a youth, no match ordinarily for the seasoned
swordsman before him. But madame saw the courage of Bayard in his
frank blue eyes. She turned her face toward the wall and wept. "Have
patience, Paul," Victor called; "they will liberate you soon."

"So." The vicomte stretched out his arm. "Well, my writer of
rondeaux, I have but little time to spare. As the fair Juliet says, 'I
must be gone and live, or stay and die.' I can not fight the
settlement which will soon be about my ears. You first, then your
friend. I should scorn to separate, either on earth or in hades, such
loving Orestes and Pylades. Madame, that kiss has cost me the joy of
having your presence for the time being. Here shall the poet die, at
his beloved's feet! Which is very fine." His blade darted out toward
Victor's throat, and the last battle was begun. The vicomte was
fighting for his liberty, and the poet was fighting to kill. They were
almost evenly matched, for the vicomte was weary from his contest with
D'Herouville and the Chevalier. For many years madame saw this day in
her dreams.

The blades clashed; there was the soft pad-pad of feet, the involuntary
"ah!" when the point was nicely avoided; there were lunges in quart,
there were cuts over and under, thrusts in flanconade and tierce, feint
and double-feint, and sudden disengagements. The sweat trickled down
the vicomte's face; Victor's forehead glistened with moisture.
Suddenly Victor stooped; swift as the tongue of an adder his blade bit
deeply into the vicomte's groin, making a terrible wound. The vicomte
caught his breath in a gasp of exquisite pain.

. . . Death! The skull and the hollow eyes stared him in the face. He
was dying! But before Victor could recover and guard the vicomte
lunged, and his point came out dully red between Victor's
shoulder-blades. The lad stood perfectly still. There was a question
on his face rather than a sign of pain. His weapon clanged upon the
hardened clay of the floor. He took a step toward madame, tottered,
and fell at her feet. He clutched the skirts of her Indian garb and
pressed it convulsively to his bleeding lips.

"Gabrielle . . . Gabrielle!" he murmured. His head fell back loosely.
He was dead. Gallant poet!

Madame's flesh seemed turned into marble; she could not move, but
leaned against the wall, her arms half extended on each side.

"See, Madame," said the vicomte; "see what love does! . . . It is
sudden. But do