Arthur Blane; or, The Hundred CuirassiersGrant, James
History
Arthur Blane; or, The Hundred Cuirassiers
Grant, James
France -- History -- Louis XIII, 1610-1643 -- Fiction
'Stay, chevalier,' said one, laughing; 'let the poor man alone--'tis
only some bourgeois seized by a fit of valour.'
'Peste, monseigneur, I see by a glance that he is no bourgeois; and
where is his lantern?'
'You have drunk like a Swiss to-night, chevalier, and cannot see it.'
'Which way did our little grisette go?' said the other, unsheathing
his sword with a threatening air; 'say, say, or pardieu, I will spit
you like a sparrow.'
'Right,' added the other, furiously; 'morbleu! this wearies me. Run
him through the body if you will--he is only an Italian scaramouche
by his patois. Be quick with your work; for, sabre de bois! it will
not do for you or me, to be caught brawling at night in the capital
of Louis XIII. as if we were at home in Lorraine.'
'I am no Italian,' said I, pressing my blade against his; 'I am a
Scottish gentleman, and shall make you pay dearly for this
fanfaronade.'
'Peste!' said he, dropping his point for a moment; 'a Garde de
Manche?'
'No.'
'Pardieu, chevalier,' exclaimed, the other, who seemed bent on having
mischief, ''tis only a Scottish Calvinist, who on his way to the
devil, has visited our good city of Paris.
'Vive le fils d'Harlette!
'Then, have at you, monsieur!'
In a moment both our swords were engaged to the hilt; while he, whose
title of monseigneur led me to infer that his rank was high, remained
with his rapier drawn to see fair play--but he was so tipsy that he
could scarcely stand.
Our duel was silent, desperate, and quiet on my part; for I was
highly exasperated by the effrontery and daring with which these two
wild ruffs, regardless of all consequences, had fastened a quarrel
upon me; and I was resolved to punish them both severely; but my
antagonist continued to talk and sing while making all his lunges,
and as his back was turned to a dim oil lamp that swung behind him,
he had considerably the advantage of me, and took care to retain it;
yet I had no fear, for the famous Count de Forgatz was not a better
swordsman than I.
After all I had undergone in my own country--and this all, the reader
shall know ere long--the reflection flashed upon my mind, that Fate
would indeed deal hardly with me, if I should be slain, nameless and
unknown, in a street brawl, and left dead among the offal of Paris,
to be carried away to the Morgue by porters or the watch in the
morning. The very thought gave new fury to my heart, and fresh nerve
to my arm! The sword of the French chevalier was longer and heavier
than mine; but thanks to my Scottish education I was no way his
inferior in this desperate game; my slender blade, twisted and span
round his like a serpent; and after an engagement of three minutes,
every thrust he made was successfully parried.
'Tête Dieu! I came too late to the parry there,' said he, as my
point tore up the lace on the breast of his crimson velvet pourpoint,
and while the blades clashed and rasped on each other, striking fire
in the dark, he sang the last verse of his song.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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