Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 29

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“I consider Malot, my maître d’armes, the leader of his profession,” said Narcisse next morning as they left the Rouge et Noir. “His salle is much the most popular in New Orleans.”

“What about your bet on Colonel Claridge?” Bowie asked.

“I lost it. Who would believe he could miss such a target? I give you my word Belmonte is as broad as he is tall. Claridge should have known money was laid on him and taken no such chances.”

“What sort of chances?”

“Oh, he fired on the signal. To the amazement of the witnesses, he missed. Belmonte, who held his fire, heard him muttering. ‘Are you praying, Colonel?’ he asked. ‘Praying nothing,’ said Claridge. ‘I was making a vow never again to aim at the head.’ Poor fellow—he never will aim at the head again. Belmonte shot him through both lungs, and he died this morning. If he’d just aimed at that great midriff, I’d be some hundreds better off this morning.”

On the Rue des Expositions, Narcisse pulled a bell at the entrance to a brick building with three stories of shuttered windows. A grave-faced man in a ruffled shirt but with no coat admitted them through the iron grilled door, greeted Narcisse unsmilingly, and led them up a stair.

“That’s Olympe, Malot’s provost,” whispered Narcisse.

The man ushered them into the personal cabinet of the professor of sword. “Have the goodness to wait here,” he said, departing.

The room was high-ceilinged, with a mantel on which stood a wood carving, medieval in character, of St. Michael, the patron saint of all swordsmen. French engravings of fencing scenes decorated the walls. In one corner was a shelf of books, chiefly in French or Italian, and some by their appearance very ancient, concerning the sword and its uses. Two or three other books lay on a table in the center, with an inkstand and quill and some scattered papers, across which lay a sword, very fine as even Bowie’s inexperienced eye could discern. Most interesting, however, was a full-length portrait of a slender, dark man, with a naked sword in his hand and moody eyes.

“Malot,” said Narcisse. “Painted by Vanderlyn.”

The door opened. In the man who entered Bowie immediately recognized the original of the portrait. Malot was in his early thirties, soberly dressed, with a lean mustached face, a very high narrow forehead, and a continual flowing grace in every movement. His manner was courteous, almost deferential, as he was introduced.

“Monsieur is interested in l’escrime?” he asked.

“I know very little of it,” said Bowie.

“Ah?” The maître’s voice was politely noncommittal. “The sword, it is agreed, is the aristocrat of weapons. But the pistol is correct—quite correct. Although more a thing of chance and less of skill than the blade.”

He lifted the thin sliver of tempered steel with its rich basket hilt from the papers on the table. “Regard this. It was given me by the one and only Jean Louis. With this very sword he fought the fifteen fencing masters of the First Imperial Regiment at Madrid in 1813. Monsieur has, of course, heard of that famous assault-at-arms?”

When Bowie shook his head, Malot’s expression indicated that he wondered where Monsieur might have spent his life.

“Allow me to relate the circumstances briefly,” he said, “for they illustrate my point. Jean Louis, as some do not know, is a mulatto, born in San Domingo and instructed from an early age by Monsieur d’Erapé, who saw in him a precocious child who might have a brilliant career. His color being no handicap in the armies of Napoleon, he was by 1813 a celebrity, victor in many duels, and chief fencing master of the Thirty-first Regiment, then quartered at Madrid.

“A tavern brawl between some men of the Thirty-first and a group of the First Imperial Regiment, which was billeted near, created a regimental quarrel so serious that discipline required exemplary reparation. It was proposed that fifteen representatives of each regiment should engage, taking their turns as long as it was possible to continue the combat. On the day appointed, the two regiments formed a hollow square facing inward, while outside the square the populace gathered as to a bullfight. The first duel was arranged between Jean Louis and Giacomo Ferrari, a celebrated Florentine master.”

Malot held the sword at arm’s length, and made the blade quiver by the movement of his arm, to show its superbly tempered flexibility.

“Jean Louis, that day, used this sword. He is small and slight of stature, but monsieur, no other man of his side crossed a blade on that occasion. His first opponent, Ferrari, was a giant of a man. With unbelievable precision he parried Ferrari’s leaping thrust of the Florentine style and dispatched him with an impeccable riposte. Merely wiping his blade and turning its point to the ground, he awaited the next antagonist. One after another they came: in the sight of ten thousand persons, Jean Louis that day dealt twenty-seven wounds to thirteen opponents, several fatal, without being touched by any of them.”

