Soon after six, Sterzl and his seconds set out. The carriage bore them swiftly along, through the gloomy, stuffy streets which lead to the Forum, along the foot of the Palatine, and past the Colosseum, through the arch of Constantine into the Via Appia, on and on, between grey moss-grown walls, over which they caught glimpses of ruins and tall dark cypresses. Then the walls disappeared and bushy green hedge-rows, covered with creepers, bordered the road, and presently the Campagna lay before them, an endless, rolling, green carpet, with its attractive melancholy, and the poisonous beauty of orchids and asphodels with which each returning spring decks its waste monotony, like a wilderness in a fevered dream.
Sterzl sat in silence on the back seat, facing his two friends. He did not even pretend to be cheerful. A brave man may sometimes face death with indifference, but hardly with a light heart. Death is a great king to whom we must need do homage. His soul was heavy; but his two companions, who knew not only his staunch nature but all the circ.u.mstances of the duel, knew that it was not from anxiety as to his own fate. He could not forget that this catastrophe was, at last, due solely and entirely to his own violence and loss of self-command. He never once reflected that this engagement--brought about by a series of makeshifts and accidents--could hardly have resulted in a happy marriage; he had forgotten Sempaly"s sins and remembered one thing only: that his sister might have had the moon she had longed for, and that he alone had s.n.a.t.c.hed it from her grasp.
A powerful fragrance filled the air, coming up from the orchids, from the blossoming hedges, from the fresh greenery of the gardens, like the very soul of the spring, bringing a thousand memories to his brooding brain and aching heart. It reminded him of the great untended orchard at home, and of one morning in the last May he had spent there before going to school. The apple-trees were clothed with rosy blossom; b.u.t.terflies were flitting through the air, and the first forget-me-nots peeped bluely among the trailing brambles on the brink of the brook that danced across the garden, murmuring sleepily to the shadowy, whispering alders. There was a fragrance of the soil, of the trees, of the flowers--just as there was now--and Zinka, then a mere baby, had come tripping to meet him and had said with her little confidential and important air:
"I do believe that G.o.d must have set the gates of heaven open for once, there is such a good smell." He could see her now, in her white pinafore and long golden hair, clinging to her big brother with her soft, weak little hands. And he had lifted her up and said: "Yes, G.o.d left the door open and you slipped out my-little cherub." With what large, wondering eyes she had looked into his face.
She had always been his particular pet; his father had given her into his special charge and now ... "poor, sweet b.u.t.terfly!" he said to himself, half audibly.
"Do not be too strict in your fence," said a deep voice close to him.
It was Crespigny who thus startled him from his dream of the past:--"Do not be too scientific. You have everything in your favor--practice, skill, and strength; but Sempaly--I know his sword-play well--has one dangerous peculiarity: you never know what he will be at." Sterzl looked over his shoulder. The tomb of Cecilia Metella was standing before them.
Opposite the tomb of Cecilia Metella is a deserted and half-ruined early Gothic structure, a singular mixed character of heathen grandeur and of mediaeval strength, lonely and roofless under the blue sky. A weather-beaten cross, let into the crumbling stone-work above the door-way, betokens it a sanctuary of the primitive Christian times; on entering we see a still uninjured apse where the altar table once stood. No ornament of any kind, not even a sc.r.a.p of bas-relief, is to be seen; nothing but frail ferns--light plumes of maiden hair that deck the old walls with their emerald fronds. The floor is smooth and covered with fine turf, from which, in spring-time, white and red daisies smile up at the sky, and dead nettles grow from every c.h.i.n.k and along the foot of the walls.
The other party were already on the spot; Sempaly was talking unconcernedly, but with no affectation of levity, to the Russian, and bowed politely to the three men as they came in. His manner and conduct were admirable; in spite of his irritable nervousness, there were moments when he had--and in the highest degree--that unshaken steadfastness which is part of the discipline of a man of the world, to whom it is a matter of course that under certain circ.u.mstances he must fight, just as under certain others he must take off his hat.
