Part 25 (1/2)
Solicitously Mr. Bulmer bound up his opponent's head, and more lately aided him to mount one of the grazing horses. Cazaio was moved to say:
”You are a gallant enemy, Monsieur Bulmaire. I shall have the pleasure of cutting your throat on Thursday next, if that date be convenient to you.”
”Believe me,” said John Bulmer, ”I am always at your disposal. Let this spot, then, be our rendezvous, since I am wofully ignorant concerning your local geography. And meantime, my friend, if I may be so bold, I would suggest a little practice in parrying. You are of Boisrobert's school, I note, and in attack undeniably brilliant, whereas your defence--unvarying defect of Boisrobert's followers!--is lamentably weak.”
”I perceive that monsieur is a connoisseur in these matters,” said Cazaio; ”I am the more highly honored. Till Thursday, then.” And with an inclination of his bandaged head--and a furtive glance toward the insensate woman,--he rode away singing.
Sang Achille Cazaio:
”But, oh, the world is wide, dear la.s.s, That I must wander through, And many a wind and tide, dear la.s.s, Must flow 'twixt me and you, Ere love that may not be denied Shall bring me back to you, --Dear la.s.s!
Shall bring me back to you.”
Thus singing, he disappeared; meantime John Bulmer had turned toward the woman. The Dominican sat upon the stone, placidly grinning.
”And now,” said John Bulmer, ”we revert to the origin of all this tomfoolery,--who, true to every instinct of her s.e.x, has caused as much trouble as lay within her power and then fainted. A little water from the brook, if you will be so good. Master Friar,--Hey!--why, you d.a.m.ned rascal!”
As John Bulmer bent above the woman, the Friar had stabbed John Bulmer between the shoulders. The dagger broke like gla.s.s.
”Oh, the devil!” said the churchman; ”what sort of a duellist is this who fights in a s.h.i.+rt of Milanese armor!” He stood for a moment, silent, in sincere horror. ”I lack words,” he said,--”Oh, vile coward! I lack words to arraign this hideous revelation! There is a code of honor that obtains all over the world, and any duellist who descends to secret armor is, as you are perfectly aware, guilty of supersticery. He is no fit a.s.sociate for gentlemen, he is rather the appropriate companion of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram in their fiery pit. Faugh, you sneak-thief!”
John Bulmer was a thought abashed, and for an instant showed it. Then, ”Permit me,” he equably replied, ”to point out that I did not come hither with any belligerent intent. My unders.h.i.+rt, therefore, I was ent.i.tled to regard as a purely natural advantage,--as much so as would have been a greater length of arm, which, you conceive, does not obligate a gentleman to cut off his fingers before he fights.”
”I scent the casuist,” said the Friar, shaking his head. ”Frankly, you had hoodwinked me: I was admiring you as a second Palmerin; and all the while you were letting off those gasconades, adopting those heroic postures, and exhibiting such romantic magnanimity, you were actually as safe from poor Cazaio as though you had been in Crim Tartary rather than Acaire!”
”But the pose was magnificent,” John Bulmer pleaded, ”and I have a leaning that way when one loses nothing by it. Besides, I consider secret armor to be no more than a rational precaution in any country where the clergy are addicted to casual a.s.sa.s.sination.”
”It is human to err,” the Friar replied, ”and Cazaio would have given me a thousand crowns for your head. Believe me, the man is meditating some horrible mischief against you, for otherwise he would not have been so d.a.m.nably polite.”
”The information is distressing,” said John Bulmer; and added, ”This Cazaio appears to be a personage?”
”I retort,” said the Friar, ”that your ignorance is even more remarkable than my news. Achille Cazaio is the bugbear of all Poictesme, he is as powerful in these parts as ever old Manuel was.”
”But I have never heard of this old Manuel either--”
”In fact, your ignorance seems limitless. For any child could tell you that Cazaio roosts in the Taunenfels yonder, with some hundreds of brigands in his company. Poictesme is, in effect, his pocket-book, from which he takes whatever he has need of, and the Duc de Puysange, our nominal lord, pays him an annual tribute to respect Bellegarde.”
”This appears to be an unusual country,” quoth John Bulmer; ”where a brigand rules, and the forests are infested by homicidal clergymen and hara.s.sed females. Which reminds me that I have been guilty of an act of ungallantry,--and faith! while you and I have been chatting, the lady, with a rare discretion, has peacefully come back to her senses.”
”She has regained nothing very valuable,” said the Friar, with a shrug, ”Alone in Acaire!” But John Bulmer had a.s.sisted the woman to her feet, and had given a little cry at sight of her face, and now he stood quite motionless, holding both her unfettered hands.
”You!” he said. And when speech returned to him, after a lengthy interval, he spoke with odd irrelevance. ”Now I appear to understand why G.o.d created me.”
He was puzzled. For there had come to him, unheralded and simply, a sense of something infinitely greater than his mind could conceive; and a.n.a.lysis might only pluck at it, impotently, as a wearied swimmer might pluck at the sides of a well. Ormskirk and Ormskirk's powers now somehow dwindled from the zone of serious consideration, as did the radiant world, and even the woman who stood before him; trifles, these: and his contentment spurned the stars to know that, somehow, this woman and he were but a part, an infinitesimal part, of a scheme which was ineffably vast and perfect....
That was the knowledge he sensed, unwordably, as he regarded this woman now.
She was tall, just as tall as he. It was a blunt-witted devil who whispered John Bulmer that, inch paralleling inch, the woman is taller than the man and subtly renders him absurd; and that in a decade this woman would be stout. There was no meaning now in any whispering save hers. John Bulmer perceived, with a blurred thrill,--as if of memory, as if he were recollecting something once familiar to him, a great while ago,--that the girl was tall and deep-bosomed, and that her hair was dark, all crinkles, but (he somehow knew) very soft to the touch. The full oval of her face had throughout the rich tint of cream, so that he now understood the blowziness of pink cheeks; but her mouth was vivid. It was a mouth not wholly deficient in attractions, he estimated. Her nose managed to be Roman without overdoing it. And her eyes, candid and appraising, he found to be the color that blue is in Paradise; it was odd their lower lids should be straight lines, so that when she laughed her eyes were converted into right-angled triangles; and it was still more odd that when you gazed into them your reach of vision should be extended until you saw without effort for miles and miles.
And now for a longish while these eyes returned his scrutiny, without any trace of embarra.s.sment; and whatever may have been the thoughts of Mademoiselle de Puysange, she gave them no expression. But presently the girl glanced down toward the dead man.
”It was you who killed him?” she said. ”You!”
”I had that privilege,” John Bulmer admitted. ”And on Thursday afternoon, G.o.d willing, I shall kill the other.”