CHAPTER VI

A Prince and a duel.

"Try not to stare so brazenly." suggested Henri as he ascended the interior staircase. The villa's footman no longer troubled himself with their movements. They knew their way about the house and had free rein of it. Over the three days that they'd remained as guests of Princess Pauline Borghese, they'd done a fair amount of bored wanderings through the small collection of rooms. The streets, bars, and parks of Parma had seen their visitations. Etienne was making ample use of the time to erase his pains and had also expended a small bit of coin expanding the breadth of his wardrobe. Perhaps inspired by their hostess or in spite of her, Henri had spent a good bit of his evenings sampling the tastes of the local women.

It had not all been uneventful.

Besides the pair of couriers, the household had been expanded by the arrival of a curious servant of Pauline's. This was a huge negro with wirey hair and brilliant white eyes and teeth. He rarely smiled though and kept wordless to himself. Perhaps he did not speak French. Etienne supposed that he was a bodyguard for the Princess though his small bags did not seem likely to hold firearms and there was no sign of a five foot long double-handed scimitar, the like of which one such as he should wield. Queerly, for Etienne, he had arrived in a simple orthodox Italian costume but since that time he would move about the house in brilliantly coloured pantaloons with silk sashes and he was always shirtless. How exotic!

Confirmed news had reached the city that the Eagle had returned to the continent. Already public figures were scrambling to distance themselves from any sort of commitments. This was not the time to be placing wagers or flying flags. There had been brawls on the streets. Hope and Terror raced through Europe on frenzied, ghastly steeds.

Henri was becoming anxious to get underway again. They were losing time and one could but imagine the import that the letters they bore may have on the future of Europe. If Napoleon's letter to Emperor Francis of Austria could somehow avert war, tens of thousands of lives could be saved. Too, Marie-Louise would soon be hearing of the escape from Elba and she would be most anxious for word from her husband. Every day that they delayed could be another painful one for the Empress, fearing that Napoleon had forgotten her. If what he heard was true then she had not heard from him since the fall of Paris and she would be frantic to know his heart and mind.

Thrice dining with Pauline, they had also politely listened to her at the pianoforte. Etienne had posed for a drawing and was later on his hands and knees gardening on her behalf. Intimately, the trio played cards one evening together and the Princess had been at her most playful. Henri  begged off early though to go out and that had left the game rather clumsy and off balance. They had even spent one afternoon in camera, taking dictation and trying to get that letter finished amongst them. Etienne felt that the missive that they three had devised at that point was good enough to dispatch but still she was refusing to commit it into their hands. Perhaps, suggested neither aloud, this was some bored, lonely middle-aged woman who was deceitfully delaying the two men so that she could keep them imprisoned at her whim. It could have seemed that way at times. If they were prisoners to her procrastinations, it was a sympathique sentence.

At the top of the stairs, at the door to the Princess' sitting room, the soldiers halted and Henri resolutely put knuckle to wood. They needed wait but a heartbeat before that Lady, in her best sing song voice, called through the door that they should enter. They did. First one and then the other. The room was exactly as they had expected it to be save that in the center of it the Princess Pauline was lying naked in a large, bronze four legged bath. She cheerfully waved them forward. The giant Moor did not look up from where he knelt at her back, coaxing fatigue from the Pauline's bare pink shoulders with a firm massage. Do not imagine that it was some frothy bubble bath. It was clear, warm water that did nothing to conceal her nude beauty. Massive dark hands powerfully rubbed perfumed soaps into her pale flawless flesh but she just greeted Henri and Etienne with a blissful and friendly smile. "Good morning, my friends." She made no attempt at modesty and likewise there was no effort toward spectacle. It was her complete indifference to the situation that kept both men off their guards at first. Henri prudently closed the doors behind them. The woman rolled her neck languidly, savouring the caresses of her silent servant, and asked what her guests would like to do with her that morning.

Etienne's attention was fixed upon this Princess. He shifted his weight anxiously.

Henri was firm. "Your Highness. The time has come that we must depart." When her eyes fluttered wide open, he took this as a sign that he had gained her absolute attention. He continued, "We leave this morning, either with your letter or without."

"No!" their hostess protested. She firmly gripped the sides of the tub and the servant's hold on her lifted warily. Would she rise?

