty swashbuckler he was,
"Go on, my man," said I; "but if it isn't your corpse I put in the carriage to-morrow morning, write me down a tenderfoot. He'll shoot you like a dog, and you deserve it too."
I must say that I could see no other end to it. The general was a notorious pistol-shot; this man did not appear able to hit a cow at ten yards. It occurred to me at the time that Nicky knew of this when he egged him on so hard to refuse an apology, as I heard afterward that he did. Be that as it may, I went to bed saying to myself that Count Fédor Uspensky was as good as a dead man; and I got up, half an hour before dawn, precisely of the same opinion.
It was a bitter morning, dark and cold and stormy. The east wind whistled through the pines in a way most dismal to hear. There was a shower of biting sleet just as we started which almost took pieces out of our faces. We all drank cups of steaming coffee and plenty of brandy with that, wrapping ourselves up just like men going out to sing carols. It had been agreed that, we should pick up the count as we drove through the village. Sir Nicolas and I were alone in the four-horse carriage which Mme. Pouzatòv had lent to us, on the understanding that we were driving into Novgorod to smooth down all the trouble. I felt like a man going to a funeral, and I don't think my master was much better,
"Well," said he, when we turned from the park out upon the bare and lonely high-road to Novgorod, "which of them, I wonder, will live to speak of this morning."
"Both, I hope, sir," said I, "Any way, they should do, if the general can't shoot any better than our man."
"’Tis not that at all," replied he, lighting a cigar, and shivering even in his thick coat—"’tis not that at all, but a very bloody business, this same Russian duelling. Ye'll understand that they fire when they please after the word is given, and that if either man takes a step forward toward the centre line, the other man must do the same. Bedad! it might be plain murder, aud nothing less."
"What if they both fire up in the air, sir?" said I.
"’T would be a miracle," cried he; and just then we drove up to the house of the priest, and the count got into the carriage.
He was wrapped up as we were, a heavy military coat covering nearly the whole of his uniform. I could see that he had been priming himself up with drink, and he spoke like a man acting a wild part. Indeed, to hear him you might have thought that there was no such dare-devil in all Europe; while what he said about the general wasn't fit for the ears of a dog. When we were sick of his boasting—and that was soon—he fell to singing snatches of French songs, bawling, "Nous, nous marierons dimanche," by which I took it that he really meant seriously by the girl who had brought all the trouble. And I was precious glad at last when the carriage turned from the high-road into the woods, and it was time for us to get out.
CHAPTER XX
THE HONOR OF COUNT FÉDOR
The duel, as I have stated above, was to be fought under conditions common years ago in the Russian army, but rarely heard of to-day outside Muscovy. As the right understanding of these conditions is necessary to my story, I will say a word here about them. For the matter of that, they are simple enough for a child to follow. You place your men fifteen paces apart, and you draw a centre line seven and a half paces from each man. At the word "fire," it is open to either party to shoot or to keep his charge and advance toward the centre line. But when he advances his opponent must advance; so that, given a couple who really meant business, you might find them shooting each other at arm's length. There is nothing in the code to prevent this; nothing but a man's natural sense of right and fair play. It has been done times without number; it will be done again, so long as men leap at each other's throats for a word, or cross swords for a look from a woman's eyes.
I have given this explanation that you may follow me rightly in what I have to say about this particular meeting—the only duel I ever saw fought out, and the only one I want to see. When we arrived on the ground, our other second, who had driven over from Novgorod, was already measuring the fifteen paces. They had driven a stake into the turf to mark the centre line; and, as for the place chosen, it could not have been better. It was just a natural bit of lawn in the midst of the pine thickets; a little clearing so thick set round with woods that an army might have tramped the high-road and have known nothing of what we were doing. The general himself was al- ready there when we arrived, looking spick and span in his tight-fitting uniform, and having a bow and a smile for every one—even for the count. The surgeon, one from the barracks in the town, was busy chattering like a barber, and offering his brandy-flask to all who would like a nip out of it. As for the others—the general's seconds and our own—they were as busy as bees, and a thundering sight more important. You might have thought they were surveying the ground for a new railway, so carefully did they go over it with their tapes and rules; and it was not until a good twenty minutes had passed that one of them cried, "Gentlemen, we are ready," and I knew that the great play was about to begin.
I call it a great play; but, God knows, my heart was in my mouth—then and until the end of it. It's an awful thing to look upon two men, full of life and health and strength, and to think that one of them may lie in his blood, to die where he falls, before another minute has passed away. I can remember to this hour how my hands shook as I took the pistols out of the case and handed them to my master; I can remember what a strange stillness fell upon us all as the men took up their positions in the silence and the darkness of that gloomy morning. Even the doctor ceased his chatter and his jokes, and shut with a snap the case of instruments he had opened so briskly a moment before. It was as though we were already in the presence of death, and that the awe of death had come upon us.
"Gentlemen, are you quite ready?"
My master put the question in French, and hearing it, I glanced quickly at the two who faced each other. The count, I thought, had a look of bitter hate upon his face; the general was still smiling as blandly as a child. I could hear my heart beating like a pump as I watched them and waited for the word, which seemed a year in coming.
"Gentlemen," my master went on presently, "if you are quite ready"—here he paused—"if you are quite ready, then fire." At this word, he stepped back a pace and I saw him bite his lip in his anxiety. One of the pistols sent a thundering report through the woods almost as the word was given; but no man fell. The general had fired deliberately at the sky, and stood now with folded arms to wait the count's pleasure.
Good God! I have lived that moment a hundred times since that day. An unarmed man, waiting for the deliberate aim of a murderer who would have torn him limb from limb if he could! For that was the position—the old man still with that sweet smile upon his face, the young man toying with his pistol and looking like a madman or a devil. So awful