THE MEPHISTOPHELEAN TANGO
THE DUELISTS
by Robert Osborne
Within the Count's antediluvian circle, duels were still the accepted
and, indeed, the obligatory way of settling irreconcilable
differences among men, particularly those involving slanderous
remarks directed against women of the sacred aristocracy.

"The Countess is a whore, a slut and a degenerate nymphomaniac.
Those were the words spoken at The Ambassador's Club diner last night
by that drunken young fool, Gaylord. The handsome imbecile and the
Countess had had a lover's quarrel, and the Countess decided to cast
him off," Jean-Claude reported to the old Count. "SHE'S BEEN
WHORING FOR YEARS! Monsieur Gaylord shouted to the ensemble of diner
gursts, and the Count is the only one who doesn't know it."

"I'm your closest friend, Maxim, and the only one who would risk
telling you these things. Your dear wife, the Countess, does these
things behind your back. You're so trusting, and she knows it. Now
you've got to act. There is no other way."

"Yes. Yes, I must act," the Count replied. "You will be my Second,
Jean-claude. You will please pursue the arrangements to restore my
honor. When Monsieur Gaylord has sobered up enough to choose his
seconds, you will present my card and request we meet in the garden
by the fountain at….let's see….I've got an appointment on Monday. So
that's no good. And I've got a fitting at my tailors on Tuesday. So
that's out. Wednesday. Yes. Wednesday will be good. No. That's
won't work. I have obligations Tuesday night, and I most likely will
not get to bed until after two. No Alors! Arrange that we meet on
Thursday. Early. Say five O'clock. So, let's meet Thursday,
around five in the morning. Yes. That's a good time."

The old Count, his family and his aristocratic friends lived at the
center of a peculiar anachronism. Outwardly, they navigated the
swift currents of Twentieth Century society; however, within their
own circle, they cruised the carefree harbors of `La Belle Époche',
their compass having been set long ago in ancestral drawing rooms.
The Countess liked to dress in long, turn-of-the-century gowns with
the bodice cinched around her wasp waist so she appeared to be
leaning into a stiff breeze. And from her hat collection, she could
choose anything from a yellow, black-banded straw boater to an
enormous frivolously flowered, garden hat that she tied under her
chin with a violet scarf.

Other reminders of a bygone age could be seen about the château. A
larger than life portrait of the Count's great grandfather hung from
the wall in the study. The curve of his long gray sideburns and the
sweep of his proud mustache did not hide the jagged dueling scar that
ran down his left cheek. Nor did he wish to hide it. As a youth,
during his year at Heidelberg, he had been honored with coveted
membership in the University's most exclusive dueling club, where he
gained the envied status of premier rapier and was known widely as a
duelist extradinaire.

This tradition of settling a score on the dueling field has remained
a manly preoccupation in the family, except that now, pistols were
the weapons of choice. Resting on the glass shelf of a cabinet in
the library, a beautiful, matched set of balanced, smooth bore,
flintlock dueling pistols bore testimony to this practice. Within
the Count's antediluvian circle, duels were still the accepted and,
indeed, the obligatory way of settling irreconcilable differences
among men, particularly those involving slanderous remarks directed
against women of the sacred aristocracy.

Strictly speaking, the law prohibits duels, although the mandatory
death sentence, proclaimed by Henry IV for this offense, has since
been considerably relaxed. And the original set of 26 rules,
specified in The Duelist Code of Honor, has been amended. Now, no
one gets hurt. The distance between duelists is now regulated at an
impossible 40 meters. And the challenger and the challenged are
obliged to fire into the trees, thus preserving honor while ensuring
body integrity and more or less lawful conduct.

Thursday. The day of the duel and the restoration of the Count's
sacred honor. The Count folded his copy of Le Figaro and sank lower
into the warm comfort of his bath. He heard the `slap-swish-slap' of
a straight razor being honed against a leather strap as his valet
prepared for the Count's morning barbering. The maid knocked on the
bedroom door and entered with a breakfast tray loaded with
grapefruit, a soft-boiled egg, toast and coffee. This was more than
the Count normally ordered for breakfast, especially when several
guests were expected for a formal luncheon that afternoon. But this
was the menu recommended by the Count's dueling master, who advised
the Count that croissants and coffee would not provide the necessary
reserve of energy when the Count faced his opponent on the field of
honor.

