Sweat clouded their eyes. Each duelist wiped his brow before edging forward and back in a deft dance. Francesco initiated a number of spirals— doublés —with his blade, forcing Jacques to do likewise.
“Like all men before me, someday I’ll die,” Jacques said. “But before that, I’ll damned well live. What I’ve learned from life is that the only significant difference between an animal and me is that I know more personal pleasures.”
Francesco scowled. “Have you never once searched your heart for—”
“I say that a man who asks himself too many questions is an unhappy man.” Jacques smiled and resumed his en garde . “I live to satisfy my senses. Why should I deny myself pleasures?”
A female voice rang through the large room. “You’d better be playing, you two,” said Dominique, walking through the far door and stopping at a safe distance.
Without replying, the brothers renewed their feverish thrusts.
“ Et la ,” shouted Francesco. “And there.”
Jacques’ body braced. He stopped and looked down to watch the sword’s point pull away. He barely heard the gasps from Dominique and Petrine while he surveyed his chest. When a languorous course of warm blood seeped from his pectoral, he sank to his knees.
“To possess our own swords,” he muttered.
Petrine and Dominique helped Jacques stand while Francesco relieved him of his weapon, setting it next to his brother’s feet.
“Are you hurt?”
“I merit I am, ass.” Jacques opened his fingers cupped over his heart, and pulpy red blood bloomed from his chest.
Dominique swabbed Jacques’ wound with a handkerchief. “Monsieur, it looks horrible. Horrible. Make your peace. Now.”
“What, what?” Jacques cried with terror.
She turned back to Petrine and Francesco with a grin. “A wound, perhaps. But I would judge it only a prick.” She laughed.
Petrine bobbed his head in agreement. “Won’t be mopping up much blood from that wound.”
Jacques cautiously rechecked his upper body. “Not as wide as a yawning grave, I suppose, but it will do.”
Petrine scurried to the far wall and returned with two shirts, the sword case, cloth bag, and snuffbox.
“I might have died,” Jacques said in a barely audible voice.
“I only wounded you, libertine. Maybe I should have killed you.” As he extended his point, Francesco’s eyes glinted.
Jacques’ belly tingled with a queer feeling of alarm.
“I once again claim victory,” Francesco said. When Jacques huffed, he added, “Must not let the passions command. Is that not your precept?” He took his shirt from Petrine.
Jacques brimmed with humiliation. He seized his sword, but Francesco drew the hilt of his smallsword to his face and, offering a polite salute, ended the combat. Jacques had no choice but to do the same. Good manners demanded it.
The two brothers, following their personal custom, then faced Dominique and saluted with their weapons.
The woman’s eyes glittered like translucent gems.
Petrine produced a cloth, accepted Francesco’s smallsword, wiped clean the blade, and set it in the case while Francesco headed toward the loft entrance.
“Are you coming to bed soon?” he asked without turning around.
“No,” Jacques and Dominique said in unison. Dominique’s stately manner disappeared when she laughed.
“No,” Jacques repeated. “I’ll write late into the night, as is my habit.”
“I was speaking to Dominique, elder Brother. Good night, then. See you on the morrow. I’ll keep the candle lit, wife.” He left.
Jacques examined his naked chest with intense consternation, paying little heed to Dominique. Petrine, who stood in a patch of moonlight shining through the overhead window, cleared his throat.
Jacques glanced at his valet. “Hang my shirt on that painting. Take my blade. Then place the sword case and gold snuffbox in my room. Wait there.”
Petrine nodded while Jacques’ attention returned to his wound.
“I think you’ve thoroughly
“Like all men before me, someday I’ll die,” Jacques said. “But before that, I’ll damned well live. What I’ve learned from life is that the only significant difference between an animal and me is that I know more personal pleasures.”
Francesco scowled. “Have you never once searched your heart for—”
“I say that a man who asks himself too many questions is an unhappy man.” Jacques smiled and resumed his en garde . “I live to satisfy my senses. Why should I deny myself pleasures?”
A female voice rang through the large room. “You’d better be playing, you two,” said Dominique, walking through the far door and stopping at a safe distance.
Without replying, the brothers renewed their feverish thrusts.
“ Et la ,” shouted Francesco. “And there.”
Jacques’ body braced. He stopped and looked down to watch the sword’s point pull away. He barely heard the gasps from Dominique and Petrine while he surveyed his chest. When a languorous course of warm blood seeped from his pectoral, he sank to his knees.
“To possess our own swords,” he muttered.
Petrine and Dominique helped Jacques stand while Francesco relieved him of his weapon, setting it next to his brother’s feet.
“Are you hurt?”
“I merit I am, ass.” Jacques opened his fingers cupped over his heart, and pulpy red blood bloomed from his chest.
Dominique swabbed Jacques’ wound with a handkerchief. “Monsieur, it looks horrible. Horrible. Make your peace. Now.”
“What, what?” Jacques cried with terror.
She turned back to Petrine and Francesco with a grin. “A wound, perhaps. But I would judge it only a prick.” She laughed.
Petrine bobbed his head in agreement. “Won’t be mopping up much blood from that wound.”
Jacques cautiously rechecked his upper body. “Not as wide as a yawning grave, I suppose, but it will do.”
Petrine scurried to the far wall and returned with two shirts, the sword case, cloth bag, and snuffbox.
“I might have died,” Jacques said in a barely audible voice.
“I only wounded you, libertine. Maybe I should have killed you.” As he extended his point, Francesco’s eyes glinted.
Jacques’ belly tingled with a queer feeling of alarm.
“I once again claim victory,” Francesco said. When Jacques huffed, he added, “Must not let the passions command. Is that not your precept?” He took his shirt from Petrine.
Jacques brimmed with humiliation. He seized his sword, but Francesco drew the hilt of his smallsword to his face and, offering a polite salute, ended the combat. Jacques had no choice but to do the same. Good manners demanded it.
The two brothers, following their personal custom, then faced Dominique and saluted with their weapons.
The woman’s eyes glittered like translucent gems.
Petrine produced a cloth, accepted Francesco’s smallsword, wiped clean the blade, and set it in the case while Francesco headed toward the loft entrance.
“Are you coming to bed soon?” he asked without turning around.
“No,” Jacques and Dominique said in unison. Dominique’s stately manner disappeared when she laughed.
“No,” Jacques repeated. “I’ll write late into the night, as is my habit.”
“I was speaking to Dominique, elder Brother. Good night, then. See you on the morrow. I’ll keep the candle lit, wife.” He left.
Jacques examined his naked chest with intense consternation, paying little heed to Dominique. Petrine, who stood in a patch of moonlight shining through the overhead window, cleared his throat.
Jacques glanced at his valet. “Hang my shirt on that painting. Take my blade. Then place the sword case and gold snuffbox in my room. Wait there.”
Petrine nodded while Jacques’ attention returned to his wound.
“I think you’ve thoroughly
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