Malot lifted his eyes from the blade in his hand to Bowie’s face. “The last two in line were mere provosts. Having seen the best of their side fall in those terrible forty minutes, they commended their souls to God. And God proved merciful. By an accidental flourish, Jean Louis slightly wounded one of his comrades on the leg. A mere scratch, but he almost wept that he should have drawn blood from a comrade. But the colonel of the regiment took advantage of it to declare honor satisfied. Both regiments cheered and fraternized. Now tell me, monsieur, do you suppose Jean Louis could have overcome so many opponents had pistols been used, instead of swords?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Almost certainly not! You heard what happened in the encounter of Colonel Claridge and Belmonte? The best shot may succumb to a lucky bullet from a tyro. But in a meeting of swords, the best man wins.” Malot laid down the sword. “Shall we repair to the salle?”

They passed into a long room, like a gymnasium, with a bare floor and benches along the walls. Narcisse and Malot removed their coats, donned fencing jackets and masks, and took foils from the racks.

“En garde!” cried Malot. “Now! The wrist does the work! Prenez garde!”

With a slithering whine the thin, bright blades crossed, leaping like living things, so swiftly the eye could hardly follow. The shifting positions of the fencers were movements of grace yet of purposeful utility, the master defending himself merely, while the pupil attacked with the agility of a panther. To Bowie it seemed at first that Narcisse had the better of it. Then he began to perceive the uncanny defense of Malot. The movement of the maître’s foil was economy itself, he seemed hardly to stir his extended arm, but always the narrow steel interposed itself against the stinging thrusts of the other. All at once he extended in a lightning movement, and returned to a standing position.

“Touché,” laughed Narcisse, lowering his foil.

“You crooked your elbow,” said Malot. “Keep the kink from your arm and you’re difficult enough to reach. Now, again!”

Time after time the bout was renewed, with fury on the part of the pupil, with cold perfection on the part of the master. Each time Malot ended it as he wished, with an incredibly brilliant attack, usually one thrust only, when he saw an instant’s opening in Narcisse’s guard. At last Narcisse stepped back, laughing and wiping from his forehead the perspiration.

“Ah, Malot, Malot! I can never hope to equal you.” He glanced at Bowie. “Will you try him, Jim?”

“I? I’ve never had one of those things in my hand.”

“Then try me.”

Bowie took one of the foils. The whip in the thin steel intrigued him and he swished it back and forth, then examined the small rubber button at the tip.

“All right,” he said, donning the wire mask which Malot offered, and placing himself in what he conceived to be a posture of defense.

But both Narcisse and the maître were at him, scandalized at the position of his feet, his body angle, his grip, a score of other things. When he had adjusted himself as best he could to their directions, he crossed blades with Narcisse. At once he understood how it is possible for a fencer to know instinctively his opponent’s movements and inspirations, though he could counter none of Narcisse’s. His parries were clumsy, his lunges awkward. In a few passes Narcisse touched him neatly on the breast. They stood back, both laughing.

“My friend,” said Narcisse, “do you always have that look when you engage?”

“How do you mean?”

“The fighting face—the killer look. Did you mark it, Malot? Cold ferocity—and while we merely play.” He shook his head. “I think I should not like to engage seriously with you, if you become more intimidating as the situation becomes graver.”

“You’re having fun with me.” Bowie’s grin was embarrassed. “I wasn’t aware of any particular look——”

“No,” said Narcisse judgmatically. “In you it would be natural.”

“I’m a baby in your hands with these things.”

“On the contrary, your reactions astonish me. This is your first attempt with the foils?”

“Yes.”

“Few complete novices could hold me off for six passados. Eh, Malot?”

The maître nodded. “Monsieur possesses an address of body, a muscular brilliance not often seen—especially in one so—so great of stature. I could make of him a swordsman.”

Bowie ran his eye along the foil and returned it to Malot. “I reckon I’d do better using this as a whip.”

Malot smiled. “We will agree that for the present, in the case of an affair, you should stick to the pistol with which you are familiar——”

“I’m not.”

“What are you saying?”

“I can use a rifle, some. But I’ve never practiced with a pistol. We used to load up Father’s old horse pistol and fire her off on the Fourth of July. Otherwise I’ve never shot one.”

Malot stared as Bowie put on his coat. He was still speechless as he led them into a side room. At the door he turned and said, “Perhaps you may see something here which may interest you.”