Even though everyone understood the gentleman's agreement to fire
above the head of one's adversary, staring into the bore of a large
caliber pistol can be unnerving. The Count had had trouble, in the
course of previous duels, controlling his bladder and his cowardly
knee twitching, when it came time to lift his pistol from the ornate
teakwood gun case held by his Second. But with an effort of will he
had conquered this weakness and now controlled himself well,
relegating his nervousness to an indiscernible flicker of the eye
that barely rose above the background noise of his daily routine.

The count finished his breakfast. He allowed his valet to adjust his
long, black coat and the incline his white, formal bow-tie to the
requiste, careless angle. Four-forty-five. Time to set off for the
Field-of Honor in the grassy meadows behind the garden. But first, I
must have a last look in the nursury, the Count said to himself.

Young Carlyle was still peacefully asleep in his crib, when the Count
opened the door. His friends, as well as the Countess, were
surprised when it was discovered he would sire a child. The chances
of starting a family at his age was unexpected. The birth of young
Count Carlyle had wakened joy in the old Count's heart and opened a
door to future years of unantiscipated happiness. Jean-Claude
appeared at the door to the nursury. He wore formal dress and held
his white, silk gloves in one hand and the slim, teakwood case, with
its red velvet lining nesting the twin, flint-lock pistols, in the
other. "It's time, Maxim," he said in a low voice.

At the edge of the Field of Honor, the duelists, aided by their
seconds, shed their black formal coats. The Count's opponent
selected his weapon from the proffered teakwood case. With a steady
hand the count picked up the remaining flintlock pistol. The ensemble
of duelists and their seconds then walked onto the Field of Honor,
and the duelists took their places back-to-back.

"Gentlemen, do you wish to abrogate, or do you choose to proceed?"
shouted Count Barca's second. "Proceed," replied the
challenged. "Proceed," echoed the challenger. "Gentlemen, prepare
to duel," the second shouted. Clackkkkk-click. The duelists
ratcheted back the stiff flintlock hammers and cocked their weapons.
A moment of silence, and then the second began to count off the
fateful twenty paces.

At the requisite forty meters, the duelists turned unhurriedly and
faced each other. Their pistols pointed upwards towards the pale
yellow moon hovering high in the early morning sky. After an
interminable two seconds, the count slowly lowered his pistol, until
it pointed to a tree above the head of his opponent, and squezzed the
trigger.

KA-POW! The pistol discharged. A flaming nucleus of burning cordite
exploded from the gun barrel and floated onto the dewy field of honor
in a ring of blue gun smoke. Forty meters from where the Count
stood on the field of honor, his adversary heard the ball snap
through the trees above his head and watched the severed leaves float
to the ground.

Standing with feet apart and his left hand on his hip, young Gaylord
brought his pistol down and leveled it at the Count's chest. The
Count stiffened. A look of incredulity crossed his face, and he
began backing away, slowly at first, then more rapidly when the
pistol in his adversary's outstretched hand did not waver. He
stumbled and fell backwards onto the green lawn. Jean-claude,
accompanied by his assistant, rushed to where the Count sat on the
grass. "Get up, Maxim. You must get up," they said in hushed tones
to the Count. "It's not over. He wants to frighten you. You must
face him."

"Yes, yes," the count said, "the dear boy wants to make a clown of
me, so he can shout to his friends that I'm a fool." The count
allowed himself to be led back to his former place on the field of
honor and stood facing his opponent, waiting for the big lead ball to
whistle through the trees above his head. In the distance, he saw a
white puff of smoke belch from the pistol in his adversary's hand. A
second later he heard the retort and felt the blow of an invisible
fist strike him hard in the chest.

The half-inch ball missed the Count's heart, but it smashed through
three ribs. Bone fragments penetrated his heart and ripped through
his right lung. A look of surprise appeared on the Count's face.
His grip on the butt of his pistol relaxed; it slipped from his hand
and dangled by the trigger guard from his index finger for a second,
before sliding off and dropping to the ground. The Count looked down
at the hole in his ruffled white blouse and at the expanding scarlet
circle surrounding it. Jean-claude, standing at the edge of the
field of honor, stared in disbelief at the grapefruit sized hole at
the back of the count's shirt.

Pain rose against a barrier of shock, and a formidable bellow, like
the agonized bleating of a butchered cow, burst from the count's
throat, growing louder with each agonized, rattle of breath. As he
was laid upon the ground, his body twitched uncontrollably. His
extremities grew cold, and his eyes grew round. With a final
agonizing scream that would be forever heard in the minds of those
around him, the Count sat up abruptly on the green grass of the Field
of Honor, stained bright red with his blood, and died.
(to be continued)www.lavidatango.com