Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II

“And so, Francois, it was your size, then, that stopped your promotion?”

“Of course it was. When a man is but five feet – with high heels, too – he can only be advanced as a maître d’armes. Parbleu! what should I be now if I had only grown a little taller?”

“It is all better as it is,” growled out an old captain, between the puffs of his meerschaum. “If thou wert an inch bigger, there would be’ no living in the same brigade with thee.”

“For all that,” rejoined Maître François, “I have put many a pretty fellow his full length on the grass.”

“How many duels, François, did you tell us, the other evening, that you fought in the Twenty-second?”

“Seventy-eight!” said the little man; “not to speak of two affairs which, I am ashamed to confess, were with the broadsword; but they were fellows from Alsace, and they knew no better.”

“Tonnerre de ciel!” cried the major, “a little devil like that is a perfect plague in a regiment. I remember we had a fellow called Piccotin – ”

“Ah! Piccotin; poor Piccotin! We were foster-brothers,” interrupted Francois; “we were both from Châlons-sur-Marne.”

“Egad! I ‘d have sworn you were,” rejoined the major. “One might have thought ye were twins.”

“People often said so,” responded François, with as much composure as though a compliment had been intended. “We both had the same colored hair and eyes, the same military air, and gave the passe en tierce always outside the guard exactly in the same way.”

“What became of Piccotin?” asked the major. “He left us at Lyons.” “You never heard, then, what became of him?” “No. We knew he joined the chasseurs à pied.” “I can tell you, then,” said Francois; “no one knows better. I parted from Piccotin when we were ordered to Egypt. We did our best to obtain service in the same brigade, for we were like brothers, but we could not manage it; and so, with sad hearts, we separated, – he to return to France, I to sail for Alexandria. This was in the spring of 1798, or, as we called it, the year Six of the Republic. For three years we never met; but when the eighth demi-brigade returned from Egypt, we went into garrison at Bayonne, and the first man I saw on the ramparts was Piccotin himself. There was no mistaking him; you know the way he had of walking with a long stride, rising on his instep at every step, squaring his elbows, and turning his head from side to side, just to see if any one was pleased to smile, or even so much as to look closely at him. Ah, ma foi! little Piccotin knew how to treat such as well as any one. Methinks I see him approaching his man with a slide and a bow, and then, taking off his cap, I hear him say, in his mildest tone, ‘Monsieur assuredly did not intend that stare and that grimace for me. I know I must have deceived myself. Monsieur is only a fool; he never meant to be impertinent.’ Then, parbleu! what a storm would come on, and how cool was Piccotin the whole time! How scrupulously timid he would be of misspelling the gentleman’s name, or misplacing an accent over it! How delicately he would inquire his address, as if the curiosity was only pardonable I And then with what courtesy he would take his leave, retiring half a dozen paces before he ventured to turn his back on the man he was determined to kill next morning!”

“Quite true; perfectly true, Francois,” said the major; “Piccotin did the thing with the most admirable temper and good-breeding.”

“That was the tone of Chalons when we were both boys,” said François, proudly; “he and I were reared together.”

He finished a bumper of wine as he made this satisfactory explanation, and looked round at the company with the air of a conqueror.

“Piccotin saw me as quickly as I perceived him, and the minute after we were in each other’s arms. ‘Ah! mon cher! how many?’ said he to me, as soon as the first burst of enthusiasm had subsided.

“‘Only eighteen,’ said I, sadly; ‘but two were Mamelukes of the Guard.’

“‘Thou wert ever fortunate, François,’ he replied, wiping his eyes with emotion; ‘I have never pinked any but Christians.’

“‘Come, come,’ said I, ‘don’t be down-hearted; good times are coming. They say Le Petit Caporal will have us in England soon.’

“‘Mayhap,’ said he, sorrowfully, for he could not get over my Turks. Well, in order to cheer him up a little, I proposed that we should go and sup together at the ‘Grenadier Rouge;’ and away we went accordingly.

“It would amuse you, perhaps,” said Maître François, “were I to tell some of the stories we related to each other at night. We both had had our share of adventure since we met, and some droll ones among the number. However, that is not the question at present. We sat late; so late that they came to close the café at last, and we were obliged to depart. You know the ‘Grenadier Rouge,’ don’t you?”

“Yes, I know it well,” replied the major; “it’s over the glacis, about a mile outside the barrier.”

“Just so; and there’s a pleasant walk across the glacis to the gate. As Piccotin and I set out together on our way to the town, the night was calm and mild; a soft moonlight shed a silvery tint over every object, and left the stately poplars to throw a still longer shadow on the smooth grass. For some time we walked along without speaking; the silence of the night, the fragrant air, the mellow light, were all soft and tranquillizing influences, and we sank each into his own reflections.