"Is it done?" contributed Etienne, keeping half an eye on the Black Ogre.

She sighed and the fight seemed to fall from her. "No. It is not."

Henri's heels clapped together by way of salute. "Then we must bid you adieu. I am sorry. Our duty takes us onward."

Perhaps Pauline spied an opening then for she brightened, "No! I order you to stay!"

"Pish!" spake Henri. "You will appreciate that the needs and the commandments of the Emperor outrank those of a Princess."

Pauline smiled delightfully and played this game, "But he is not an Emperor at this time, having abdicated while I am yet a Princess!"

"I am a soldier of France" retorted the soldier, "and there were generals of France bearing witness to his orders. I must follow their orders if not his."

Wrinkling her nose prettily, the Princess puzzled to find her footing. "You are a soldier but at heart you are a gentleman first. A Lady in distress always outranks all others to a gentleman." Her moor stroked her shoulders with a firm, attentive touch.

"Hearts are not trump, Your Highness."

Laughing, "But my heart remains the high card." Her dark servant lifted his hands to her black tresses and paid due attention to the scalp. Her eyes closed appreciatively, briefly.

Etienne ventured table talk, "She has diamonds in her hand as well, I expect."

"Do you doubt my sincerity, Captain?"

The Captain chose his words carefully from a moment of reflection, "I am obliging. Which would you prefer that I doubted: Your sincerity or your capability? This performance brings one or the other into question, you will grant." Etienne threw a silent yet dangerous peer at his friend.

"I am but a woman." she offered.

"You were a Bonaparte before you ever were a woman."

The Princess delighted anew and invoked a thick Corsican accent. to counter, "I was first a Buonoparte." Her thin fingers drew up into her dark, short tresses and filled them out. Her grin was wide and happy.

"Am I duelling a Corsican then? Should my poniard be unsheathed?"

"Unsheathe what you will, Captain, you see that I conceal nothing." and here she spread her arms wide to fully display her buoyant embonpoint. The moor's hands then swept low and cupped her breasts, seeming to abandon any pretence of a cleansing massage. Pauline failed to demonstrate any attention this this but she passed her charming smile toward the blonde. Etienne blushed anew yet brazenly stared. Strong black thumbs pressed against her pink nipples and then slid away, leaving them erect in the soapy wake.

Henri, also attentive to the dance being performed at the tub asked, "Might I trouble you to dismiss him?"

Without looking at either guest, Pauline answered with a tone that suggested a sober question, "But then who would bathe me?" Her lashes flipped up a moment later and she settled a wide, curious gaze upon Etienne.

Henri was becoming flustered so he was thankful when Etienne found the willpower to answer sagely, "Milady, we but seek the letter. Dismiss us and we are gone. You will be left to your ... bath in peace." Her quaint lower lip pouted. A wave and a glance sent the moor to withdrawing. The giant hovered at the back wall of the boudoir silent but attentive.

Captain Darlon added, "As much as I might be enjoying this repartee, there is a duty to attend to. Have you a letter or do we depart empty handed?"

Slinking low in the basin, the woman raised up a moist and nubile toe to wave it toward a table near the entrance. "There." she conceded. "It is done but unsealed." Henri retrieved the few sheets of paper and a wax stamp that lay beside "Wait!" she cried. "How should I address her? Empress? Sister? Duchess of Parma? Archduchess of Austria? Former Empress? Familiar?"

It was Etienne that lost his composure now. He rolled his eyes to seek salvation. His elder companion tried to continue the parlay in good faith, saying "Howsoever you have addressed her, she will know what your intentions were. Trust her. Trust yourself, Your Highness."

Pauline seemed to reconsider the gentlemen then and modestly covered her naked flesh with slender arms across the chest. Her head dropped in defeat and she shuddered. Just then there came an odd knock upon the door. Three raps, a distinct pause, and then three more strong knells. Raising her head and appearing quite quizzical, Pauline loudly bid the sounders enter.

