"Certainly," Burton said. He walked to the end of the bar and around it. Why not try lafleche, the running attack? But if his running glide missed or was parried, then he'd be off-balance, exposed to de Bergerac's point. Still, it was possible that he could close in and thus block the Frenchman's blade.
No. Would he consider such a move if he did not have three ounces of fifteen-percent-alcohol purple passion in his bloodstream? No. Forget it.
But what if he picked up the bottle and threw it at the same time he made the fleche? His opponent would have to duck, and this might throw him off his balance.
He stopped when he got opposite the wine bottle. He looked at it for a second while de Bergerac waited. Then, his left hand opened, and he sighed.
The Frenchman smiled, and he bowed a little.
"My compliments, monsieur. I was hoping that you would not succumb to temptation and try something dishonorable. This is a matter to be settled with the blade alone.
"I salute you for understanding this. And I salute you as the greatest duelist I've ever met, and I've met many of the best. It is so sad, so very sad, and utterly regrettable that this, the most magnificent of all duels, unsurpassed anywhere or anytime, should be seen by only us. What a pity! No, it is not a pity. It is a tragedy, a great loss to the world!"
Burton noted that the fellow's speech was slightly slurred. That was to be expected. But was the wily Frenchman exaggerating the effects of the alcohol to make Burton overconfident?
"I agree with you in principle," Burton said, "and I thank you for your compliments. I also must say that you're the greatest swordsman I've ever met. However, monsieur, you spoke a little while ago about my long-windedness. I believe that, though you may be my equal in swordplay, you are my superior in gabbiness."
The Frenchman smiled. "I am as facile with my tongue as with my sword. I gave as much pleasure to the reader of my books and the hearer of my voice as to the spectator of my fencing. I forgot that you are a reticent Anglo-Saxon, monsieur. So I will let my blade speak for me from now on."
"I'll bet you do," Burton said. "En garde!"
Their epees clashed again in thrust, in parry, in riposte, in counterriposte. But each had perfect defense in keeping the proper distance, in the timing, in the calculation, in the decision, and in coordination.
Burton could feel the poisons of fatigue and booze and knew that they must be slowing him down and affecting his judgment. But certainly they were working with equal or greater effect on his foe.
And then, as Burton parried a thrust toward his left upper arm and riposted with his point at de Bergerac's belly, he saw something coming in the doorway by the grand staircase. He leaped far backward and shouted, "Stop!"
De Bergerac saw that Burton was looking past him. He jumped backward to be far enough away from Burton if he were trying to trick him. And he saw the water flowing in a thin layer through the doorway.
He said, breathing hard, "So! The boat has sunk to our deck, Monsieur Burton. We do not have long. We must make an end to this very quickly."
Burton felt very tired. His breathing was harsh. His ribs felt as if knives were pricking them.
He advanced on the Frenchman, intending to make a running glide. But it was de Bergerac who did so. He exploded, seeming to have summoned from somewhere in his narrow body a burst of energy. Perhaps he had spotted finally a weakness in Burton's defense. Or he thought he had. Or he believed that he was the faster now that weariness had slowed his opponent more than it had him.
Whatever his reasons, he miscalculated. Or he may have performed perfectly. But Burton suddenly knew, by de Bergerac's body language, certain subtle muscular actions, a slight squinching of the eyes, what the Frenchman intended to do. He knew because he had been ready to do the same, and he'd had to suppress his body language, the signals, which would tell his foe his next move.
De Bergerac came at him in the running glide, a sliding thrust along the opponent's blade with a slight pressure. It was sometimes used to surprise and might have succeeded if Burton had not been ready, had not, in a sense, been looking into a mirror of himself preparing for the same maneuver.
The successful flash required surprise, speed, and mastery over the opponent's weapon. D/e Bergerac had the speed, but the surprise was missing, and so he lost the mastery.
A knowledgeable spectator would have said that de Bergerac had the advantage of control. He was more erect than Burton. His hand was higher, thus allowing the fort, the strong part of the blade from the bellguard to the middle, to contact and so master the feeble of Burton's e'pe'e, the weak part, that from the middle to the point.
But Burton brought up his fort and turned the blade and drove de Bergerac's down and then crossed over and up to run him through his left shoulder. De Bergerac's face and body turned gray where the powder smoke did not cover it, but he still did not drop his sword. Burton could have killed him then.
Swaying, in shock, de Bergerac yet managed a smile. "The first blood is yours, monsieur. You have won. I acknowledge you as the victor. Nor am I ashamed..."
Burton said, "Let me help you," and then someone shot off a pistol from the doorway.
De Bergerac pitched forward and fell heavily on his face. A wound in his back close to the lower spine showed where the bullet had entered.
Burton looked at the doorway.
Alice was standing in it, a smoking pistol in her hand.
"My God!" he cried. "You shouldn't have done that, Alice!"
She came running, the water splashing about her ankles.
Burton knelt down and turned the Frenchman over and then got down on his knees and put the man's head in his lap.
Alice stopped by him. "What's the matter? He is an enemy, isn't he?"
"Yes, but he had just surrendered. Do you know who he is? He's Cyrano de Bergerac!"
"Oh, my God!"
De Bergerac opened his eyes. He looked up at Alice. "You should have waited to find out the true situation, madame. But then... scarcely anyone ever does."
The water was rising swiftly, and the deck was rapidly tilting at an angle. At this rate, the water would soon be above de Bergerac's head.
He closed his eyes, then opened them again.
"Burton?"
Burton said, "Yes."
"Now I remember. What a... what fools... we've been. You must be the Burton whom Clemens spoke of... you ... the Ethical picked you?"
"Yes," Burton said.
"Then... why did we fight? I... didn't remember... too late ... we ... should have gone to the tower ... the tower... together. Now ... I ..."
Burton bent down to hear the fading voice. "What did you say?"
"... hated war... stupidity..."
Burton thought that de Bergerac had died after that. But a moment later, the Frenchman murmured, "Constance!"
He sighed, and he was gone.
Burton wept.
SECTION 12
The Last 20,000 Miles
39
BURTON AND HARGREAVES, ALONG WITH THE OTHER SURVIvors, had to face the wrath of La Viro. The tall dark man with the big nose raved and ranted for an hour while he strode back and forth before the assembled "criminals." They stood in front of the smoke-blackened temple, a huge stone structure with incongruous architecture: a Greek portico and Ionian columns with an onion-shaped roof topped by a gigantic carved stone spiral. These features were symbols in the Church of the Second Chance, but, nevertheless, Burton and others thought that the temple was ugly and ludicrous-looki.ng. Oddly enough, the bad taste of La Viro, its designer, helped them endure his tirade. He was right in much of what he said, but much else seemed foolish. However, they were dependent upon him for grails, clothes, and housing. So they did not defend themselves but got some relief from their anger by silently laughing at the hideous temple and the man who'd built it.