were a delicacy at Zaton’s, and there were tarts and flans abandoned on the tables. He pinned me right-handed with his blade, and, left-handed, picked up such a pastry and ground it into the crotch of my breeches.
I let him—I had no alternative—but I don’t think I have hated like that since I was sixteen.
When word got about that, not only had I been defeated, but I had suffered a catastrophic affront to my dignity, I found myself challenged three times in one day, and a dozen times in the week.
Having killed two and put the rest in hospital, the challenges died down somewhat, but my hatred didn’t. I hated the boy Dariole with the insensate, bitter loathing we can only feel for someone who has bested us. Tell the story to myself as I might, I couldn’t tell it any other way but that it ended with my losing a fight and being humiliated.
That he could have killed me—that I had felt, however momentarily, fear of him—I could even less forgive. I took every occasion to fight him again, and looked a bully as I did so: a grown man threatening a mere boy. A number of inconclusive bouts were interrupted by the authorities. Each time, the plump young man grinned at me as if I had been rescued.
The fact was that with the initiative not on his side, or not lost to me, I had skill enough to kill him—but I could not prove it. The interference of some provost intent on keeping the King’s peace did not rescue me, but him. But I could not say so . Because the only time we had fought to a conclusion, I had been the one to be beaten.
Laughter followed me. I was aware of it. I tried ignoring anything that did not demand a duel, and those men that did, I sent home wounded or killed, in bloody-minded satisfaction at my own skill. But “Sully’s black dog” followed me too, and I do not think I have ever had so mortifying an experience as when the Duke called me in to explain to him, in person, exactly how I came by this sobriquet.
Therefore, when it seemed I must leave Paris—who knows for how long—and now that he and circumstance positively invited me to it—I could not leave without killing Dariole. I had to.
It was not a fight to watch (although my contention is that none of them are); it was unspectacular, except for that final error that all swordsmen foresee—the one that is getting them killed.
The boy put my point safely past his face, too quickly for a common duelist’s skill, but I by that time remembered him to be uncommon.
At the same moment he brought his left forearm up, braced, and took the impact of the pistol on it without a flinch.
And at the same time as that, he thrust in time with me, the tip of his blade leaping for my sternum, and stepped in and kicked me in the belly.
I confess now that I had no expectation of his doing it. He was a young man, not yet grown to his full height or weight. He must have realised that in physical grappling, he would be at the greatest disadvantage; that he must rely on the forty-four inches of steel in his right hand or I would pummel him into blood-pudding. It was the greatest shock of my life—and I can claim only that my mind and attention were back with Henri and Ravaillac—when I parried his blade but he succeeded in putting the toe of his riding boot into my gut.
A hand-span lower and pain in the stones would have blinded me. Even so, I gasped for breath and bent forward. And, in seeking to correct, over-corrected: I jerked too rapidly away and back.
One of the pieces of debris left on the stable floor was a two-wheeled cart, with rakes and sacks piled up against the extended shafts. It happened too fast and with too much inevitability for me to stop. I lodged the calf of my leg up against the concealed wooden shaft, fell backwards over it with the boy all but in my arms, and couldn’t shorten my sword to stab him, or grab my dagger from my belt.
I caught my balance as I brought my other leg back—then continued in the fall, as I twisted
I let him—I had no alternative—but I don’t think I have hated like that since I was sixteen.
When word got about that, not only had I been defeated, but I had suffered a catastrophic affront to my dignity, I found myself challenged three times in one day, and a dozen times in the week.
Having killed two and put the rest in hospital, the challenges died down somewhat, but my hatred didn’t. I hated the boy Dariole with the insensate, bitter loathing we can only feel for someone who has bested us. Tell the story to myself as I might, I couldn’t tell it any other way but that it ended with my losing a fight and being humiliated.
That he could have killed me—that I had felt, however momentarily, fear of him—I could even less forgive. I took every occasion to fight him again, and looked a bully as I did so: a grown man threatening a mere boy. A number of inconclusive bouts were interrupted by the authorities. Each time, the plump young man grinned at me as if I had been rescued.
The fact was that with the initiative not on his side, or not lost to me, I had skill enough to kill him—but I could not prove it. The interference of some provost intent on keeping the King’s peace did not rescue me, but him. But I could not say so . Because the only time we had fought to a conclusion, I had been the one to be beaten.
Laughter followed me. I was aware of it. I tried ignoring anything that did not demand a duel, and those men that did, I sent home wounded or killed, in bloody-minded satisfaction at my own skill. But “Sully’s black dog” followed me too, and I do not think I have ever had so mortifying an experience as when the Duke called me in to explain to him, in person, exactly how I came by this sobriquet.
Therefore, when it seemed I must leave Paris—who knows for how long—and now that he and circumstance positively invited me to it—I could not leave without killing Dariole. I had to.
It was not a fight to watch (although my contention is that none of them are); it was unspectacular, except for that final error that all swordsmen foresee—the one that is getting them killed.
The boy put my point safely past his face, too quickly for a common duelist’s skill, but I by that time remembered him to be uncommon.
At the same moment he brought his left forearm up, braced, and took the impact of the pistol on it without a flinch.
And at the same time as that, he thrust in time with me, the tip of his blade leaping for my sternum, and stepped in and kicked me in the belly.
I confess now that I had no expectation of his doing it. He was a young man, not yet grown to his full height or weight. He must have realised that in physical grappling, he would be at the greatest disadvantage; that he must rely on the forty-four inches of steel in his right hand or I would pummel him into blood-pudding. It was the greatest shock of my life—and I can claim only that my mind and attention were back with Henri and Ravaillac—when I parried his blade but he succeeded in putting the toe of his riding boot into my gut.
A hand-span lower and pain in the stones would have blinded me. Even so, I gasped for breath and bent forward. And, in seeking to correct, over-corrected: I jerked too rapidly away and back.
One of the pieces of debris left on the stable floor was a two-wheeled cart, with rakes and sacks piled up against the extended shafts. It happened too fast and with too much inevitability for me to stop. I lodged the calf of my leg up against the concealed wooden shaft, fell backwards over it with the boy all but in my arms, and couldn’t shorten my sword to stab him, or grab my dagger from my belt.
I caught my balance as I brought my other leg back—then continued in the fall, as I twisted
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