The two scruffy fellows that answered the summons were not, at first, familiar to Henri but Etienne immediately knew them. These lower class locals were the same two that had instigated the incident at the post house upon their arrival. While Etienne was trying to piece together this puzzle, Henri was intently watching Pauline's reaction. Her posture remained modest yet she made no movement to take towel to drape herself. Her confidence was intriguing. The rogues appeared delightfully surprised by the Princess' predicament and by her company but they were unabashed in their approach. One (we shall call him Ruffolo) gave a crude bow but his companion (Francesco) made no attempt at either civility or humility. Ruffolo continued his bow through a wide demi-circle to try including the Officer and the Gentleman in the acknowledgement.

The Princess spoke at them sharply, "You should already be gone."

"Yes, Your Highness" spoke Ruffolo. He then paused to shoot short, suspicious and wary glances toward the French guests. "But grave news came into our possession which we felt must carried by swift messenger to you. Us." Francesco bit his own tongue and appeared far less eager to make informative noises. He seemed content to try to idly search for weaknesses in the Princess' shields.

Indicating her interest with but a cocked head, Pauline commanded them "Go on."

Ruffolo went on. "It was at the carriage house. There was a carriage. It had markings. The markings were ... I believe that the markings were.." and here he paused and studied afresh the other strangers.

Of a sudden, the entrance door swung open noiselessly yet all the room's occupant's turned to see it. Within the open frame stood an Italian nobleman of rarefied demeanour. His attire was markedly pretentious and his posture immaculate. His thick hair was styled lopsided and likewise unbalanced, he wielded an overlong and broken nose. Somehow, he wore it all handsomely. Francesco swore loudly. Pauline's eyes opened wider and she clutched her bosom tighter. It was either through shame or fear but the knuckles whitened. Henri subtly shifted a hand toward his sabre hilt. Etienne jumped his gaze from one to the others in the chamber, watching all with sure intensity. The moor tensed. Ruffolo did his part by stabbing a grubby finger at the newcomer and crying "Prince Borghese is here!". The Prince walked into the room.

The lack of passionate outrage displayed by Prince Camillo Borghese upon discovering his naked wife in the midst of five strangers was, you will imagine, remarkable. Perhaps yet more remarkable (and also perhaps an aid in explanations), there was no appearance of surprise upon his skewed visage nor was there any aura of triumph as many a cuckold might endeavour to affect at a time such as this. No, without the expectant display of masculine outrage, he fair sauntered forward with almost exaggerated effeminacy. He blessed his despairing wife with a warm, insincere smile and nodded to each of the others in turn by way of acknowledgement. He did not recognize the moor.

"How dare you enter my bath without permission!" challenged the wife.

"Madam, your boudoir has never been your sanctum sanctorum, say instead your salon. I presented my carte blanche, dear wife, to the doorman."

Etienne gnawed on his lip. He felt surely guilty and perhaps was awaiting due justice.

The newcomer continued, "I ought make de rigeur accusations, pronouncements, and protestations at this saturnalia. Shall I stamp my foot for lese majestee?"

Francesco sensed an opportunity to earn a good tip. "Sir, I would be your second."

Henri turned to the speaker, "Do I know you?" The Italian's answer was unprintable. The Frenchman's glare was indescribable.

Pauline, at the center of the stage, suggested of her husband, "Do what you must do but do not make a scene, I pray."

Camillo gestured expansively toward the inelegant nude and described it, "Messieurs, my bete noir au naturel:  Legendary libido. Motif louche. Legerdemain lax.".

Etienne protested, "This is your wife, Sir."

The response was banal, "Caveat Emptor."

When Henri took a step forward and began to raise a finger, the Prince quickly pranced toward the tub and pronounced, "Mia Culpa. By her al fresco serving, I knew, de facto,  you were intimates ergo I would serenade you with the dictum of our inamorati jests. Non furore." Pauline stewed in her pot.

While Etienne fumbled through what the Prince was saying, Henri studied Pauline's reaction and then retook one pace backward. "As you will. I will await your leave to withdraw in any case."

Camillo shook his head and a finger. "No. No. We require crescendo ere rapprochement."

Pauline translated for him, "This must be played out. It cannot end unresolved." and for this she earned a condescending smile from her husband.

"Prima facie, here is a femme fatale enjoying la dolce vita while her husband is in absentia (and true this is her leitmotif) but au contraire,  let us take the line that this tableau vivant is trompe l'oiel. Have we not the choice to see it Tabula Rasa?"

