Ch. VII --- in which I despatch de Frascaille and encounter Mme Beatrice for the first time
It was in late August '82 that I defeated the Comte de Frascaille, in the courtyard filled with lemon light, splashes of green from the apple-trees, and the drowsy hum of the bees. We fought back and forth for a good hour, and for most of that time he had the better of me.
My sweat was running cold, even in that sun-bathed old courtyard, for the Comte had me on the run. Now I was at bay! Alack! Pinned against the cold stone of the Grouillerie steps, what could I do but pray for the return of my strength as the Comte's relentless, pitiless, blade swung and thrust ever nearer my heaving chest...
And then. There she stood, in a shaft of purest amber, in the arch of the old Western Gate. Framed by the weathered carvings in the ancient roseate stone of that great "Charlemagne" Arch, her flowing robes illumined by the blessed sunlight. Inkblack were those tumbling tresses, pale as the winter moon was the softest face I had e'er beheld, and she stared at us with a terrible look of the gravest concern.
"Mme Beatrice! You must not remain in this place!" cried old Bertillon, the mole-catcher, from his hiding-place by the rain-barrels, "it is not for your eyes to behold such a scene!"
It was at this moment that the lady spoke, in a voice that I still swear was woven from the very threads of Heaven; and her words seemed to still even the raucous cacophony of the crows above, to quiet the squabbling panic of the frightened sparrows across the dust-hazed yard.
"Please, dear gentlemen, please desist, for your fighting offends the beauty of the afternoon. I cannot bear to see one drop of your warm blood darken the golden dust that coats yon cobbled ground. Oh please, I entreat you, for my sake, please be at peace!"
It was as if an angel had left her dwelling of Eternal Perfection, had trammelled herself in Earthly bonds. Had descended to this place and this time. To save me.
Glancing at her I felt my heart surge with the old Brabantine pride once again. My wearied limbs gathered instant inspiration from that gorgeous, compassionate face. My sword arm was galvanised by that soothing, life-giving voice.
De Frascaille hesitated an instant at her words. It was enough. I parried, hurling back his hitherto-threatening rapier and, using my right foot against the Grouillerie steps - and feeling an inflow of strength that to this day I cannot account for - I spun him in a deadly counter-attacking gyre.
His face was an ashen mask of doom now that I had him down in the corner, that dank corner that I had a mere moment before feared might be the place of my last breath. One last defensive thrust from his rapier tore at my left shoulder, pierced my flesh. With a gasp all mercy was driven out of my frame. I ran him through with all my strength, and pierced his heart in a coup-de-grace of classical precision.
For a second I slumped against the rough wall of the stable, exhausted in the stifling heat. The bees still murmured, the sparrows squabbled yet. Somewhere out there in the burning fields a cow lowed.
But remembering my angel I hauled myself around to face the archway. Before I knew it I was before her, dropping to my knees in the "Calonne" gesture, taking, without query, her hand and pressing it to my hungry lips. I could sense her trembling, her quiet sigh, as I kissed her hand again and again, pressing home my advantage in a firm, if breathless, baritone:
"Louis de Vascony at your service, Mademoiselle. I only ask that I may dedicate my art and my strength to your peerless beauty and inspirational grace."
A blush was warming those cheeks of delicate porcelain. The downcast lashes opened at last, and I was drowning in eyes of darkest opal.
.....Much later that same evening, outside old Jacquard's Tavern, as we sat beneath the poplar trees that whispered in the caressing breeze, as we watched the setting sun bleed into an enormous sky over the rolling fields of Grecy, as we drank from rough tumblers the crimson wine of Auverse, I learned about the dark secret of Beatrice Mallarme and, gazing into the snowy features beneath the skeins of raven-black hair, I knew that my life would never be the same.
