The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales

I climbed the ricketty steps and rang. A slatternly female – a mulatto – half asleep, came slippering along the hall; and, on reaching the door, drawled out: – “Que voulez vous, Mosheu?”

“Does Monsieur Despard live here?”

“Moss’r Despard? Oui – oui.”

“Will you have the goodness to say that a gentleman wishes a word with him?”

The girl had not time to reply, before a side door was heard creaking open, and a head and shoulders were protruded into the hall. They were those of a man.

Though the hair of the head was tossed and frowsy, and the shirt that covered the shoulders looked as if it had passed through the “beggar’s mangle,” I had no difficulty in recognising the wearer. It was Monsieur Despard – Monsieur Despard en deshabille.

The gentleman evidently regretted his imprudence, and would have withdrawn himself from view. The shirt and shoulders had already disappeared behind the screening of the lintel; but, before the head could be backed in, I had stepped over the threshold and “nailed him” to an interview.

“Monsieur Despard, I believe?” was the interrogative style of my salutation.

“Oui, M’sseu. What is your business?”

“Rather a strange question for you to put, Monsieur Despard. Perhaps you do not remember me?”

“Perfectly.”

“And what occurred at our first interview?”

“Equally well – that you were accompanied by a drunken brute who calumniated me.”

“It is not becoming to vilify a gentleman after he has given you his card. Of course you intend to challenge him?”

“Of course I intend nothing of the sort. Parbleu! M’sseu, I should have a busy time of it, were I to notice the babble of every drunken brawler. I can pardon the slang of sling drinkers.”

I had discovered by this time that Monsieur Despard spoke English as fluently as he did French, and also that he was perfectly versed in the slang epithets of our language.

“Come, Monsieur,” said I, “this grandeur will not screen you. It shall be my duty to repeat your elegant phraseology to my friend, who I can promise will not pardon you.”

“That don’t signify.”

“If you are not disposed to send a challenge, you will be compelled to receive one.”

“Oh! that is different. I shall be most happy to accept it.”

“It would save time if you give me the address of your second.”

“Time enough after I have received the challenge.”

“In two hours, then, I shall demand it.”

“Très bien, M’sseu.”

And with a stiff bow the caput of Monsieur Despard disappeared into the dark doorway.

Turning away, I descended the creaking steps, and walked back along the Rue Dauphin.

On reaching the corner of Rue Royale, I paused to reflect. I had ample food for reflection – sufficient almost to bewilder me. Within ten minutes I had succeeded in filling my hands with business enough to last me for the whole of that day and a portion of the next. The object of my halting, therefore, was that I might think over this business, and if possible arrange it into some kind of a definite programme.

An open cabaret close by offered an empty chair and a table. This invited me to enter; and, seating myself inside, I called for some claret and a cigar. These promised to lend a certain perspicuity to my thoughts, that would enable me to set my proceedings in some order.

My first thought was a feeling of regret at having promised Monsieur Despard to call again. I knew that Casey would insist upon a meeting – all the more pertinaciously on hearing what had passed – and I was now more than ever convinced of the absurdity of such a step. What had he to gain by fighting with such a man? Certainly not his watch, and as certainly there was no credit to be derived from such an encounter. What I had just seen and heard, perfectly satisfied me that we were not dealing with a gentleman. The appearance of Monsieur Despard in his morning deshabille – his vulgar behaviour and language – the mise-en-scène in the midst of which I had found him – and above all the nonchalant bravado with which he had treated Casey’s serious charge against him – convinced me that the charge was true; and that instead of a gentleman we had to do with a chevalier d’industrie.

What, then, could Casey gain in measuring weapons with a character of this kind? Certainly nothing to his advantage.

On the other hand he might lose in the encounter, and in all probability he would.

A very painful reflection entered my mind as I dwelt upon this. If the fellow had designed it, he could not have exhibited more skill in bringing circumstances about in his favour; and only now did it occur to me the advantage we had given him. The positions of the parties had become entirely reversed. His adversary now held the citadel: Casey was to be the assailant. If the Frenchman intended to stand up – and under the altered circumstances it was likely he would – I feared for the result. He would have the right of choice; the rapier would unquestionably be the weapon chosen; and from the inexorable laws of the duello there would be no appeal.

As these considerations ran hurriedly through my mind, I began to feel sincerely anxious about the consequences; and blamed myself for permitting my temper – a little frayed by the insulting language – to betray me into, what I now regarded as, a manifest imprudence. “Facile decensus averni, sed revocare gradum.”

There was no retreating from the step I had taken. Casey’s antagonist might be a gambler, a swindler, a suspected thief, but in New Orleans – more especially at the time of which I write – these titles would not rob him of the right to demand the treatment of a gentleman – that is, if he offered to fight as one.

We had gone too far. I knew that we were so compromised that we must carry the thing to an end.

I had but one hope; and this was that Monsieur Despard might after all prove a bavard, and show the white feather.

I must confess, however, that this hope was a very faint one. If the fellow had impressed me with an idea of his vulgarity, he had said or done nothing that could lead me to question his courage.

Up to this time, the tumult of my thoughts had hindered me from dwelling upon my odd encounter with the young avocat. Since it had only happened fifteen minutes before, of course, I had not forgotten it; and the affair of my friend being, in my mind, now arranged, it became necessary to attend to my own.

So ludicrous was the whole contretemps, that I could scarcely restrain laughter when I thought of it; but there was also a serious side to the question, calculated to prevent any free ebullition of mirth.

Already, perhaps, Monsieur De Hauteroche’s messenger was on his way to the Saint Charles Hotel; and, on arriving there, I might find that besides having to play the easy métier of second in a duel, I should be called upon to enact the more serious rôle of a “principal.”

Might find! there was no might in the matter. I was as certain of it as if I already carried the challenge in my pocket.

I could not help reflecting upon the very awkward dilemma, into which a moment of evil indulgence had plunged both my friend and myself, and upon the very threshold of new world life. It seemed that we were to be initiated into its mysteries by a baptism of blood!

I was less uneasy about my own affair. My chief source of regret was, my having given pain and offence to a young gentleman, who appeared to be one of delicate susceptibility. Certainly my strange behaviour must have astonished him, as much as the after finding of his counterpart, and the resemblance between them, astonished me.

The likeness was really remarkable – though less than it would have been, had Monsieur Despard been in full toilette, as I had first viewed him. The scar upon his cheek, moreover, I now observed and remembered. Why had I not thought of it before?

With regard to my affair with Monsieur De Hauteroche, the course was simple and clear: an unqualified apology. I only hesitated as to the when and where to make it.

Should I go on to the hotel and meet his second? That would be a more ceremonious way of proceeding – the most en règle.

But the apology would require an explanation – the embroglio was curious and complicated – and the explanation could only be properly understood by giving the details viva voce.

I resolved, therefore, to waive all ceremony, and, trusting to the generosity of my accidental enemy, to return to him in propria persona.

Quaffing off my claret; and flinging away the stump of my cigar, I walked directly to Number 16, Rue Royale.

To my gratification I found the young avocat in his office; and I was further satisfied by perceiving that I was in good time. No message had yet been sent to the Saint Charles – though I had no doubt that the military-looking gentleman whom I met in the office was upon the eve of such an errand. My appearance must have been as little expected as that of the “man in the moon.”