"By all means" ventured Henri, "Let us assume the best." and Pauline supported him with an emphatic "Yes!" but her enthusiasm generated a nipple slipping into view. Etienne murmured low about justice. Francesco matched him while Ruffolo studied the window exits.

Prince Camillo continued "Our dramatis personae, (the Bon Vivante, his Factotum, and my Ingenue et al), though are in an outre mise-en-scene, are not in flagrante delicto, ergo I am obliged a priori to believe you and thus have no cassus belli, per se."

Etienne renewed the chorus "Yes!" yet crouched in frustration. Henri at last was speechless. Even Francesco could find no appropriate curse.

Meanwhile the Prince was pacing about and composing his thoughts in a courtly manner with absolutely no distress. "Perhaps an apologia per capita."

"They are all my guests" insisted Pauline. "They are here on business! You must trust me." Ruffolo nodded earnestly.

Etienne agreed also, "She tells the truth, I swear." but Prince Camillo turned on him adroitly.

"Habeas Corpus, Young Man! The truth will out. I must have your defences, gentlemen."

Ruffolo and his sidekick were at sea. Storm tossed, they edged away from the Prince in search of some quiet harbour. Instead this tack attracted the attention of Poseidon, "What fiends are you? What part do you play in this Odalisque's imbroglio?"

Francesco reply was pointedly profane but Ruffolo offered salvation, "We are sheep. We are servants. Common couriers. We are blind and deaf to all save what you tell us to see and hear."

"Ah, Bona Fides Vox Populi! Such particular voyeurs as to be charming."

Pauline slapped at the water of her bath petulantly. "They are nothing."

"If those two are nothing...and your Nubian is less than nothing, then these two vice versa must be something ere this is but a bagatelle. Is it..." his attention settled upon Henri, "a mere menage sans mystique?"

"Were I to wish to win your wife, Your Highness, I would neither do it in concert nor with audience. I am on errand as French Officer. Urgency of mission required that we speak with her at earliest opportunity."

"Despite her deshabille?" queried the Prince.

Henri really thought about saying 'Because of her Dishabille' but demonstrated remarkable restraint. Instead his reply was a simple, "Oui. The matter is important enough that my modesty ought be sacrificed."

The Prince appeared satisfied with this response, "Our Grand Horizontale does not abide modesty." He next looked to Etienne and all the eyes in that room (save the moor's) followed suit. The youngster looked at each viewer and still did not speak. There was something being bottled up by the boy.

Henri offered an explanation, "He is my protege. I vouch for his conduct."

Etienne flashed at this, saying "I can defend myself... I have nothing to hide."

"Some things might be hid." spoke up Pauline and she sat up anxiously within her cooling waters.

"We, "posited Ruffolo "will hide things if we may." whereupon his companion did elbow his ribs severely and muttered foul invectives sotto voce.

"No no" answered Camillo to Etienne as he sensed an unsettling, "I will accept the bonhomie of this bella figura that we may end this contretemps. A faux pas would be de facto coup de gras. You need no alibi." but Etienne would not be mollified.

The fusilier began with "Your wife..." and Henri felt that same dread as one feels when the foes present a wall of loaded muskets. "... your wife is a beautiful woman and we are men. Yes, of course this looks bad." Henri distinctly heard the word 'aim'.

The Prince cautioned as he too saw the sword being raised, "Boy, this is Pro Forma only..."

Etienne finished up his short speech with bravura. "I will not allow you to suggest that the Princess is acting at all improperly. She is not ours to judge. Apologize to this Lady, you villain."

The Hussar winced and listened for whistling about his ears. Pauline was not alone in her gasp but hers was the only intake that brought splendid breasts jiggling up from the bath. Francesco's oath might have been earnest. Ruffolo took to gnawing his own knuckle and stared intently at Prince Borghese who had paled perceptively. Sensing that he owned the moment, Etienne gestured grandly and knelt beside the tub. His hand rested atop Pauline's which fright firmly affixed to the bronze tub.

"Fear not, Milady, we, your friends, know the merit of your integrity. You are blameless."

Henri interrupted the youth's declarations, "Etienne, step away. Her husband..."

Pauline shook her head so emphatically that her wet hairs sent droplets flying. Camillo, for his part, stumbled over his tongue until finally he uttered the dangerous words, "I ... Sir... Monsieur...you have dishonoured me. There must be an accounting." The challenge was issued.

