Chapter 12: the Hunter and the Bravo

Robert turned away, not wishing to meet Boucher again, as he felt that the man would say something provocative, and, standing on one side with de Courcelles, he watched the players. The air was heated, and the faces of the men were strained and eager. It was all unwholesome to the last degree, and he felt repulsion, yet it held him for the time with a fascination due to curiosity. He saw Boucher begin to play and as the latter held his cards, noticed again his thick and strong, but supple wrists. Uncommon wrists they were, and Robert knew that an uncommon amount of power was stored in them.

Bigot presently observed Robert, and asked him to play, but the lad declined, and he was brave enough to say that he never played. Bigot laughed and shook his head.

“Ah, you Puritan Bostonnais!” he said; “you’ll never learn how to live.”

Then he went back to his game.

“I think,” said Robert, upon whom the heat and thick air were beginning to tell, “that I’d like to go outside and breathe a little fresh air.”

“It is like a hothouse in here,” said de Courcelles.

“It’s but a step from this room to a little garden, where we can find all the cool air we want.”

“Then show the way,” said Robert quickly. He was eager to escape from the room, not alone for the sake of air, but because the place choked him. After a period of excitement and mental intoxication the reaction had come. The colors were growing dimmer, the perfume in the air turned to poison, and he longed for the clean out-of-doors.

De Courcelles opened a small door and they stepped out. Robert did not notice that Boucher instantly put down his cards and followed. Before them was a grassy lawn with borders of rose bushes, and beyond, the vast sweep of the hills, the river and the far shore showed dimly through the dusk. The air, moved by a light wind, was crisp, fresh and pure, and, as Robert breathed it deeply, he felt his head grow clear and cool. Several men were walking in the garden. One of them was Jumonville, and the others he did not know.

“A wonderful site and a wonderful view,” said Robert.

“But from Montmartre in Paris one may see a far greater city,” said Boucher at his elbow.

Robert turned angrily upon him. He felt that the man, in some manner, was pursuing him, and that he had stood enough.

“I did not speak to you, Monsieur Boucher,” he said.

“But I spoke to you, my young sprig of a Bostonnais.”

He spoke with truculence, and now de Courcelles did not interfere. The others, hearing loud and harsh words, drew near. Jumonville came very close and regarded Robert with great intentness, evidently curious to see what he would do. The youth stared at Boucher in amazement, but he exercised his utmost self-control.

“I know that you spoke to me, Monsieur Boucher,” he said, “but as I do not see any relevancy in your remarks I will ask you to excuse me. I came here merely for the air with Colonel de Courcelles.”

He turned away, expecting de Courcelles to resume the walk with him, but the figure of the Frenchman stiffened and he did not move. All at once a wind of hostility seemed to be blowing. Somewhere in the dusk, somebody laughed lightly. Robert’s face blazed, but he was still master of himself.

“And so you would leave after speaking to me in a manner that is an insult,” sneered Boucher.

“You were the first to give an insult.”

“If you think so I am ready to return satisfaction.”

Boucher folded his arms across his chest, his powerful wrists crossed, and stared at Robert, his lips wrinkling in ugly fashion. It was a look like that which Tandakora had given him, and there in the background was the huge and sinister figure of the Indian, wrapped in his blanket of flame. He also saw de Mézy and he too was sneering in insolent triumph. De Courcelles, from whom he had a right at that time to expect friendship, or at least support, had drawn farther away.

“I am a guest here,” said Robert, “and I seek no trouble. I don’t wish to mar the hospitality of Monsieur Bigot by being a party to a quarrel in his garden.”

Again that light laugh came from a point somewhere in the dusk and again Robert’s face blazed, but he still held himself under firm control.

“You were ready enough to fight Count Jean de Mézy this morning,” said Boucher, “knowing that he was not in condition and that you had a skill with the sword not suspected by him.”

The truth of it all flashed upon Robert with the certainty of conviction. The entire situation had been arranged and de Courcelles was one of its principals. He had been brought into the garden that a fight might be forced upon him there. Boucher was a bravo and undoubtedly a great swordsman. He understood now the secret of those thick flexible wrists and of the man’s insulting manner. His blood became ice in his veins for a moment or two, but it was good for him, cooling his head and quickening his mind. His heart beat with regularity and steadiness.

“I thank you, Monsieur de Courcelles,” he said, “for your action in this matter, which I now understand. It’s true that it departs in some respects from what I have understood to be the code and practice of a French gentleman, but doubtless, sir, it’s your right to amend those standards as you choose.”

De Courcelles flushed, bit his lip and was silent.

“Very pretty! Very pretty!” sneered Boucher, “but French gentlemen are the best judges of their own manners and morals. You have your sword, sir, and I have mine. Here is a fine open space, well lighted by the moon, and no time is better than the present. Will you draw, sir?”

“He will not,” said a voice over Robert’s shoulder, which he instantly recognized as that of the hunter. He felt suddenly as if a great wall had been raised for his support. He was no longer alone among plotting enemies.

