Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

But Bras-de-Fer shook his head. What he had seen the night before had inspired him with an extraordinary respect for the youth’s prowess, and being justly vain of his own skill, he was averse to expose his inferiority in the science of defence before his captain. He excused himself, therefore, on the ground of rheumatism which had settled in an old wound.

Captain George did not press the veteran, but opening the cupboard, pulled out the foils, presented one to his visitor, and put himself in position with the other.

Beaudésir performed an elaborate salute with such grace and precision as showed him a perfect master of his weapon. He then threw his foil in the air, caught it by the blade, and returned it courteously to the captain.

But George was not yet satisfied. “One assault at least,” said he, stamping his right foot. “I want to see if I cannot find a parry for this famous thrust of yours.”

The other smiled quietly and took his ground. Though within a few inches of the chamber-door, he seemed to require no more room for his close and quiet evolutions.

Ere they had exchanged two passes, the captain came over his adversary’s point with a rapid flanking movement, like the stroke of a riding-whip, and lending all the strength of his iron wrist to the jerk, broke the opposing foil short off within six inches of the guard. It was the only resource by which he could escape a palpable hit.

“Enough!” he exclaimed, laughing. “There are no more foils in the cupboard, and I honestly confess I should not wish to renew the contest with the real bloodsuckers. You may be perfectly tranquil as regards your comrades, my friend. I do not know a musketeer in the whole guard that would care to take a lesson from you with the buttons off. What say you, Bras-de-Fer? Come, gentlemen, there is no time to be lost. The Marshal de Villeroy will not yet have left his quarters. Do you, old comrade, take him the fresh appointment for his signature. He never requires to see our recruits till they can wait on him in uniform; and you, young man, come with me to the Rue des Quatres Fripons, where I will myself order your accoutrements, and see you measured for a just au corps. Recollect, sir, next to their discipline on parade, I am most particular about the clothes of those I have the honour to command. Slovenliness in a musketeer is a contradiction as impossible as poltroonery; and it is a tradition in our corps that we never insulted Malbrook’s grenadiers by appearing before them in anything but full-dress; or by opening fire until we were close enough for them to mark the embroidery on our waistcoats. I congratulate you, my young friend: you are now a soldier in the pick of that army which is itself the pick of all the armies in the world!”

With such encouraging conversation Captain George led his lately-enlisted recruit through a variety of winding streets, thronged at that busy hour with streams of passengers. These, however, for the most part, made way, with many marks of respect, for the officer of Musketeers; the women especially, looking back with unfeigned admiration and interest at the pair, according as they inclined to the stately symmetry of the one or the graceful and almost feminine beauty of the other. Perhaps, could they have known that the pale, dark-eyed youth following timidly half a pace behind his leader had only last night killed the deadliest fencer in Paris, they would have wasted no glances even on such a fair specimen of manhood as Captain George, but devoured his comrade with their bold black eyes, in a thrill of mingled horror, interest, and admiration, peculiar to their sex.

To reach the Rue des Quatres Fripons, it was necessary to pass a barrier, lately placed by Marshal de Villeroy’s directions, to check the tide of traffic on occasion of the young King’s transit through his future capital. This barrier was guarded by a post of Grey Musketeers, and at the moment Captain George approached it, one of his handsomest young officers was performing a series of bows by the door of a ponderous, heavily-gilt family coach, and explaining with considerable volubility his own desolation at the orders which compelled him to forbid the advance of this unwieldy vehicle. Six heavy coach-horses, two postilions, a coachman, four footmen, and two outriders, armed to the teeth—all jammed together in a narrow street, with a crowd of bystanders increasing every minute, served to create a sufficient complication, and a very pretty young lady inside, accompanied by one attendant, was already in tears. The attendant, a dark woman with a scarlet turban, scolded and cursed in excellent French, whilst one of the leaders took immediate advantage of the halt to rear on end and seize his comrade by the crest with a savage and discordant scream.