Ruffolo relaxed, sensing himself now safe. Francesco piped up again, saying "I will be your second."

"Be without doubt, my friend, that I will be honoured to act in whatever capacity you require of me." said Henri to Etienne.

It was only then that the youth realized how fully he was stuck in. If there was a way out, Henri would have found it. If there was a trick. If there were words that could persuade, Henri would have used them. He had fired his ramrod with that shot. Princess Pauline appeared frightened. She too knew that there was no way out. She could say nothing. The Prince, he was terrified. He wanted this no more than anyone but he too was committed. No! No, thought Etienne. Common sense could still prevail. This didn't have to go so far. This didn't have to end in death... maybe even his own death. He could reason with the Prince. He was a reasonable man...They were all reasonable men.

He had an obligation to the Princess. She couldn't defend herself. She needed protection. She needed someone to defend her, to be her champion. Henri wouldn't do it. He was too concerned with duty ... with taking the husband's side ... or maybe he was jealous. It was he, Etienne, that the Princess looked to in her desperate, dark hour. She had looked to him. He (and only he) could set things to right. They were right now. He could see fear in the Prince's heart. He could see victory for himself and for the Princess. He had to push. Henri would have said something about pursuing one's destiny. Destiny and Glory! That was what this was about. Destiny, Glory, and the Princess!

"It is for him to apologize. Not I." said Etienne firmly and with perhaps enough volume to be overheard, he added, "The dishonour is his."

The Prince did not appear to hear this new slight. He was instead passing a small gratuity to the two ruffians. As he did so, he commanded them to exit in silence: a task that they performed masterfully. Camillo's hands shook visibly as I struggled to put away his purse.

Facing his companion, Henri placed a firm hand upon each of the man's shoulders and he said ...no. He said nothing. He nodded and then stepped back toward the Prince to issue an invitation, "Please, Prince Camillo, let us seek a common ground. Etienne, be so good as to give His Highness and I time to talk. Take a turn about the streets. Reflect."

Etienne almost snapped out a reply but collected himself. He gave a low, awkward bow to the soaking, silent Princess, a curt, formal nod to the Prince and Henri, and then strode as manfully as he could off stage. In quiet confidence, Henri commenced to negotiate terms for the upcoming confrontation. Camillo insisted that he require no second and it was not our Captain's place to resist.

When the Hussar had finally escorted the Prince out, Pauline paused for a moment and then screamed shrilly for her Moorish servant to "Get me out of this cold bath! Now! My poor skin will never unshrivel."

**********************

It was toward dusk when Captain Darlon and Fusilier Etienne Neville clambered over the walls of the Ducal gardens. The Palace had been closed for a good many years now. Cambaceres had never even been to Parma. The neglect and emptiness of the grounds was evident and when the pair passed a small gardener's cottage it was sadly evident that it had suffered vandalism as well as general decay.

Large, overarching, heavy trees hung pervasive over the gardens. The last sad rays of the sun were blocked and blackened by their twisting leaf-clustered branches. Our characters moved without haste through the fading woodland. Henri would speak quietly from time to time yet Etienne was markedly reserved. The young man was wrapping thoughts on mortality tight about himself as proof against the increasing chill of the evening. Lifeless leaves detached from their lofty origins, rolled helpless about their boots and then were channelled down the aisles of spare, low hedges by slight breezes. Shrouded in even shadows, the lines of once cultivated elms cast long shadows behind the men. They walked toward the dying orange light while Henri sought to give confidence to his companion.

"Turn your side to your opponent when you raise the pistol to fire. It feels awkward but it presents the smallest target. There is no shame in making it harder."

Etienne nodded and offered a short grunt in recognition of the advice. Otherwise, his silent introspection continued. He'd been in a battle before and he'd been in fights before. He may have killed men at Mincio... he probably did. He'd never given it a long thought. On the first day of this adventure, he'd aimed his musket at a border guard at point blank range. If he had fired he'd have killed that man outright. He knew that but he had not paused at the time. Now though, walking through these dreary lanes of glum gardens, he could not wrest his mind from what was about to happen.

