The Envoi of a Gallant Poet

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 not worry; I too, have said my little part . . . not
very well, either." He steadied himself by catching hold of the table.
The blood gushed from his wound, soaking his leg, and forming a pool on
the clay. "Why, he was worth more than them all, for all he scribbled
verses. Bah! I have come the ragged way, and by the ragged way I go.
. . . It is a pity: either men should be born blind or women without
beauty. The devil of the priests is in it all. And this is what love
does!"