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.
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