To kill a man. To take the last spark of life out of someone who loved and laughed, who could think great thoughts and yet do great things. What gave him the right? Was his life worth more than the Prince? How could it be. For all the arrogance, hubris, and cruelty of the man, Etienne admired him. There was something noble about his manner that Etienne could never hope to attain. He was cultivated and controlled, much like Henri. He seemed so confident. Too confident. He had no right to insult ... his wife. Pauline was in the wrong. Her conduct was categorically scandalous. No husband should be expected to endure that. Wasn't she really the one insulting the Prince?

Here was Etienne caught up in a family squabble, an ongoing struggle between a man and his wife that had been going on for an age. The couple had been estranged for twelve years. Why was it coming to a head now? How had he gotten dragged into this petty power struggle? In some ways, what angered Etienne the most now was that the indignation, the anger that he had felt at the Prince when he insulted him was gone now. It had all seemed so trivial. Pointless. ... and now he was going to fight a duel for no good reason.

You can't back down though. You can't walk away. It wouldn't matter a whit if the Prince thought him a coward, or if Henri did. He knew that he'd always have the long shadow of cowardice dogging his heels. He'd never be able to outrun or lose it and it would be there, large, black, and ugly every time he looked over his shoulder.

The journey ended at the Temple of Arcadia. Ruins representing lost hopes, dreams, and glories that were concocted in artifice by some clerkish architect from Paris. It was no doubt a hefty commission to be rid of some gambling debts. Seven Romanesque pillars of brick formed a semi-circle of support for what might have been a domed vault. The entablature was, of course, unadorned and simple but on the interior space the frieze was plastered and prepared for a mural that was now left entirely to the spectator's device. Likewise the broken wall ascending from above the cornice held what looked to be where moulded raised busts and portraits may have once resided. The ground space about the ruin was smoothed crushed stone with grasses spreading from the slight rise. Thick dark green hedges and a vaulted canopy of spring deciduous enshrouded the Idyllic ruin in sunset shade.

Henri bid the fusilier to rest in the center of the construct and then began to scout the ruins. Nobody else was seemingly present. Etienne spun slowly taking in the ambience. It was a false ruin, he knew that, but the illusion worked. He could feel the presence of ages past. Too though, he could feel ghosts of lost greatness. It was a shrine to being forgotten. After tonight, would he be so broken? Would he be naught but a lost possibility?

Etienne watched his mentor scouting the bivouac. He was nimbly promenading about the circumference, moving from shadow to shadow in order to view the approaches without attracting attention to himself. He was confident, capable, and always cool under fire. He didn't lose his composure in front of the Prince. Did the man ever lose his composure? Maybe, thought Etienne, he was only composure. Maybe he was a facade with strong braces but that facade seemed to be enough. Looking up again at these false ruins surrounding them, the youth pondered that maybe that was a better comparison. Was Henri an artifice, an illusion of a Hero? The trick worked, even when he knew it was a trick. He smiled then and decided on why indeed these ruins created such an idyllic ambience and why Henri seemed such an adventurer: Etienne wanted them to succeed in their trick. He snapped out of his reverie when his piquet called a quiet alert.

Prince Camillo Borghese was striding unaccompanied up the forested path that led to the ruin. He had brought no second and had he brought no doctor. He was dressed in a plain heavy overcoat that surely hid some impractical, flamboyant attire but his boots were pedestrian. Etienne began to look to his own clothing. The cut of the gentle costume quite contented him but he could not claim such of the brown colours. He brushed it clean as he could and tugged at the edges to flatter himself. Henri moved to Etienne's side but kept his eyes on the arrival, save to give his protégé's appearance a glance. He waved away some attached foliage from the youth's shoulder.

It was irregular that the Prince, all through this, had insisted on not following the norms. There would be no witnesses and that might have been trouble but the man was carrying his own pistols in a case under one arm. No judge would consider it an ambush. Although nervous, Henri had found the man to be quite composed and reasonable in negotiations for the duel. He had suggested the Temple of Arcadia as a site and indeed it seemed perfect. No one would be here unless they knew to come. No outsider would hear anything. Most importantly, it was picturesque. The Prince had called it the perfect Locus Classicus and though Henri didn't know his Latin enough to be certain that he understood, he had appreciated the idea. An evening duel had also been irregular but the Hussar had been enough of a Romantic to accept a contest by moonlight. That and the sooner this was resolved the better. He wanted to be able to get underway at first light.

