"Captain Blunt," he said, "the result of this meeting may go
against me. In that case you will recognize publicly that you were
wrong. For you are wrong and you know it. May I trust your
honour?"
In answer to that appeal Captain Blunt, always correct, didn't open
his lips but only made a little bow. For the rest he was perfectly
ruthless. If he was utterly incapable of being carried away by
love there was nothing equivocal about his jealousy. Such
psychology is not very rare and really from the point of view of
the combat itself one cannot very well blame him. What happened
was this. Monsieur George fired on the word and, whether luck or
skill, managed to hit Captain Blunt in the upper part of the arm
which was holding the pistol. That gentleman's arm dropped
powerless by his side. But he did not drop his weapon. There was
nothing equivocal about his determination. With the greatest
deliberation he reached with his left hand for his pistol and
taking careful aim shot Monsieur George through the left side of
his breast. One may imagine the consternation of the four seconds
and the activity of the two surgeons in the confined, drowsy heat
of that walled garden. It was within an easy drive of the town and
as Monsieur George was being conveyed there at a walking pace a
little brougham coming from the opposite direction pulled up at the
side of the road. A thickly veiled woman's head looked out of the
window, took in the state of affairs at a glance, and called out in
a firm voice: "Follow my carriage." The brougham turning round
took the lead. Long before this convoy reached the town another
carriage containing four gentlemen (of whom one was leaning back
languidly with his arm in a sling) whisked past and vanished ahead
in a cloud of white, Provencal dust. And this is the last
appearance of Captain Blunt in Monsieur George's narrative. Of
course he was only told of it later. At the time he was not in a
condition to notice things. Its interest in his surroundings
remained of a hazy and nightmarish kind for many days together.
From time to time he had the impression that he was in a room
strangely familiar to him, that he had unsatisfactory visions of
Dona Rita, to whom he tried to speak as if nothing had happened,
but that she always put her hand on his mouth to prevent him and
then spoke to him herself in a very strange voice which sometimes
resembled the voice of Rose. The face, too, sometimes resembled
the face of Rose. There were also one or two men's faces which he
seemed to know well enough though he didn't recall their names. He
could have done so with a slight effort, but it would have been too
much trouble. Then came a time when the hallucinations of Dona
Rita and the faithful Rose left him altogether. Next came a
period, perhaps a year, or perhaps an hour, during which he seemed
to dream all through his past life. He felt no apprehension, he
didn't try to speculate as to the future. He felt that all
possible conclusions were out of his power, and therefore he was
indifferent to everything. He was like that dream's disinterested
spectator who doesn't know what is going to happen next. Suddenly
for the first time in his life he had the soul-satisfying
consciousness of floating off into deep slumber.
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