Читать книгу Valiant Dust - Percival Christopher Wren - Страница 5
§ 2
ОглавлениеThe moon-drenched African night was very hot and very still, the air electric with presage of thunder; a brooding, bodeful night, disturbing and unsettling.
So, at any rate, Madame Le Sage appeared to find it, as she moved restlessly about the tiny pathetic drawing-room of her little bougainvillea-covered bungalow, set amongst its dusty palms.
“Do sit down, darling ... Come and sit here,” begged Lieutenant Napoleon Riccoli, patting the cushions of the divan on which he sprawled.
Madame Le Sage stepped out on to the verandah and looked forth into the night.
“Although the stars are so huge and near, and the moon so wonderful, I feel that we’re going to have a storm,” she said.
“I did not come here to-night ... to discuss the weather,” replied Riccoli.
“No?” said Madame Le Sage, turning and eyeing her guest steadily.
How extraordinarily handsome he was, this Corsican, in spite of his high narrow forehead, too large and limpid eyes, and girlish mouth. And how, too, terribly charming, in spite of his amazing conceit and self-satisfaction.
“No,” repeated Riccoli, “I did not ... Sit down here, and I’ll tell you why I came.”
Madame Le Sage, with a pretty and attractive grimace at her admirer, coquettishly disobeyed. Turning from the moonlit doorway, she came and stood erect before him, her hands behind her back.
“I think I’ll stand and hear it,” she laughed.
“Then I’ll stand—and tell it,” observed Riccoli, and rising to his feet, put his arms about her, and, as she threw back her head, whether in invitation or alarm, drew her to him and kissed her passionately on the lips.
“That’s what I came for,” he said unsteadily. “Now sit down by me, and I’ll give you further—reasons.”
Wiping her lips with a tiny lace handkerchief, Madame Le Sage obeyed.
“Before producing any more—er—reasons,” she said, “will you tell me why you think they should interest me?”
“Well,” drawled the ardent officer, placing his right arm about the waist of his hostess, “you are a clever woman as well as a lovely one, and I am the Lieutenant Napoleon Riccoli.”
“And therefore what else could I do but fall in love with you?” laughed Madame Le Sage.
“Precisely, mon ange. What else should happen? I fancy I am worthy of you ... And you—are worthy of me ...”
“Of Monsieur le Lieutenant Napoleon Riccoli!” murmured the lady.
“Yes. Beautiful, witty, charming, clever ... You and I, Marie, are a pair ... Nay, we are one.”
“Have you given yourself the trouble to consider what might be my husband’s views on that?” asked Madame Le Sage.
“No, they do not interest me.”
“They might.”
“They don’t.”
“His views might, at some time, interest you, I think.”
“The views of Lieutenant Le Sage!” laughed Riccoli.
“Still, he is Lieutenant Le Sage, you know, and my husband.”
“But I am Lieutenant Napoleon Riccoli, and your lover.”
“You are?”
“I am. I declare it here and now. And I am going to be something even more than that.”
“Really? More than ... ?”
“Yes. More than the good Le Sage ever even dreams of being. I am going to be a great soldier, a General, a Field-Marshal, a Conqueror ...”
Madame Le Sage opened wide eyes of admiring wonder—of wonder, at any rate.
“Yes, and more than a great soldier ... A great leader of men ... A great ruler ... A Dictator ... Is not this the day of such men? Look at Russia ... Look at Turkey ... Look at Spain ... Look at Italy ... Look at Poland ... Were not those Dictators once Lieutenants, and less than Lieutenants? Was not Mustapha Kemal Pasha once a Lieutenant? Was not Primo de Rivera once a Lieutenant? Was not Marshal Pilsudski once a Lieutenant? Was not Mussolini a Corporal? And what were Lenin and Trotski? Gutter-snipes ...”
“And you?” interrupted Madame Le Sage, at this, perhaps, unfortunate point.
“I? A Corsican,” was the portentous reply.
“Like the other Napoleon,” observed Madame.
“Like the other Napoleon,” agreed Riccoli.
“And, like him, a lieutenant ... Poor, obscure ambitious, but with a brain ... a brain ...”
“And a heart,” he added, turning to more immediate matters and Madame Le Sage. “I lay it at your feet, and the day will come when I will lay a kingdom there.”
“And meanwhile?” smiled Marie Le Sage.
“More reasons,” replied Riccoli, and, drawing her closely to him, he again kissed her smiling lips.
And again.
Indeed, clasping Madame Le Sage with all the ardour of his recently declared love, Lieutenant Riccoli pressed his lips so firmly upon hers that the impassioned kisses became one long kiss, the while Madame, both hands against his breast, thrust with all her strength, in her endeavour to free herself from his embrace.
