The Comte de Gare, foaming with rage, picked up his sword and followed to the street. The sentiment of the crowd was plainly with Richelieu, and a moment later when I looked about for de Gare’s companions they had disappeared. A ring of curious spectators formed around the two men, and their swords were ringing together in an instant. Before a moment passed I saw that de Gare had found his master. He realized it, too, and his face went from red to white as he felt the duke’s iron wrist and saw the implacable purpose in his eyes. Plainly it was only the question of a few moments. The duke was playing with him, parrying almost carelessly his savage thrusts, and advancing his own point nearer and nearer to his heart. The onlookers waited with bated breath for the thrust which they knew would be fatal.
“You shall see, gentlemen,” cried Richelieu, gayly, for his self-possession had returned the instant he felt his adversary’s sword against his own, “the proper way to deal with cowards. This fellow has presumed to be seen in the company of gentlemen, and I am glad that it was reserved for my sword to punish him. Ah, you break!” he cried again, for the other had given back a step. I, who was standing at the duke’s side, saw a kind of ferocity spring to life in de Gare’s eyes, and I noticed that his left hand was no longer behind him, but was concealed in the folds of his doublet. Something, I know not what, made me suspect the man.
“Be on guard, monsieur!” I cried to Richelieu, “he means some treachery,” and even as I spoke he drew forth his hand and threw a poniard full at Richelieu’s heart. At the same instant, comprehending de Gare’s purpose, I pushed Richelieu to one side. I felt a sharp, hot pain in my right shoulder, and knew that the dagger had wounded me. With a terrible cry Richelieu sprang forward, and fairly beating down his guard, plunged his sword to the hilt in his breast. De Gare made a desperate effort to keep his feet, grasped the sword, drew it from the wound, and fell to the street, the blood gushing forth in a torrent. He breathed convulsively once or twice, with the crowd looking down upon him, his eyes glazed, a shudder ran through his body, and he was dead.
“Thus perish all cowards,” said Richelieu. And then, turning to me, “You saved my life, de Brancas. ’Twas a brave act.”
“No more than you have twice done for me, monsieur,” I answered. “I have only half paid my debt.”
“But you are wounded!” he cried, seeing that I held my handkerchief to my shoulder and that it was red with blood. “The dagger struck you, then? Let me see how serious it is,” and he was tearing the doublet away from my shoulder ere I had time to protest.
“’Tis only a flesh wound, monsieur,” I said. “Pray do not trouble about it.”
“Trouble about it, indeed. Come in here with me,” and he dragged rather than led me into the café again. “Come, Maitre Delorme,” he cried to the proprietor, who was still wringing his hands and bewailing the destruction of his glasses, “bring me water and clean linen, and be quick about it. Ah, here is one who will know how to dress the wound,” he added, as a tall, clean-shaven man, dressed severely in black, pushed his way through the crowd. “Upon my word, Levau, you come in the nick of time. I have a patient for you,” and he turned me over to the famous surgeon.
The latter in a moment had examined the wound, with puckered brow, washed it in clean water, spread some cooling lotion upon it, which he took from a case he carried in his pocket, and securely bandaged it. Not till then did he deign to speak.
“A mere nothing,” he said, “for a man who has good blood in his veins, as my friend here has. A little soreness for a week, perhaps, a stiffness for a fortnight, and then only a memory.”