Duel
Having potentially learnt some lessons from my last literary foray, here's another short story. Please comment. There will be a part 2 to this one and I will need your opinion as to which plays better, as they are rather versions of the same story than a sequential flow.
So enjoy:
Duel
‘The deck is marked, gentlemen.’ – I reclined in my armchair. After giving my words a minute to sink into the sudden silence, I sucked at my pipe and looked around the table.
It was a cold winter night, the snow barely visible through the frosted window. Logs were cheerfully cracking in the fire, and the servant had just finished refilling our glasses with English sherry. A half dealt deck was lying on the blue velvet of the card table.
I made an undetermined pipe gesture towards the Count of A. ‘The count swapped decks.’ There was another pause. ‘When?’ asked the Baron after visibly swallowing. ‘While you, my dear Baron, were busy refilling your pipe.’ – the accusation hung in the air, while the present exchanged glances. The servant lingered in the door to listen in on the conversation. I kept my eyes on my pipe for another second before looking up at the count. The men at the sofa looked in our direction, with the courtiers’ nose for scandal, even thought everything had been said in a conversational tone.
I watched the Count go very pale, then very red, then stand up slowly. I picked up the valet from the half dealt deck. ‘The Valet is marked, gentlemen, just as I said. Viscount, your debt is forfeited.’
As the Count tried to open his mouth to speak, I interrupted him, ‘Your grace, you are a cheat and a bandit. I am at your disposal if you so wish.’
‘Excuse me, mon chere, and you Count, if you please.’ He took us to another table, in the corner of the room. ‘Perhaps you could settle this affair before it blows out of proportion, gentlemen.’ The Count was breathing heavily and staring at me with a mix of fear, and hatred which reminded me of a cornered wolf.
I stood up and raised my voice to include all present in the room. ‘Pardonnez moi, I cannot hear your apart, Baron, but I am afraid I cannot let this stand’. ‘You monsieur, were prevented from finishing your con of which we are all now aware.’ I was looking straight at the Count, and all conversation in the room had ceased. I knew that before the first light of day half of the city would be part to the affair.
‘I await your answer, sire, if you believe me wrong.’ I addressed the Count. ‘But I warn you gentlemen to beware of the truths coming out of this man’s mouth.’ I had raised my voice to include the whole audience again.
‘And you my dear Vizcomte, and you Baron, please do me the honour of being my seconds. In case this man finds his honour and challenges me.’ The two exchanged a glance that spoke of their impotence to prevent what was already public business. The Baron sighted with resignation.
The Count tried to protest, but I interrupted again. ‘It is your turn to pick your weapon, count. I take the liberty of reminding you in case you are not familiar with honourable conduct. And please do it swiftly, I intend to return to my cards after I have dealt with you.’
The Count shifted again, looking around for support, but those who had not been involved yet, were mere spectators, and happy to stay as such, and no sympathy was to be had among them.
‘Please, count, if you wish to wait here until you die of an infarction, I assure you that will not happen for I intend to kill you.’ I intervened again. ‘Will you please pick a weapon already? Or should I? Sabers? Pistols? Daggers perhaps? … If only you could! I used to fight with them in the East.
‘Of course you would have preferred a competition involving a doctored deck of cards, but I will assure you, cards will soon be the last thing on your mind. You shall fight!’
I probably owe this torrent of eloquence to the sherry.
‘Pistols, in the garden.’ Finally uttered the Count, with the voice of a man who had to forcibly push air out of his lungs to make a sound.
‘Would you care to choose seconds, monsieur?’ Asked the Viscount. The Count was recovering his presence. ‘I will entrust myself to any two of these gentlemen. Will you do me the honour, Major?’ He spoke to a white-haired officer who bowed in acceptance.
‘And you Marquis? Yes? I had no doubt.’
The procession moved out to the garden, while the servant brought lamps, and one dashed to the Major’s carriage to provide a box of pistols.
The seconds were finalising the details: ’Twenty paces gentlemen, you will march at ten paces each, then turn and fire in turn, the Count, as the challenged will fire first.’ announced the Baron.
The cold air, fog, and the night, made it difficult to see far, and servants had put down several great lamps from the house.
The crowd stood as a dark mass, quiet now, as the Count and I stood back to back, and the Baron announced, ‘Walk, gentlemen!’
My heart was pounding faster as I measured ten steps, I turned around just to get hit in my arm with something hot and hard that swung me backwards and made me fall against the tree behind me. Only then I heard the shot.
‘No, do not help me. I can stand up by myself.’ I said to the seconds who rushed towards me.
‘I will challenge him again, even if that means staying sober.’ I staggered towards my carriage followed by my seconds.
‘Please be quiet, mon chere Baron. I deeply appreciate the honour you did me, but I really cannot listen to the Viscount’s moaning about my rashness.’ The crowd followed our little group.
‘So now that he has shot me, let the old cheat explain how he marked the cards!’ I exclaimed aloud. ‘If he refuses, you can count the Countess a widow. Worse, I might target the Count’s sensitive region, if he will succeed in angering me with his stubborn refusal to come clean.’ The crowd stood silent, at my incorrigibility for a minute, then, suddenly there was Babel, some were laughing and celebrating my stubbornness, others protesting against the continued insults.
The Count himself detached himself from the crowd, and stood with his seconds near the house.
Next morning, as cold as the previous night, with a fresh bandage around my arm, I walked into the club, with the Baron, and asked to speak with the Count.
‘I assure you, sire I am to apologise.’ I said before he agreed to enter a small cabinet where we could speak privately.
‘My dear Count, I wish to ask your forgiveness. I behaved tactlessly.’ The Baron nodded approvingly. ‘Could you leave us now, Baron that your duty here is done?’ a witness was required for an apology for a public insult.
‘You see, Count, I wished to ask you for a loan last night, but could not bring myself to do so. I was shy to ask in public, and needed to ask you privately, and so had to orchestrate the entertainment of the evening.’
‘I did drink three bottles of that sherry, which was fantastic, by the way…’ The Count interrupted me. ‘You sire are an idiot!’ He shouted. ‘Oh, is that so?’ I lit my cigar from the candle on the table. ‘The Countess is a beautiful woman.’ He went pale.
I summoned the Baron again ‘Well, the Count has insulted me, and I cannot say I am surprised. So I am ready. This time I get to shoot first.’
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