St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England — John Shaqi
St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in EnglandStevenson, Robert Louis
General
St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England
Stevenson, Robert Louis
French -- England -- Fiction; Prisoners of war -- Fiction
‘About an affair of honour?’ I repeated, like a man quite puzzled.
‘It was not an affair of honour, then?’ he asked.
‘What was not? I do not follow,’ said I.
He gave no sign of impatience; simply sat awhile silent, and began again
in the same placid and good-natured voice: ‘The court and I were at one
in setting aside your evidence. It could not deceive a child. But there
was a difference between myself and the other officers, because _I knew
my man_ and they did not. They saw in you a common soldier, and I knew
you for a gentleman. To them your evidence was a leash of lies, which
they yawned to hear you telling. Now, I was asking myself, how far will
a gentleman go? Not surely so far as to help hush a murder up? So
that—when I heard you tell how you knew nothing of the matter, and were
only awakened by the corporal, and all the rest of it—I translated your
statements into something else. Now, Champdivers,’ he cried, springing
up lively and coming towards me with animation, ‘I am going to tell you
what that was, and you are going to help me to see justice done: how, I
don’t know, for of course you are under oath—but somehow. Mark what I’m
going to say.’
At that moment he laid a heavy, hard grip upon my shoulder; and whether
he said anything more or came to a full stop at once, I am sure I could
not tell you to this day. For, as the devil would have it, the shoulder
he laid hold of was the one Goguelat had pinked. The wound was but a
scratch; it was healing with the first intention; but in the clutch of
Major Chevenix it gave me agony. My head swam; the sweat poured off my
face; I must have grown deadly pale.
He removed his hand as suddenly as he had laid it there. ‘What is wrong
with you?’ said he.
‘It is nothing,’ said I. ‘A qualm. It has gone by.’
‘Are you sure?’ said he. ‘You are as white as a sheet.’
‘Oh no, I assure you! Nothing whatever. I am my own man again,’ I said,
though I could scarce command my tongue.
‘Well, shall I go on again?’ says he. ‘Can you follow me?’
‘Oh, by all means!’ said I, and mopped my streaming face upon my sleeve,
for you may be sure in those days I had no handkerchief.
‘If you are sure you can follow me. That was a very sudden and sharp
seizure,’ he said doubtfully. ‘But if you are sure, all right, and here
goes. An affair of honour among you fellows would, naturally, be a
little difficult to carry out, perhaps it would be impossible to have it
wholly regular. And yet a duel might be very irregular in form, and,
under the peculiar circumstances of the case, loyal enough in effect. Do
you take me? Now, as a gentleman and a soldier.’
His hand rose again at the words and hovered over me. I could bear no
more, and winced away from him. ‘No,’ I cried, ‘not that. Do not put
your hand upon my shoulder. I cannot bear it. It is rheumatism,’ I made
haste to add. ‘My shoulder is inflamed and very painful.’
He returned to his chair and deliberately lighted a cigar.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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