La vengeance du Cavalier

     A few days ago I was sitting in a local café sipping espresso and thinking furiously when a man and a woman sat down next to me and started talking. I found that I could not help but overhear their conversation, which immediately disrupted my thinking. I had thus resigned myself to leave, taking my last mouthful of espresso, when I heard one of them mention as an aside Royan’s being home to a library dating back to the early 16th century. This news thoroughly took me off guard, causing me to spew espresso from my mouth and let out a shocked “QUOI?”
     Kindly ignoring my unseemly outburst and the espresso on their shoes they obligingly explained that the library had been all but forgotten over the course of many years. Most people now did not know of its existence because it was not lavishly decorated on the outside, stood in an otherwise dilapidated section of the city, and who went to libraries these days anyway? When they made known their intention to visit the library later that afternoon I hastened to invite myself along.
     Upon our arrival I noticed that the exterior indeed appeared somewhat modest, but once inside! inside I found that its beauty rivaled even Coimbra’s Biblioteca Joanina. I wandered around admiring the intricate baroque architecture and marveling at the ancient and varied tomes, which adorned the walls from floor to ceiling. My friends stayed and toured with me for quite some time before eventually returning to their hotel. I bade them farewell, having decided to stay a bit longer to peruse a collection of short stories written in the 19th century that I had picked out during my wanderings. I did not recognize the author (a certain Thibault Duconte), and the book looked as though it had not been disturbed for many years. But being curious and having nothing but time, I opened and began to read.
     Three hours later I had finished. My overwhelming impression was that the stories were pleasant and diverting save for one which markedly stood out from the rest. It possessed a deeper and somewhat darker impetus than the others. Moreover in a postscript the author claimed to have exceptionally chosen to base this story on an event that actually took place in Paris in the late 17th century. I found it compelling enough to return to the library the next day in order to translate it into English. This I have done so that I might share it with you.

La vengeance du Cavalier
Thibault Duconte

     Footsteps echoed stridently in the Manoir de la Bastion as a cavalier rushed down a long hall toward a small, ornamented door at the far end. His hair had come partly undone and flew about his face in rythm with his steps. A look of rage and contempt pervaded his features. His right hand firmly grasped the hilt of his rapier.
     Suddenly his path was obstructed by a man dressed in livery come into the hall from a side passage, sword drawn and at the ready. The cavalier shrieked in fury, and drew his sword in a flash. After a short skirmish the man fell, mortally wounded in the chest. The cavalier quickly pulled his sword from his enemy and continued on his way in the same frenzied pace.
     Halfway down the hall he was set upon by two more retainers who had heard the commotion and come to aid their comrade. He parried what would have been a fatal blow from the one, but just failed to get clear of the other’s sword, the base of whose blade violently struck him in the face and split open his cheek. However the guard’s ambitious attack had left him vunerable and the cavalier took full advantage, quickly stabbing him in the abdomen, then turning in time to defend against the remaining guard’s continued attack. They fenced for some time until the cavalier finally wounded the other in the hand and was able to finish him soon thereafter.
     As the cavalier continued down the hall he felt blood flowing abundantly from the gaping wound in his face. Tears from the pain streamed down and mixed with the blood, but his mind was set and a fierce determination pushed him onward. His pace did now slow. Reaching down he unsheathed a dagger with his left hand. Nothing stood in his path now but two guards stationed on either side of the door armed with pistols. The pistols had been trained on him ever since he had come into view at the other end of the hall. They waited for him to approach. He moved steadily forward. When he was within firing range of the pistols the guards set them off. One of the balls he heard whistle by his head; the other struck him in the shoulder. He grunted in pain and stumbled, but staid his course, his momentum carrying him ever forward. The two guards drew their swords and prepared to meet him.
     Summoning what was left of his quickly failing strength the cavalier charged into them. With a feint followed by a decisive attack he impaled the one to the left of the door. Then, already inside the other’s guard, he dispatched the man with his dagger before he could react. Leaving them both moribund on the floor he gritted his teeth, took a step back and kicked in the small ornamented door.
     Inside the room, behind a marble table sat a small man dressed completely in white from head to toe. He was still as a statue, his face a sickly waxen color. He gazed with horror at the door through which the cavalier had entered but uttered not a word.
     The cavalier marched up to the table and pronounced the following sentence:
     “For the dishonnor and rape of my sister, Manon de la Fayette, I condemn you to death.”
     He then reached into his vest, drew out a pistol, held it to the man’s forehead and fired.