Nineteen hundred? A forecast and a story

by Marianne Farningham

The subject had been rigorously excluded from the French Parliament until it was formally laid before it in official despatches from England, but naturally it had been well discussed in every other gathering, small or large, of the French people. There was, therefore, little need of delay; but a week was asked and given before a final answer was decided upon. At length it was sent, and the whole world knew that the quarrel of two great nations was to be decided by two of their greatest sons.

A request was sent in that the number should be augmented, and that ten persons on each side should fight, but that was overruled, and the two nations proceeded to fix the date of the most memorable duel that had ever been fought.

The Prince asked for a week, but the French proposed that it should be a month, in order to give each man time to become perfect in the use of the sword; for both the Prince and his antagonist declared the sword to be the only weapon for the occasion. It had been easy to find a man in chivalrous France. Indeed, there were so many volunteers that it was necessary to decide the matter by lot. And, strangely enough, the lot fell to Bayard, a descendant of the noble man whom even to-day France delights to honour.

The two young men spent the month in strict retirement, each setting his own affairs in order. There was a great wish that the Prince might be seen by the people, but this he refused. Also the date on which he would set out on his journey was kept a secret; for there was a fear that the populace would prevent by force the consummation of the idea. It had been settled that the fight was to be on French soil, and in some spot as far as possible removed from human habitations. It was to take place in the morning of a day, the date of which, with all other details, was settled by the two nations.

Of course the papers were full of it. Every little scrap of information that could be gained was printed in large type and eagerly read by the people. As the time drew near the whole thing was felt by many to be intolerable. There was something so cold-blooded about it that it appeared a much more awful thing for these two lives to be lost than for two armies to be annihilated. Foreign newspapers were especially severe, and many a comic sketch of the two nations gone mad came to England and went to France. Most foreigners appeared to regard it as a fiasco, and declared that the battle of two would never occur. But, on the other hand, a great many people were determined that it should, if only to save the two peoples from being ridiculous in the eyes of each other; and there were some spirited articles written to show up the absurdity of the false sentiment of pity which could have borne a wholesale massacre, but could not endure a single duel.

The month seemed as long as two, but it wore away, though slowly; indeed, the last few days were all too short. The people were determined that their Prince should not go quietly out from their midst, and for several days Buckingham Palace was watched by crowds that refused to be dispersed, and stood quietly through the days and nights to wait their chance. The multitude was augmented every day. At last it grew so enormous that fears were entertained by the authorities of a catastrophe of some kind. The police was insufficient, and the soldiers were told to lie in readiness.

On the evening before his departure the Prince caused the time to be made known, and it was decided to form a triumphal procession to escort him to the coast, the like of which had never been seen before. It could not be allowed that all the pomp and glitter of battle should be omitted, and the Prince consented to the martial music and the guard.

The best regiments were chosen, and it was in the midst of the finest English soldiers that the Prince rode through London. He looked every inch a hero, full of courage and life. The crowds grew wild with enthusiasm as they saw him, and their shouts rent the air. The band played the National Anthem and “Rule Britannia,” and there was a great cry, which was taken up by tens of thousands—Come back safely, and we will make you king! In front of St. Paul’s a halt was made, and from the steps the Prince spoke to the people.

“I am going glad of heart to fight this battle for you,” he said. “I do not believe what is told me, that if I fall you will hate the French people more than ever. God forbid! Hate war, and make up your minds that this shall be the last blood shed in the cause of any quarrel between the two nations. Take away the sting of death from me by giving me a pledge, I pray you, that you will not revenge my death, and that hereafter England will set the example of arbitration, as she has now done of single combat.”

A shout of approbation rent the air. Then there was a cry, “Into the Cathedral!” and the Prince entered, and all else who could. There was no rioting among the people—the occasion was too solemn for that—and they waited patiently. Was it by accident that it was the time for the morning service? A great hush fell upon the throng, and never before was there so imposing a scene as then, all the more so because it was unpremeditated. When the anthem was sung a thrill went through the assembly, for the clear notes of a boy’s voice rang out the significant words, “I know that my Redeemer liveth!” Men were not ashamed of their tears that day. Who could help shedding them?