That point had troubled Henri. If something went amiss, or even if something went perfectly, what would be the appearance of their leaving town the morning after the fight? Would it be seen as flight? Would it be seen as shameful? Though very few knew of the event, word would get out. It always did. Though paid well enough, Pauline's servants would eventually talk. Perhaps not the Moor.

Prince Camillo stepped confidently onto the stage and looked for all the world as though he was about to bow but instead swept his free arm in a balletic arc and remarked, "Et in Arcadia Ego." He appeared deliciously proud of his bon mot but his audience, the Philistines, were unappreciative.

Perhaps Henri was fishing for a comparably obscure witticism for there was a pause before he replied, "Good evening, Your Highness." This drew attention to another highly irregular aspect of this scene and this might have accounted for some of the Prince's peculiar arrangements. Noblemen were not required to fight duels of honour with unranked commoners. Indeed, the honourable thing for the Prince to do might have been to simply have hired Ruffilo and Francesco to knife Etienne in his sleep. A new troubling thought sprung to Henri's mind as he reflected anew on the size of gratuity paid the rogues.

No, there was some motive for the Prince's actions that somehow involved Pauline. Mayhap his intention was to oddly honour her by treating all of her admirers as somehow worthy. Did her desires ennoble people in the Prince's eyes? On the other hand, Henri had considered the not unflattering idea that the duel was being fought for his benefit. The Prince would have known him as the greatest swordsman in all of France and maybe this is some obscure way that the Prince could brush against a famous duellist without surely being slain himself. That may also explain the pistols.

Camillo offered the pistol case to the Captain and maybe tried not to appear condescending as he did so. There was absolutely no trace of the pallor that had afflicted the man in the morning. He appeared confidently at ease. Henri inhaled suspiciously as he took the case. No scent of alcohol was detected but the Hussar did start to thinking about his own pipe. The Prince then removed his overcoat. He folded it neatly once and then let it fall casually to a disordered pile on the ground. His costume was not ornate. Indeed it was a simple dark traveller's garb.

Etienne was reminded of the battle of the Mincio. Here were two generals facing off against one another, planning their campaigns with bold strategies and playing at civility while here was the man who had to point the weapon and kill or be killed. He was doing what he was told, trying to do everything as he had been instructed, and hoping, strangely, to gain the appreciation of his betters in so doing. The youth found himself pacing anxiously. He wanted the battle to begin.

Henri sensed the youth's anxiety and, kneeling, opened the case to quickly inspect the brace of pistols. They were fine pieces if not wholly practical. The details on the walnut grips would, thought Henri, resist a sure hold if one was seeking to fire from the saddle. The barrels were ornamentally long and octagonal. They'd be unwieldy in anything but a duel. He did not trouble himself with the question of where the Prince had gained these weapons on such short notice.

As he began, the Prince spoke, "A beautiful setting for the denouement. There is gravitas, dignitas and yet ... clementia. We are reminded of Time's merciful nature." Henri glanced angrily up at Camillo and cut his examination short to begin loading the pair of firearms. The Prince continued, "Note bene, whatever force majeure took this temple down en passant, the pastoral sentimentality retains a spiritual link to that moment."

Etienne was finding embers of that anger that had fuelled him in the morning. Henri rose from the kneeling position at the feet of the Prince and made effort to complete the ramming home of the loads erect.

Etienne knew that he had no right to speak to the Prince, nor could he make any comment upon the man aloud. Prince Borghese was, as near as could be told, not breaking any protocol rules. Etienne could only restrain himself.

Having prepared the matching weapons, Captain Darlon offered them butt forward. The Prince was given first choice so he took his armament and pointed it skyward without a second glance. He demonstrated complete confidence in the sole second's capability and integrity. Giving a sober nod to Henri, he remarked simply, "My compliments." Etienne paced up, firmly gripped the remaining weapon and then stepped away. Instinct made him want to handle it but he too aimed it at the rising moon and repeated the words, "My compliments." Harmonious clicks sounded as the matching weapons were cocked.

Henri bid the antagonists face about. He gave instructions about how things would be done. Finally, he offered each man a chance to call an end to this. Neither contestant spoke in reply.