Siegburg changed color a good deal; the others were quite cool. They made a careful survey lest some intruding listener should be within hearing, but all was still as death. The vineyard behind the little chapel was deserted.
The formalities were soon got through; Sempaly and Sterzl took off their coats and waistcoats, and took the places a.s.signed to them by their seconds.
The signal was given.--The word of command was heard in the silence and, immediately after, the first click of the swords as they engaged.
Any one who has lived through the prolonged antic.i.p.ation of a known peril or ordeal, knows that, when the decisive moment has arrived, the tension of the nerves suddenly relaxes; anxiety seems lifted from the soul, fear vanishes and all that remains is a sort of breathless curiosity. This was the case with the general and Siegburg; they watched the sword-play attentively, but almost calmly. Sempaly was the first to attack, and was extraordinarily nimble. Sterzl stood strictly on the defensive. He fenced in the German fashion, giving force to his lunge with the whole weight of his body; and this, with his skill and care, gave him a marked advantage over his lighter adversary. The sense of superior strength seemed at first to hinder his freedom; in fact, the contest, from a mere technical point of view, was remarkably interesting. Sempaly displayed a marvellous and--as Crespigny had said--quite irresponsible suppleness, which had no effect against Sterzl"s imperturbable coolness. It was evident that he hoped to weary out his antagonist and then to end the duel by wounding him slightly.
He had p.r.i.c.ked Sempaly just under the arm, but Sempaly would not be satisfied; it was nothing he said, and after a short pause they began again.
Sempaly was beginning to look pale and exhausted, his feints were short, straight, and violent; Sterzl, on the contrary, looked fresher.
Like every accomplished swordsman, in the course of a long fight he had warmed to his work and was fighting as he would have done with the foils, without duly calculating the strength of his play; things looked ill for Sempaly.
Suddenly, through the silence, a song was heard in the distance, in a boy"s thin piping soprano:
"Bright May--the sweetest month of Spring; The trees and fields with flowers are strown--"
It sent a thrill through Sterzl"s veins, reminding him of the evening when Zinka had sung those words to Sempaly. The romantic element that was so strong in him surged to his brain; he lost his head; fearing to wound Sempaly mortally, he forgot to cover himself and for a second he suddenly stood as awkward and exposed as though he had never had a sword in his hand.
The seconds rushed forward--too late.
With the scarcely audible sound that the sharp steel makes as it pierces the flesh, Sempaly"s sword ran into his adversary"s side.
Sterzl"s flannel shirt was dyed with blood--his eyes glazed--he staggered forward a step or two--then he fell senseless. The duel was over.
A quarter of an hour later and the wound had been bound up as best it might, and in the closed landau, which they had made as comfortable as they could by arranging the cushions so as to form a couch--the general supporting the groaning man"s head on his arm, and opposite to him the surgeon--they were driving homewards" slowly--slowly.
Dusk had fallen on the Campagna, from time to time the general looked out anxiously to see how far they were still from Rome. The road was emptier and more deserted every minute; a cart rattled past them full of peasants, shouting and singing at the top of their voices; then they met a few white-robed monks, wending their way with flaring torches to some church; and then the road was perfectly empty. The cypresses stood up tall and black against the dull-hued sky and the wide plain was one stretch of grey.
At last the arch of Constantine bends over them for a minute and the horses hoofs clatter on the stones--slowly--slowly.... The lamps of Rome twinkle in the distance--they have reached the Corso, at this hour almost empty of vehicles but crowded with idlers, and the cafes are brilliantly lighted up. The slowly-moving landau excites attention, the gapers crowd into knots, and stare and whisper. At last they reach the palazetto, turn into the court-yard and get out. The porter comes out of his den, his dog at his heels barking loudly.
"Hush, silence!" says the general--the servants come rushing down, the women begin to sob and cry, and again the general says:
"Hush, hush!" as if it were worth while to keep Zinka in ignorance for a minute more or less.
With some difficulty the heavy man is lifted out and carried up-stairs--the heavy shuffling steps sound loud in the silence.
