Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,121
beneath the great dome. Their blades clashed with a clear ringing sound. Their features tightened and their gaze became fixed with the strain of their efforts.
Leprat was weakening.
He wanted to put an end to matters and delivered a false attack. It fooled the hired swordsman who was expecting a flurry of strikes and had modified his guard position accordingly, exposing himself to a thrust which he saw coming too late. The musketeer lunged and scored a hit. Unfortunately he lacked reach and could not press the blow hard enough.
Nevertheless, Rauvin took an inch of steel in his left shoulder. His surprise and pain made him cry out. He stepped back in a panic, pressed one hand to his wound and watched the blood trickling down over it with astonishment.
'Hurts, doesn't it?' said Leprat.
Humiliated and furious, Rauvin launched an assault so vigorous that the musketeer could only defend himself, parrying, dodging and retreating, again and again. For too many long seconds, Leprat had to mobilise all of his strength and attention for the sole purpose of surviving, blocking and deflecting attacks that became increasingly sly and dangerous. He was being overpowered.
Which was as good as saying that he was vanquished in the long run, because eventually he would make a mistake.
So he was already seeking some way out when the course of the fight took a disastrous turn for the worse.
His rapier broke.
The steel snapped cleanly and most of the blade bounced on the marble floor with a clang. It was a moment of amazement for Rauvin, and absolute horror for Leprat ...
. . . after which the hired swordsman smiled and resumed his attack with even greater energy than before.
Leprat leapt backward to avoid a cut, quickly stepped aside to stay clear of a thrust and parried another with the remaining stub of his sword. Other desperate manoeuvres permitted him to stave off the inevitable. But he finally lost his balance and only managed to avoid falling thanks to his right hand, which reached out and grabbed the blade of his enemy. In spite of his glove, the steel cut viciously into the palm of his hand. The musketeer screamed in pain before retreating from Rauvin who stalked towards him, jabbing with his rapier, his arm outstretched. Leprat reeled like a drunkard, unable to take his eyes off the metal point threatening him. Finally, he felt his calves bump against the rim of the central well and almost fell backwards into it, in danger of being swallowed up by the shadowy void.
It was here that all strength abandoned him.
He fell to his knees and, with a confused gaze, watched Rauvin looming over him.
The mercenary was cold-bloodedly preparing to deliver the fatal blow.
So this is how it ends, Leprat thought to himself.
'Any last words?' asked Rauvin.
The musketeer somehow found the force to utter a painful snort and, in defiance, spat out some bloody phlegm.
'No? As you wish,' said the hired swordsman. 'Goodbye.'
He lifted his arms up high, both hands gripping the pommel of his rapier, holding the weapon point downwards, ready to plunge it into Leprat's unprotected chest . . . . . . when someone said:
'Just a moment.'
Rauvin halted his gesture to glance over his shoulder . . . and saw Mirebeau.
Stunned by this development, he turned around.
It was indeed the gentleman in the beige doublet who had somehow risen from among the dead and, pale and bloody, approached with a stiff, hesitant step, his left arm held against his body and his right straining to lift his sword.
Leprat struggled to stand, leaning on the rim of the well.
'I wanted . . .' Mirebeau said to Rauvin. 'I wanted . . .'
'What?'
'I wanted you to know who was going to kill you.'
The mercenary sneered at this: Mirebeau was unable to even hold his rapier up, much less fight with it . . . But the sneer vanished when Rauvin saw the gentleman suddenly lift the pistol held in his left hand.
The gun fired.
The ball hit Rauvin in the middle of his forehead and he fell over backwards, arms extended, as Mirebeau sank to the floor in exhaustion.
Having made sure that the mercenary was quite dead, Leprat hurried over to the dying gentleman.
He gently lifted his head. The other man could barely open his eyes.
The musketeer didn't know what to say. He could not utter any words at all, with his throat constricted and tears welling in his eyes.
'Th . . . thank you,' he finally managed to croak.