Читать книгу The Life and Exploits of the Scarlet Pimpernel - Emmuska Orczy - Страница 18

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Sir Algernon, over in Berlin, was duly notified of his son’s wilfulness and waywardness, but obstinately closed his eyes to the root cause of it all. Sick to death, however, of the eternal complaints which reached him from England, he decided to have the boy educated abroad. As luck or chance had it, he was called to Paris on business. He therefore sent for his son to join him there. For the next six months Percy lived in France with his father. Only one notable incident occurred during this stay.

In Paris, Percy had occasion to learn swordsmanship. He managed, though only nine years old at the time, to learn the intricacies of sword play as practiced in France. He subdued his strength and bulk, turning them into a neat and precise machine under the control of his brain and eyes. His master, one of the champion fencers of Paris, was astounded not only at this English boy’s diligence, but also at his wonderful capacity to master the complicated ripostes and elaborate parries then in vogue, which he executed with a flick of his iron wrist as if born to the art.

Since the fashion and the ridged rules of etiquette then pertaining to aristocracy of France considered dueling the only possible method of wiping out an insult, the sons of the nobility were gathered together in the Cercle d’escrime, there to receive the requisite training in sword play, and be taught to conform as closely as possible to the unwritten laws of their elders. Thus duels between children were of everyday occurrence and though Percy, being an English boy, was averse to settling quarrels in this foreign fashion, he was often dragged into what was called in those days an affair of honour.

In the annals of the Club, there is inscribed a date with the names of two boys who fought a duel on a memorable occasion. The story forms part of the archives of two noteworthy families. The date is January 10th, 1769, and the names are: Percy Blakeney, aged nine, and the Vicomte de Bonnefin, aged eleven.

The young Vicomte had been watching Percy lunging desultory at a padded target; a patronizing, somewhat contemptuous smile curled his lips and suddenly he snatched the épée from the English boy’s hand with the insolent remark:

“You cannot expect an English booby to lunge gracefully,” and he proceeded to give Percy a lesson in the art. “All Englishmen are bullies,” he went on with the same impudence, “but this one is mad.”

Percy, whose youthful temper was not under that control which he achieved in manhood, merely knocked the braggart down and rescued his sword. Thereupon uproar ensued: it was an insult, a challenge, more portentous and venomous than any of those petty quarrels that occured in the Circle. It was a direct challenge from perfidious Albion to Madame la France.

Within a few minutes, in shirt sleeves, the young opponents stood face to face, surrounded by an angry crowd of boys all of whom were partisans of their own compatriot. Percy was alone, unsupported, except by the fencing master who, supervising the fight with commendable impartiality, encouraged the English lad. Unfortunately the Vicomte, though two years the elder, was no match for the calm impassivity and steel wrist of Percy.

It became obvious from the beginning that France was getting the worst of the encounter, and England seemed deliberately to heap insult upon insult by disarming the opponent at every opportunity, and returning his sword with a mischievous look in a pair of lazy blue eyes. Indeed, for Percy, the whole episode had by then developed into a joke and become not a little ridiculous. In England fists would have decided the quarrel and he felt that this smacked of the theatre. The affair became silly and distasteful to him; he lost interest and fenced with as sure a wrist as before but more mechanically.

Then came disaster. The boys were now both cross and tired: the foil play grew wild and uncontrolled. The Vicomte hurled himself impotently against his tormentor. Percy, staggered by the unexpected attack, was not able to parry sufficiently quickly to avoid an accident. The shock of the onslaught sent the French boy’s épée clashing to the floor. The lad staggered. Percy, thrown off his balance, slipped and his sword pierced de Bonnefin’s right shoulder, inflicting a very severe wound. The Vicomte slithered to the floor and, with scarcely a groan, lapsed into unconsciousness. In those days surgery was still in its infancy: the wound did not prove mortal, but it became septic and the arm had ultimately to be amputated. De Bonnefin went through life with one arm and enfeebled health.

When paying his respects to the boy’s father, Percy said ruefully:

“Sir, why don’t you fight with fists like I learnt to do in England?”