“And why will he not, and what affair is it of yours?” asked Boucher, his manner threatening.

Willet took a step forward, his figure towering and full of menace. Just behind him was Tayoga. Robert had never seen the hunter look taller or more charged with righteous wrath. But it was an anger that burned like a white hot flame, and it was alive with deadly menace.

“He will not draw because he was brought here to be assassinated by you, bully and bravo that you are,” replied Willet, plumbing the very depths of Boucher’s eyes with his stern gaze. “I like the French, and I know them to be a brave and honest people. I did not think that in a gathering of French gentlemen enough could be found to form a treacherous and murderous conspiracy like this.”

Nobody laughed in the dusk. The silence was intense. A cool wind blew across Robert’s face, and he felt anew that an invincible champion stood by his side. Boucher broke the silence with a contemptuous laugh.

“Out of the way, sir,” he said. “The affair does not concern you. If he does not draw and defend himself I will chastise him with the flat of my sword.”

“You will not,” said the hunter, in his cool, measured tones. “You will fight me, instead.”

“My quarrel is not with you.”

“But it soon will be.”

Near Willet was a rose bush with fresh earth heaped over its roots. Stooping suddenly he picked up a handful and flung it with force into the bravo’s face. Boucher swore under his breath, stepped back, and wiped away the earth.

“You’ve earned the precedence, sir,” he said, “though I reserve the right to attend to Mr. Lennox afterward. ‘Tis a pity that I should have to waste my steel on a common hunter. I call all of you to witness that this quarrel was forced upon me.”

“Your pity does you credit,” said the hunter, “but it’s not needed. ‘Twere better, sir, if you have such a large supply of that commodity that you save a little of it for yourself. And as for your attending to Mr. Lennox afterward, that meeting, I think, will not occur.”

A long breath came from the crowd. This strange hunter spoke in a confident tone, and so he must know more than a little of the sword. De Galisonnière had just come into the garden, and was about to speak, but when he saw that Willet was face to face with Boucher he remained silent.

“Robert,” said the hunter, “do you give me full title to this quarrel of yours?”

“Yes, it is yours,” replied the youth, knowing that the hunter would not be denied, and having supreme confidence in him.

“And now, Monsieur Boucher,” continued Willet, “the quicker the better. Mr. Lennox will be my second and I recommend that you choose for yours one of three gentlemen, Colonel de Courcelles, Count de Mézy or the Captain de Jumonville, all of whom conspired to lead a boy into this garden and to his death.”

The faces of the three became livid.

“And,” said the hunter, “if any one of the three gentlemen whom I have mentioned should feel the need of satisfaction after I have attended to Monsieur Pierre Boucher, I shall be very glad to satisfy him.”

De Mézy recovering himself, and assuming a defiant manner, took the part of Boucher’s second. Willet removed his coat and waistcoat and handed them to Robert, beside whom Tayoga was now standing. Then he drew his sword and balanced it a moment in his hand, before he clasped it lightly but firmly by the hilt.

Another long breath came from the crowd which had increased. Every man there was aware that something uncommon was afoot. Who and what Boucher was most of them knew, but the hunter was an unknown quantity, all the more interesting because of the mystery that enshrouded him. And the interest was deepened when they saw his swift, easy motion, his wonderful lightness for so large a man, and the manner in which the hilt of his sword fitted into his hand, as if they had long been brothers.

“I call you all to witness once again,” said Boucher, “that this quarrel was forced upon me, and that I had no wish to slay a wandering hunter of the Bostonnais.”

Willet made no reply for the present. He took his position and Boucher took his. The seconds gave the word, their swords clashed together, and they stepped back, each looking for an opening in the other’s guard. Then it dawned upon the bravo that a swordsman stood before him. But he had not the slightest fear. He knew his own skill and strength.

“It’s strange that a hunter should know anything about the sword,” he said, “but it seems that you do and the fact pleases me much. I would not have it said that I cut down an ignorant man.”

“And yet it might be said,” replied the hunter. “Do you remember the boy, Gaston Lafitte, whom you fought behind the Luxembourg near twenty years ago?”

The face of Boucher suddenly went deathly white, and, for a moment, he trembled.

“Who are you, you mumming hunter?” he cried. “I know no Gaston Lafitte.”

“There you lie, Boucher. You knew him well enough and you can’t forget him if you would. Your face has shown it. It was well that you had powerful friends then, or you would soon be completing your twentieth year in the galleys.”

The blood rushed back into Boucher’s face until it was a blazing red, and he attacked savagely. Few men could have stood before that powerful and cunning offense, but Willet met him at every point. Always the flashing steel was turned aside, and the hunter, cool, patient and wary, looked like one who, in absolute faith, bided his time.

A gasp came from the spectators. The omens had foretold something unusual, but here was more than they had expected or had hoped. The greatest swordsman whom France could send forth had been checked and held by an unknown hunter, by a Bostonnais, among whom one would not look for swordsmanship. They stopped for breath and Boucher from under his dark brows stared at the hunter.