“Why are you so cold? Why do you pretend that you wish to escape? Why do you struggle?” he asked with tender reproach, as he drew breath.
“Because my husband is standing staring at us,” replied Madame reasonably.
And indeed, Lieutenant Le Sage, tall, thick-set, powerful, hands on hips and arms akimbo, stood at the big unglazed window of the verandah and smiled pleasantly upon the pretty scene.
“Done?” he inquired conversationally.
Madame Le Sage did not scream, nor, rising dramatically to her feet, cast herself at those of her husband. Moving to the end of the divan she folded up her handkerchief neatly.
“I am at your service, Lieutenant Le Sage,” said Riccoli, as he rose and bowed with great dignity.
“You are,” agreed Le Sage.
“The choice of weapons shall be yours,” said Riccoli.
“Only one weapon,” replied his brother officer.
“Eh?”
“I’ll get my revolver.”
“Murder? You will kill your wife and me?”
“Oh, no.”
“Suicide? I am to commit ...” stammered Riccoli.
“Oh, no.”
“You, perhaps? You will commit ...” suggested the unhappy lover.
“Oh, no.”
Crossing to his bureau, Lieutenant Le Sage took his revolver and a packet of army cartridges from a drawer. Opening the paper packet, Le Sage took out a cartridge, broke open the breach of the revolver, and spun the chamber round.
“Empty,” he said, and, exhibiting the cartridge between finger and thumb, thrust it into one of the six compartments of the chamber.
Again he spun the chamber round and round, and then shut the revolver with a snap.
“One cartridge,” he observed, and with a courteous bow, presented the revolver, handle first, to Riccoli.
“Suicide!” cried that gentleman, and placed his hands behind his back. “No. A thousand times, no. I will not commit suicide for so little ... so little reason ...”
Madame coughed.
Lieutenant Le Sage placed the muzzle of the revolver against his own temple.
“Ah!” gasped Riccoli.
Madame covered her face.
Le Sage pulled the trigger.
A sharp click fell upon the silence of the room.
“Your turn,” said Le Sage, and again offered the pistol to Riccoli.
White-faced, the Corsican glared at his friend.
“Take it, man,” said the latter, with quiet patience.
“I will not commit suicide,” cried the Corsican at length.
“A chance or a certainty?” replied Le Sage. “Take your chance, or I will give you a certainty.”
Riccoli drew a deep breath through nostrils that quivered slightly, and extended his hand.
“I am protected,” he whispered, as he took the pistol. “I am a Man of Destiny.”
“Pull the trigger then, Man of Destiny,” said Le Sage quietly.
With a dramatic gesture, a flourish of the left hand, and eyes turned heavenward, Riccoli placed the muzzle of the pistol to his temple, closed his fine eyes, whispered:
“Nothing can hurt me!” clenched his teeth and, with visible effort, a shudder, and a grimace, pulled the trigger.
Again a sharp click broke the breathless silence.
Riccoli relaxed, sighed deeply, and, lowering the pistol, reversed it, and handed it to Le Sage.
“One each ...” breathed Riccoli. “A fair duel ... Honour is satisfied.”
And he smiled almost affectionately at his friend and brother-in-arms.
“Don’t you believe it, my son,” replied that gentleman, and promptly pointed the pistol at his own forehead.
Again Madame Le Sage buried her face in her hands as her husband pulled the trigger.
For the third time the hammer fell with a harmless click, and a look of mingled disappointment, wrath, and despair clouded the handsome countenance of Lieutenant Napoleon Riccoli.
With a cheerful smile, Le Sage offered him the pistol, while Madame sat erect and watched him with the deepest interest.
“No, no! Enough of this folly. This is sheer madness. I will not do it,” cried Riccoli, exhibiting the anger of fear. “I am not a dog ...”
“No,” agreed Le Sage. “Dogs are nice beasts.”
“... and I will not die the death of a dog,” continued Riccoli. “This is murder, I say.”
“It will be, if you don’t obey,” agreed Le Sage. “Take your chance, like a man, since you’re not a dog.”
“I protest. I will not be hectored by a great blustering bully such as you. It is a trap. Your wife invited ...”
“I’ll give you one minute,” interrupted Le Sage, glancing at his watch. “If at the end of that minute you have not taken your chance, I will shoot you—like a dog. Which will be an honour for you. Now ...”
Looking more like a trapped jackal than any kind of dog, Riccoli extended a slightly trembling hand, took the pistol, and held it to his head.
His face cleared, and he smiled.
“Fate has great things in store for me,” he said. “Not for nothing was I born, not only in Corsica, but, mark you, in Ajaccio itself! Not for nothing was I named Napoleon. Not for nothing did I, from childhood, daily haunt the house of my great prototype, that Greatest of all Great Men. Not for nothing have I ...”