“When we reached the middle of the plain, – you know the spot, I’m sure; there’s a little bronze fountain, with four cedars round it,” (the major nodded, and he resumed), – “Piccotin came to a sudden halt, and seizing my hand in both of his, said, ‘François, canst thou guess what I ‘m thinking of?’

“I looked at him, and I looked around me, and after a few seconds’ pause I answered, ‘Yes, Piccotin, I know it; it is a lovely spot.’

“‘Never was anything like it!’ cried he, in a rapture; ‘look at the turf, smooth as velvet, and yet soft to the foot; see the trees, how they fall back to give the light admittance; and there, that little fountain, if one felt thirsty, eh! What say you?’

“‘Agreed,’ said I, grasping him by both hands; ‘for this once; once only, Piccotin.’

“‘Only once, François; a few passes, and no more.’

“‘Just so; the first touch.’

“‘Exactly; the first touch,’ said he, as, taking off his cloak, and folding it neatly, he laid it on the grass.

“It was a strange thing, but in all our lives, from earliest boyhood up, we never had measured swords together; and though we were both maîtres d’armes, we never crossed blades, even in jest. Often and often had our comrades pitted us against each other, and laid wagers on the result, but we never would consent to meet; I cannot say why. It was not fear; I know not how to account for it, but such was the fact.

“‘What blade do you wear, François?’ said he, approaching me, as I arranged my jacket and vest, with my cap, on the ground.

“‘A Rouen steel,’ said I; ‘too limber for most men, but I am so accustomed to it, I prefer it.’

“‘Ah! a pretty weapon indeed,’ said he, drawing it from the scabbard, and making one or two passes with it against an elder trunk. ‘Was this the blade you had with you in Egypt?’

“‘Yes; I have worn none other for eight years.’

“‘Ah, ma foi! those Mamelukes. How I envy you those Mamelukes!’ he muttered to himself, as he walked back to his place.

“‘Move a little, a very little, to the left; there’s a shadow from that tree. Can you see me well?’ said I.

“‘Perfectly; are you ready? Well; en garde!’

“Piccotin’s forte, I soon saw, lay in the long meditated attack, where each movement was part of an artfully devised series; and I perceived that he suffered his adversary to gain several trifling advantages, by way of giving him a false confidence, biding his own time to play off the scores. In this description of fence he was more than my equal. My strength was in the skirmishing passages, where most men lunge at random; then, no matter how confused the rally, I was as cool as in the salute.

“For some time I permitted him to play his game out; and certainly nothing could be more beautiful than his passes over the hilt. Twice he planted his point within an inch of my bosom; and nothing but a spring backwards would have saved me.

“At length, after a long-contested struggle, he made a feint within, and then without, the guard, and succeeded in touching my sword-arm, above the wrist.

“‘A touch, I believe,’ said he.

“‘A mere nothing,’ said I; for although I felt the blood running down my sleeve, and oozing between my fingers, I was annoyed to think he had made the first hit.

“‘Ah, François, these Mamelukes were not of the première force, after all. I have only been jesting all this time; see here.’ With that he closed on me, in a very different style from his former attack. Pushing and parrying with the rapidity of lightning, he evinced a skill in ‘skirmish’ I did not believe him possessed of. In this, however, I was his master; and in a few seconds gave him my point sharply, but not deeply, in the shoulder. Instead of dropping his weapon when he received mine, he returned the thrust. I parried it, and touched him again, a little lower down. He winced this time, and muttered something I could not catch. ‘You shall have it now,’ said he, aloud; ‘I owe you this, – and this.’ True to his word, he twice pierced me in the back, outside the guard. Encouraged by success, he again closed on me; while I, piqued by his last assault, advanced to meet him.

“Our tempers were both excited; but his far more than mine. The struggle was a severe one. Three several times his blade passed between my arm and my body; and at last after a desperate rally, he dropped on one knee, and gave me the point here, beneath the chest. Before he could extricate his blade, I plunged mine into his chest, and pushed till I heard the hilt come clink against his ribs. The blood spurted upwards, over my face and breast, as he fell backwards. I wiped it hurriedly from my eyes, and bent over him. He gave a shudder and a little faint moan, and all was still.”

“You killed him?” cried out three or four of us together.

“Ma foi! yes. The ‘coup’ was mortal; he never stirred after. As for me,” continued Francois, “I surrendered myself a prisoner to the officer on guard at the gate. I was tried ten days after by a military commission, and acquitted. My own evidence was my accusation and my defence.”

“Ventrebleu! had I been on the court-martial, you had not been here to tell the story,” said the old major, as his face became almost purple with passion.

“Nonsense!” said Tascher, jeeringly. “What signifies a maître d’armes the more or the less?”

“Monsieur will probably explain himself,” said François, with one of his cold smiles of excessive deference.

“It is exactly what I mean to do, François.”