“Mummer,” he said. “You claim to know something of me. What other lie about me can you tell?”

“It’s not necessary to tell lies, Pierre Boucher. There was Raoul de Bassempierre whom you compelled to fight you before he was fairly recovered of a sickness. His blood is still on your hands. Time has not dried it away. Look! Look! See the red bubbles standing on your wrists!”

Boucher, again as white as death, looked down hastily, and then uttered a fierce oath. The hunter laughed.

“It’s true, Boucher,” he said, “and everyone here knows it’s true. Why speak of lies? I don’t carry them in my stock, and I’ve proved that I don’t need them. Come, you wish my death, attack again, but remember that I’m neither the untrained boy, Gaston Lafitte, nor Raoul de Bassempierre, wasted from illness.”

Boucher rushed at him, and Robert thought he could hear the angry breath whistling through his teeth. Then he grew cooler, steadied himself and pushed the offense. His second attack was even more dangerous than the first, and he showed all the power and cunning of the great swordsman that he was. Willet slowly gave ground and the spectators began to applaud. After all, Boucher was a Frenchman and one of themselves, although it was not the best of the French who were gathered there in the garden that night--except de Galisonnière and one or two others.

Robert watched the hunter and saw that his breathing was still regular and easy, and that his eye was as calm and confident as ever. Then his own faith, shaken for a moment, returned. Boucher was still unable to break through that guard of living steel, and when they paused a second time for breath each was still untouched.

“You are a swordsman, I’ll admit that,” said Boucher.

“Yes, a better than the raw lad, Gaston Lafitte, or Raoul de Bassempierre who was ill, and a better than a third whom I recall.”

“What do you mean, mummer?”

“There was a certain Raymond de Neville who played at dice with another whom I could name. Neville said that the other cheated, but he was a great swordsman while Neville was but an indifferent fencer, and the other slew him. Yet, they say Neville’s charges were true. Shall I name that man, Boucher?”

Boucher, livid with rage, sprang at him.

“Mummer!” he cried. “You know too much. I’ll close your mouth forever!”

Now it seemed to Boucher that a very demon of the sword stood before him. His own fierce rush was met and he was driven back. The ghosts of the boy, Gaston Lafitte, of the sick man Raoul de Bassempierre, and of the indifferent swordsman, Raymond de Neville who had been cheated at cards, came back, and they helped Willet wield his weapon. His figure broadened and grew. His blade was no longer of steel, it was a strip of lightning that played around the body and face of the dazzled bravo. It was verily true that the hands of four men grasped the hilt, the ghosts of the three whom he had murdered long ago, and Willet who stood there in the flesh before him.

A reluctant buzz of admiration ran through the crowd. Many of them had come from Paris, but they had never seen such swordsmanship before. Whoever the hunter might be they saw that he was the master swordsman of them all. They addressed low cries of warning to Boucher: “Have a care!” “Have a care!” “Save your strength!” they said. But de Galisonnière stood, tight-lipped and silent. Nor did Robert and Tayoga feel the need of saying anything to their champion.

Now Boucher felt for the first time in his life that he had met the better man. The great duelist who had ruffled it so grandly through the inns and streets of Paris looked with growing terror into the stern, accusing eyes that confronted him. But he did not always see Willet. It was the ghosts of the boy, Gaston Lafitte, of the sick man Raoul de Bassempierre and of the indifferent swordsman, Raymond de Neville, that guided the hunter’s blade, and his forehead became cold and wet with perspiration.

De Galisonnière had moved in the crowd, until he stood with Robert and Tayoga. He was perhaps the only one of the honnêtes gens in the garden, and while he was a Frenchman, first, last and all the time, he knew who Boucher was and what he represented, he understood the reason why Robert had been drawn into the garden and he was willing to see the punishment of the man who was to have been the sanguinary instrument of the plot.

“A miracle will defeat the best of plans,” he said to de Courcelles.

“What do you mean, de Galisonnière?” asked de Courcelles with a show of effrontery.

“That an unknown hunter should prove himself a better swordsman than your great duelist and bravo, Boucher.”

“Why do you call him my duelist and bravo, de Galisonnière?”

“I understand that you brought young Lennox into the garden, apparently his warm friend on the way, and then when he was here, stood aside.”

“You must answer for such insinuations, Captain de Galisonnière.”

“But not to you, my friend. My sword will be needed in the coming war, and I’m not called upon to dull it now against one who was a principal in a murderous conspiracy. I may be over particular about those with whom I fight, de Courcelles, but I am what I am.”

“You mean you will not fight me?”

“Certainly not. A meeting would cause the reasons for it to be threshed out, and we are not so many here in Canada that those reasons would not become known to all, and you, I fancy, would not relish the spread of such knowledge. The Intendant is a powerful man, but the Marquis Duquesne is the head of our military life, and he would not be pleased to hear what one of his officers so high in rank has done here tonight.”