University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
THE DUEL.

As Maurice had said, Vibert was considered
one of the first lames in the French
capital. But Ernest was nothing daunted
by the intelligence. Confident of his own
skill—he having devoted much time to perfecting
himself in the practice of all weapons
used by duellists at that period—he
was even glad to learn that he had no undue
advantage over his adversary.

They crossed their swords. Ernest was
as cool as if merely going through with the
exercises with a companion. Vibert, although
heated with passion, and desperate,
also appeared self-possessed; but he began
the combat with an energy that contrasted
strangely with the careless defence of his antagonist.
An anxious group was collected
around them, not the least interested of
whom was Maurice Lambert.

For some time the weapons of the combatants
crossed, and wound about each other
so to speak, with that grace and dexterity
which bespeak the accomplished swordsman.
At first Ernest confined himself to
observing his adversary's mode of attack,
and to defending his own person, without

seriously returning his thrusts; but, at
length, as Vibert pressed him more closely
his weapon moved with greater rapidity and
force, and his eye flashed with a strange and
terrible meaning. The two blades clashed
and grated against each other in quick succession,
when Vibert made a masterly thrust
and grazed his antagonist's side.

`A hit!' murmured the spectators.

`A scratch,' said Ernest, with a fiendish
smile, `but there will be something worse
in a moment!'

He now changed his mode of defence into
a furious and skilful attack, thrusting with
such precision and rapidity that Vibert was
obliged to fall back.

Ernest darted forward, and with a skilful
movement wrenched his antagonist's weapon
from his grasp.

`Finish me!' said Vibert.

`Resume your sword,' returned young
Clairet, with a smile.

Vibert did so. Again the two were opposed
to each other in deadly strife. Twice
the cold steel touched the breast of Ernest.
Vibert was bleeding at half-a-dozen wounds.
feeling his strength failing fast, he thrust
fiercely at Ernest, regardless of the wounds
he himself received, and at last succeeded in
planting his blade directly beneath his ribs,
on the left side. No sooner did Ernest feel
the pang shoot through him, than summoning
all his remaining strength, he plunged
his sword into the bosom of his antagonist,
and fell with him to the ground.

Maurice sprang forward to assist his
friend. He had already fainted, and the
blood was gushing from his wound. Two
surgeons were at hand; one of them hastened
to Ernest's side; and while the other
was occupied with Vibert, proceeded to examine
the gash in his side. The blood was
staunched, and Ernest was conveyed to a
couch.

`The wound!' whispered Maurice, in an
agony of doubt.

`Is dangerous, if not mortal,' replied the
surgeon.

In a few moments the young man recovered
his consciousness.

`And Vibert?' he murmured: `have I
killed him?'

`Ernest!' exclaimed Maurice, `do not
speak—'

`But tell me if he is dead!'

`I do not know. But you must be quiet.'

`Quiet! how can I be quiet? Impossible,
until I know if he is dead.'

An attendant was sent to ascertain the
truth. When he returned, Ernest had fainted
a second time. On recovering, his first
words were concerning Vibert.

`He is not yet dead,' said Maurice.

`Thank God!' murmured the young man.
`I am the one to blame; and if he should
die, I am a murderer!'

`Hush, Ernest,' said Maurice. `Remember
it was in a duel—'

`A duel—yes! but it is unpleasant to
think of leaving the world responsible for
the death of a fellow-being, even though that
fellow-being at the same time caused your
own.'

`Ernest—what do you mean?'

`I mean that I feel what the surgeon
would conceal from me—that my wound is
mortal, and—'

`No, no!' interrupted Maurice, in broken
accents, `it is only a slight hurt.'

`Do not attempt to deceive me, my dear
Maurice,' replied Ernest, with a sad smile,
`for I feel that I am going fast. Is my
father, M. Clairet, sent for?'

`Yes.'

`Well, but if I die before his arrival, you
will say to him that I thought of him with
gratitude, until the last. And, Maurice—'

Then the voice of the young man became
so faint that his friend was obliged to incline
his ear to his lips to hear him.

`Go on,' said Maurice.

`Send the attendants away.'

`They are gone.'

`My dear friend,' pursued Ernest, pressing
his companion's hand, `I have but two
requests to make, which, if you love me, you
will fulfil.'

`Ernest!' exclaimed the other, in a voice
choked by sobs.

`In the first place, if you ever meet a man
named Laurence Belfont—a man of about
fifty years—ask him if he remembers Virginie
Lordilliere; and if he betrays the least
emotion, it is he!'

`Who?'

`The man whom I have sought since I
was able to wield a sword—the man I have
sworn to punish—the man whom you must
kill as you would kill the betrayer of your
sister!'

`But, Ernest—'

`Do not question me, but swear to fulfil
my request.'

`I swear,' said Maurice, firmly.

`It is well!' murmured his dying friend;
`and now, Maurice, I have a secret for your
heart alone. Take the locket you will find
upon my heart—if it has not been removed,
and I need say no more.'

Maurice took the locket, opened it, and
beheld the portrait of her he had long loved
in secret—Marie Duval! He turned pale
and started back.

`You love her?' he murmured.

`Do I love her?' sighed Ernest; `ah!
better than life itself!'

`And she—she loves you?' gasped Maurice.

`Alas! I fear not! She does not even
know of the passion that has consumed me
—consumes me still!'

Maurice breathed more easily. A feeling
of jealousy had, for a moment, rankled in
his bosom, but full of noble devotion to his
dying friend, he banished all unworthy
thoughts, and forgot that Ernest might have
been his rival.

`This portrait,' said Ernest, `you will
keep.'

Maurice raised the miniature to his lips,
at the same time pressing the hand of his
friend.

`Keep it,' continued Ernest, faintly, `as
the choicest jewel your friend ever possessed.
When you look at it you will remember
me, and for my sake you will regard
Marie as a sister. I can say no more—do
not forget Belfont—Maurice—Marie—'

At that moment M. Clairet entered, and
found his adopted son fainting in the arms
of his friend.