Etienne's senses reeled. Things were becoming decomposed, playing at discordant speeds. Voices wafted on the air andante. Movements in the corner of his eye were molto presto. His heart: staccato. He caught the Prince's perfume upon the air and had an age to reflect upon its subtleties.

He found himself stepping forward and could hear the Captain intoning the count toward ten. He was detached from the walk, conscious only now of the tall pillars looming toward him. How many more to go? Did they do seven yet? He still smelled that perfume. Was the Prince following him? Should he turn? He wondered about turning early. He could stop, shoot, and kill the Prince. He would live to see tomorrow. Stepping between two massive stone pillars then he thought anew about shadows. Small steps. Remain in the shadows. Or maybe, hide behind a pillar?

"Turn and fire at will."

Had it been ten already?

Etienne felt a ghost pass through his body and he was liberated. Free to act, he spun, lowering the pistol to shoulder height as he did so. The Prince was standing there, already facing him, 20 yards away. That man did not turn to his side. A large target! He had lowered the pistol. He was taking careful aim on Etienne! One eye was closed. Etienne recalled his instructions and turned his body. Small target. He took aim. Center of mass. He had his aim. The Prince seemed so large a target there. It all seemed so easy. All he had to do...

The Prince had not fired. What did he wait for? What was Etienne waiting for?

Etienne pulled the trigger and the hammer blurred forward.

There was only a dull click. Muted. Misfire.

Wide-eyed with new terror, Etienne looked to Henri. There was tension, perhaps fear on the man's face. He gestured for calm to Etienne and then looked quickly to the Prince. Etienne could not make himself move. He still held the pistol, almost limply, pointed at its target but it was cruelly impotent.

Prince Borghese did not wait long. There was the hint of a smile upon his awkward visage. Would this be the face forever reflected in Etienne's dead eyes? The Prince took precise, practised aim, inhaled deeply, and pulled the trigger.

Misfire.

Etienne could hardly stand. His knees threatened now to buckle. He held to his feet though and stood waiting as though something more would happen. Henri seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and the Prince gave a merry laugh (which was too nasally it must be said).

"Quid pro quo! My honour is satisfied."

Not wholly surprised, Henri acknowledged this with a nod and then asked of Etienne, "You are satisfied?"

Etienne endeavoured to do what was expected of him, saying vaguely, "Quid po co. My honour is satisfied."

Soon enough all three were laughing away the tension. It may not have been a heartfelt or honest camaraderie but it was there just the same. Henri set to disarming the pistols while the Prince offered a hand to Etienne, "Cui Bono, afterall?". The youth grasped the hand and took strength in the contact. The scent from the prince was upon him again and he found himself affected.

The young infantryman offered the Prince warm words of encouragement, saying "You are a brave man." but perhaps he was fishing for similar compliments. He got them.

"You have as much panache as your consigliore and perhaps something more." and then he broached the subject that everyone had been hoping to avoid by adding, "The Princess Pauline should be proud to have you as her champion."

Etienne was still struggling to find a retort when the Prince continued with "Entre nous, you are now persona non grata with my wife."

Henri spoke up from where he was kneeling with the weapons. His thumb was rubbing back and forth over the cocked hammer of one of the pistols. "That is understood." There was something about his look though that suggested that he was puzzled by something.

It was not understood by Etienne at all. What about the insults to the Princess? What about what she wanted? What about the Prince apologizing to her? he tried to voice his concerns but could only insist, "You must love her." and he wasn't sure what he meant even as the words had fallen from his mouth. Henri tensed and maybe understood more than Etienne. The Hussar came to some decision of his own, slowly brought the hammer down on the firearm and put the pair neatly away in the case.

"I cannot love her," the Prince answered honestly, "but my loyalty to her is absolute. It always shall be."

Etienne did not know if he understood but he accepted what was being said. His heart was still unsettled and now he just wanted peace and quiet. The trio were silent as the scene was cleaned up. The Prince moved off westward alone and Henri took Etienne eastward with an arm about his shoulders. As they descended into the grey-dark of the moonlit park, Henri did express a question though that betrayed where his thoughts were, "For next time, Etienne, how good are you with a sword?"

Chapter VII

Index