It was clear that I had been mistaken for some one else, and then I remembered that Richelieu had mentioned that he had another appointment. The matter, however, concerned me not, so I banished it from my mind, and, coming out of the inn, I found myself in a few paces at the little door Richelieu had described. I looked for a knocker. There was none, so, drawing my sword, I tapped three times lightly with the steel hilt. A moment after it opened softly, and a tall figure stood before me. It was Richelieu.
“You are punctual, monsieur,” he said, coldly polite, as he stepped back to let me enter, and carefully closed the door behind me.
I found myself in a garden within a garden. In front of me rose the dead back wall of the priory chapel, with its one pointed window in darkness. On my right was the moss and lichen-covered rampart. On my left, shutting us out from the main garden, was a wall, thick with ivy that glistened in the moonlight. We were, in short, in a little square, admirably suited for the purpose to which we were about to put it. The foothold was sure, the moon perfect, and in that white band of light between the two walls there were no cross-shadows to spoil a thrust or balk a parry. As I looked around me the key turned softly, and Richelieu, removing his hat and cloak, placed them under the lee of the wall. I followed his example, and then, with God’s moon looking down upon us, we stood before each other, death in our hearts. I was facing the chapel wall, my back to the door by which I had entered, and as Richelieu took his place opposite to me I was about to call out “on guard” and commence the assault out of hand, when he spoke:
“My sword is, I think, longer than yours, monsieur. I have another here of the same length as mine. Would you care to use it?”
It was unlooked-for civility, but my heart was hardened against the man, against all men, and, false myself, I was only too ready to believe all others as I was. That other sword might be but a yard or so of soft iron that would buckle in my hand, and I answered with a sneer:
“I will make up for the shortness of my blade by the length of my arm. I trust my own steel only.”
“On guard!” was the sharp answer, and the two blades came together with a little crash. In the moonlight, bright and clear as day, I caught a strange smile on Richelieu’s face as he saw me use the left hand for my sword. He, of course, remised at once, trying to pink me in tierce, and the sparks flew as I parried and returned high up at his throat, but my thrust was met by a master, and then he laughed, as he sprang back a yard, and in an instant had changed his sword hand, and I, too, was face to face with a left-handed man. I saw at once the disadvantage at which I was placed, and grew hot with anger as Richelieu mocked me.
“I also can use the left hand, monsieur, but it brings the heart too near the point,” and he ripped me just over the heart at the last words. I do not know why, but I felt that he had spared me, and, sick with anger and shame, flew at him like a tiger-cat, putting forth all my cunning of fence, and he began to give slowly to the assault, but always with that strange, half-mocking smile on his face. He was giving ground, nevertheless, and I worked him in a half-circle from his original position, pressing him closer and closer each moment, fiercely, but warily withal, and at last the chance came. His blade seemed to yield to mine. It was now or never. I made the feint in tierce. He took the bait, and then, with all my strength, I gave him Touchet’s great thrust—and the next moment was disarmed.
Ay! At that instant I thought I had reached his heart, his blade had twisted round mine like a snake, and with a turn of his arm, from the elbow to the wrist, he dragged the sword from my fingers, with such force and strength that it struck with a little clang against the rampart wall, and then, rebounding, fell white and glistening in the moonlight at our feet.
We faced each other for a moment, and then he dropped his arm, and the hot shame surged to my forehead.