“Speech!” interrupted Lieutenant Le Sage ... and, with an angry glare at that imperturbable man, Riccoli pulled the trigger.
For the fourth time a sharp click sounded through the little room, startling, by its mighty smallness, the ears of the three protagonists of this drama.
“You see?” Riccoli smiled palely. “I am protected ... I am a Man of Destiny.”
“So far, so good—or so bad,” observed Le Sage, and taking the pistol, turned it upon himself.
“Stop,” cried Riccoli. “I give you notice that, whether you pull that trigger or not, I myself will not do so again ... This is uncivilized ... This is barbarous ... Are we gentlemen or ...”
“Yes, are we gentlemen, Riccoli—both of us?” asked Le Sage.
“Of course we are. Let us behave as such. We have had the courage to fight two rounds of your terrible duel, and that is enough. As I said before, Honour is satisfied.”
“Yours, or mine?” inquired Le Sage.
“Honour is satisfied, I say, and if it is not, I will agree to fight yet a third duel with you. But it shall be the duel of civilized people ... of gentlemen ... of men of honour ... of soldiers ...”
“Swords, eh?”
“Yes, swords.”
“You are the champion swordsman of the Nineteenth Army Corps, one recollects,” observed Le Sage.
Riccoli bowed.
“Then I think we’ll go on with our present effort,” continued Le Sage. “In the circumstances, I think I’ll trust to chance rather than skill, eh?”
And putting the pistol to the side of his head, Le Sage pulled the trigger.
Again Madame Le Sage’s lovely face was hidden by her beautiful hands.
For the fifth time the hammer clicked harmlessly.
“Now, Man of Destiny,” said Le Sage, and offered the pistol, handle foremost, to Riccoli.
That gentleman again placed his hands behind his back and violently shook his head.
“I will not,” he shouted. “Before you pulled that trigger I gave you fair warning that I would not.”
“You will,” contradicted Le Sage, “or I will pull it for you.”
“Murder,” shouted Riccoli.
“As you please,” replied Le Sage. “It’s certainly suicide if it isn’t murder, now that we’ve come down to number six.”
“Murder, I say,” cried Riccoli again, and clutched his throat.
“Or suicide,” agreed Le Sage.
“Neither,” cried Riccoli.
“But surely you couldn’t walk away from here, and look yourself in the face again?” asked Le Sage. “What is life worth to a man who has lost self-respect, lost the respect of his brother officers, his Regiment, his Brigade, his Division, his Country, his Army, eh?”
“No one would ...” began Riccoli.
“Oh, yes, they will,” interrupted Le Sage. “Everyone will. I shall tell every man I know, and my wife will tell every woman she knows ... You’ll have to leave the Army, Riccoli, and change your name. You might enlist in the Foreign Legion, of course. A rotten Destiny.”
He thrust the handle of the pistol against Riccoli’s chest.
“Take it, man,” he said, “and shoot yourself—like a man.”
“I won’t! ... I will fight you with swords. I will not commit suicide ... I, at my age ... I, Napoleon Riccoli ... I will not.”
“You will. I pulled that trigger three times, and you’re going to pull it three times.”
Riccoli’s hands fell to his sides.
“Very well,” he said resignedly. “So be it. Have your own way.”
And taking the pistol he added:
“Since you insist, I will pull that trigger a third time.”
And swiftly raising the pistol, he pointed it full in the face of Lieutenant Le Sage, and pulled the trigger.
For the sixth time the hammer clicked harmlessly.
“Now, aren’t you a dirty dog!” observed Le Sage, shaking his head sadly.
“Trickery!” cried Riccoli.
“Yes,” agreed Le Sage.
“I saw you put that cartridge in,” faltered the puzzled Corsican.
“You did,” agreed Le Sage. “But you didn’t see me take it out again,” he added.
With parted lips Riccoli stared at the face of the big man towering above him.
“Slink off, Man of Destiny,” said Le Sage, at length, breaking the tense silence and pointing to the open door with one huge hand, while the other rose, open, clutching and ominous, in the direction of Riccoli’s neck.
In silence Riccoli departed with what dignity he might, and Lieutenant Le Sage turned to his wife.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “An unpleasant job, but useful and valuable. The Chief shall thank you himself.”
“Well, that settles the question of Riccoli,” observed Madame, moving her hands together, with the action of one who dusts her fingers.
“Absolutely,” agreed Le Sage. “I shall report that he failed utterly and completely; and that in spite of his perfect knowledge of Italian, Spanish, English and Arabic, his great histrionic ability, his splendid swordsmanship, and his extreme cleverness, he is wholly unfit for the Secret Service. No real nerve and far too—amorous.”
