"Take that, Sir Bungler," cried he, and lifting one of his enormous
legs, lunged forth a kick upon that part of my person anatomically known
as the _Glutæus Major_, which sent me flying from the top of the stairs
to the bottom, at the imminent risk of breaking my neck; but, as good
luck would have it, I landed safely on my feet. Nevertheless the insult
stung me to the quick. I turned round indignantly, yet striving to master my passion, in order
to preserve my dignity, and said, "Baron, you are no gentleman." With the yell of a wounded tiger, the Baron vaulted with one bound from
the top of the staircase to the bottom, just as my hand was on the door. I opened it and slammed it again in his face, and walked briskly in the
direction of the village. I heard the door open behind me and the
Baron's fearful footsteps after me. I do not know what would have become of me, if just at that moment an
over-driven bull had not come to my rescue and stood between me and the
Baron. Seeing a man striding towards him furiously, he imagined the
attack was meant for himself, and accordingly stood on the defensive. The Baron tried to pass, but the bull lowered his horns, and looked
menacing, so he wisely retreated to his Hall. Arrived at "The Swan," I demanded pen, ink, and paper, and wrote to my
friend in town to come to me for the purpose of performing the office of
second, after which I endeavoured to kill time in this lonely village
till dinner. Feeling hungry, I made a sumptuous repast and turned into
bed with feelings full of revenge towards the Baron. "No more Phantom Fleas to-night," I said to myself as I tucked myself
up in my comfortable little bed at "The Swan," and soon fell into a
sound sleep. And now, said the lawyer, when he had got thus far in his narrative, I
must root up an old and very painful subject that occurred in my early
life, and which I would fain have allowed to rest for ever. In my earlier days, when as yet I had no fixed profession, during my
travels in Italy, I became enamoured of a beautiful Italian girl. Poor
Mariangela! how she loved me! That girl possessed the soul of an angel. I see her before me now, with her sweet, dreamy, saintlike eyes, and her
quiet graceful step. We were never married, for I was not in a position
then to support a wife. She vowed that she would never love anyone else
but me. We parted, and--and--she died; died through love of me. (Here the lawyer became visibly affected and hastily brushed away a
tear-drop with his hand. Mastering himself at length, he resumed.) On her death-bed she sent for me. I arrived just in time to catch her
parting breath. When I stooped down to kiss her she hung a small relic
of some saint that had been blessed by the Pope, suspended with a piece
of ribbon, round my neck, and begged me to wear it for her sake, and
said that it would preserve me from all harm. Poor girl! she died in my
arms; I followed her to the grave and was for a long time inconsolable. But time, that changes everything, changed me. A tender recollection of
her past love only remained; the wild tumultuous passion I had felt for
her while living, and the overwhelming grief I experienced at her death,
had subsided. For two years I wore the relic she gave me round my neck. Not because I believed in its virtue, not being a Roman Catholic myself,
but for her sake alone--in remembrance of _her_. Afterwards, however, I
wore it less often, and at length discontinued wearing it altogether. I
kept it still at the bottom of my trunk, between the leaves of a book. This trunk I left in town when I went down to the Baron's. The key, I
must tell you, I had lost a day or two before. I was just thinking of
sending for the locksmith when I received the Baron's letter to come
down to his place for a day or two. I left town hurriedly and the box
behind me, locked--the key lost. Ever since poor Mariangela's death, even long after I had ceased to
think of her regularly, I have remarked that in those periods of my life
when I was in any difficulty her spirit used to appear to me in a dream
and counsel me, and being guided by her counsel, I found my way
invariably out of my dilemma. When weighed down by any great grief she
was sure to appear and console me. That night when I turned into my snug little bed at "The Swan," no one
was further from my thoughts than that poor Italian girl who loved me so
well. My thoughts were far too full of ill-feeling towards the Baron and
the preparations for the coming duel to allow room for anything else. Nevertheless, I had a most remarkable dream towards morning. I thought
Mariangela came towards me as I lay in bed, and reproached me for having
left off wearing the charm that she had hung round my neck. "Your life is in danger," she said. "Good swordsman and expert with the
pistol as you are, you are no match for the Baron with either, whose
skill is from the Evil One. Listen to me, and do not refuse my last
petition. Wear this round your neck, and it will protect you from all
harm." Having spoken thus, she kissed me on the brow and vanished. I awoke, and
would you believe it, gentlemen, I found suspended round my neck that
identical relic that I left at the bottom of my trunk in town, the key
of which was lost. Well, I could no longer doubt this being a spiritual
visitation, so I left the relic there suspended. In the course of the day my friend arrived. The usual ceremonies were
gone through, and the meeting was to be at sundown, in a wood belonging
to the Baron's estate. A surgeon was also provided to bind up the wounds
of the one who should fall, should they not be mortal. As I was asked my
choice of weapon, I chose the rapier, having at that time no
inconsiderable skill in the use of it. The hour arrived, and we met on the spot. The Baron, at the sight of me,
was unable to restrain his rage, and it was with difficulty that he was
prevented from breaking through every rule of etiquette appertaining to
the duello. Without waiting for the customary salute beforehand, he
rushed at me sword in hand at the first sight of me like a savage. The
seconds interfered, and something like order was restored. We advanced, retired, clashed swords, lunged, parried. "_Tierce_,
_quarte_, _quinte_, _flanconade_, single attack, double attack, lunge." The Baron lunged furiously, I parried, and the Baron was disarmed. Without waiting for my permission to pick up his sword, he, disregarding
all etiquette, made a sudden grab at it, and flew at me again in fury. The Baron's fencing was very wild. He made three or four successive
desperate lunges at me, but was foiled every time. He grew more and more
furious; he had never been accustomed to be thus thwarted. I felt my hand grow lame, however. It was like fencing with
Mephistopheles. To tire him out was impossible. His long wind was his
_forte_. I could only try to match the Baron's fury by the most guarded
coolness and self-possession.