Suddenly they hear Zinka"s voice loud in terror, then the baroness"s in harsh reproof--a door is flung open and Zinka rushes out to meet them--a half-smothered cry of anguish breaks from her very heart--the cry with which we wake from a hideous dream.
They carried him into his room, and while they carefully settled him in bed the servant announced Dr. E----, the famous German physician of whom mention has already been made. Sempaly, who had driven back at full speed and had reached Rome more than an hour sooner than the general with the wounded man, had sent him at once. Dr. E---- examined the patient with the greatest care, adjusted the bandage with admirable skill, wrote a prescription, and ordered the application of ice. He gave a sympathetic hand to each of the ladies, who were standing anxiously at the door as he left the room, and rea.s.sured them with an encouraging smile; promising them, with that kindly hopefulness to which he owed half his fashionable practice, that the wounded man would pa.s.s a quiet night.
But when he was face to face with the general, who escorted him down stairs, the smile vanished.
"The wound is dangerous?" asked the old man with a trembling heart. The surgeon shook his head.
"Are you a relation?" he asked.
"No, but a very old friend."
"It is mortal," said Dr. E---- "I maybe mistaken--of course, I may be wrong ... nature sometimes works miracles and the patient has a splendid physique. What fine limbs! I have rarely seen so powerful a man--but so far as human science can foresee ..." and he left the death-warrant unspoken. "It is always a comfort to the survivors to know that all that can be done has been done; I will come early to-morrow morning to enquire. Send the prescription to the French chemist"s--it is the best. Good-night." And he got into the carriage that was waiting for him.
The general gave the prescription to the porter, who, with the readiness and simplicity that are so characteristic of the Italians, rushed off at once without his hat. As if there were really any hurry!...
The old soldier, composing himself by an effort, returned to the bedroom. Zinka was standing very humbly at the foot of the bed, pale and tearless, but trembling from head to foot. The baroness was pacing the room and sobbing violently, wringing her hands and pushing her hair back from her temples. Of course she flew at the general with questions as to the surgeon"s prognosis. His evasive answers were enough to fill her with unreasonable hope and to revive the worldly instincts which her terrors had for a moment cast into the background.
"Yes, yes, he will pa.s.s a quiet night," she whimpered; "he will get well again--it would have been too bad with such a brilliant career before him;--but this is an end to Constantinople ..."
Zinka, on the contrary, had turned still paler at the general"s report but she said nothing.
That there had been a duel she and her mother had of course understood.
What did she infer from that? What did she think--what did she feel?
She herself never rightly knew; in her soul all was dark--in her heart all was cold. Her whole being was concentrated in horror.
After much and urgent persuasion the general succeeded in inducing the baroness to leave the room and to lie down for a time, "to spare herself for her son"s sake."
She had hardly closed the door when the servant came quietly in and said that Count Truyn had come. Zinka looked up.
"Shall I let him come in?" asked the general. Zinka nodded.
Siegburg had told him, and though it was now eleven Truyn had hurried off to the palazetto. He came into the room without speaking and straight up to Zinka. The simple feeling with which he took her hands in both his, the deep and tender sorrow at being unable to help or to rea.s.sure her that spoke in his eyes comforted and warmed her heart; the frozen horror that had held her in its clasp seemed to thaw; tears started to her eyes, a tremulous sob died on her lips; then, controlling herself with great difficulty, she murmured intelligibly: "There is no hope--no hope!"
His mother"s loud lamentations had not roused the wounded man but the first sound from Zinka recalled him to consciousness; he began to move uneasily and opened his sunken eyes. The whites shone dimly, like polished silver, as he fixed them on his sister"s face; from thence they wandered to a blood-stained handkerchief that had been forgotten, and then to the general. Slowly and painfully he seemed to comprehend the situation. He struggled for breath, with an impatient movement of his hands and shoulders, and then shivered as with a spasm. He was conscious now, and sighed deeply.
The first thing that occurred to him was his official duty:
"Have you sent word to the amba.s.sador?" he asked the general almost angrily.
"No, not yet."
"Then make haste, pray; they must telegraph to Vienna."