Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 282 The Day of the Duel! (Bonus Chapter for 8000 Votes)
Time slipped silently toward the last Sunday of September 1880.

The chill of dawn had not yet been dispelled by the sunlight, but the Bois de Saint-Germain-en-Laye in the western suburbs of Paris had already awakened ahead of schedule.

I was awakened not by birdsong, but by human voices—a cacophony of voices.

Despite the solemn promises of secrecy made by Mrs. Rothschild and Sophia's witnesses, the location of the duel made headlines the very next day.

Starting Saturday evening, all sorts of private carriages, horse-drawn carriages for hire, and even some people simply walked...

They flocked to the once tranquil forest from all over Paris and even from neighboring towns, as if they were going to a fair.

By the time dawn broke on Sunday, the area around the hunting lodge was already packed with people.

Judging by visual estimation alone, the procession was vast and continuous, numbering at least several thousand people.

Reporters from major Parisian newspapers were naturally the main force, carrying notebooks, pencils, and even heavy cameras, vying for advantageous positions.

Journalists from various newspapers, including Le Figaro, Le Gaul, Le Petit Journal, and La Repubblica, huddled together, vying for this unprecedented news subject.

What's even more astonishing is that there were quite a few foreign faces among the crowd.

Not only did London's The Times and Daily News send their own reporters, but journalists from Berlin and Vienna also mingled among them.

There were even a few journalists from Moscow, but their expressions were complicated, as this matter concerned the reputation of their country's nobility.

There are also ordinary citizens, curious idlers, thrill-seeking playboys... forming a bizarre and colorful portrait of humanity.

They discussed and speculated, excitedly awaiting the "good show" that was about to unfold behind the tightly closed iron gate.

"I heard that the two ladies really do..."

"How could it be fake? That's just how the rules are!"

"My God, this is the biggest news of the century!"

Will Mrs. Rothschild win?

“I bet on Miss Shcherbatova, a Russian woman, robust in physique…”

"I heard her mother has an inch of chest hair!"

"My God, doesn't that come with a built-in breastplate?"

The hut's gatekeeper, an old man with a stern face, along with several burly gardeners, guarded the tightly closed iron gate.

No matter how much noise, promises, or even threats there were outside, they resolutely shook their heads, refusing to utter a single word, let alone open the door.

As the stalemate continued, the sun gradually rose higher, and the crowd began to grow restless.

"Have they already started inside?"

someone shouted.

"We can't see anything!"

Complaints arose everywhere.

Just then, a small, monkey-like reporter from the Little Daily News, after searching repeatedly, finally discovered a gap in the corner of the dense hedge.

A look of wild joy flashed in his eyes. Ignoring the gazes of his companions, he took a deep breath and burrowed in like an eel.

Branches and sharp fence thorns tore his coat, leaving bloodstains on his face and hands, but he endured the pain, his heart filled with the excitement of getting an exclusive story.

After struggling for a while, he finally managed to crawl inside and fell onto the soft grass.

He didn't even bother to straighten his clothes; he immediately looked up and around, ready to record this historic moment with his eyes—

However, he was stunned.

The open space in front of the hunting lodge was deserted.

The meticulously manicured lawn was as smooth as ever, with dewdrops glistening in the morning light, and no trace of footprints.

The cabin itself had its doors and windows tightly shut, the curtains drawn low, and not a sound could be heard; it was as quiet as if it were still asleep.

There was absolutely no one here.

The skinny reporter's heart sank; he realized that they had all been tricked.

This was an elaborate deception, a feint. The real duel was already quietly prepared elsewhere. He slumped to the ground, the cuts on his face burning with pain, but even more painful was the shattered hope and the frustration of being played.

Then he shouted, "We've been tricked! We've all been tricked!"

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Meanwhile, in the 8th arrondissement of Paris, in a quiet mansion amidst the bustling city, the real duel is about to begin.

This is a rarely used property under the name of the Marquise de La Vernoy, and ordinary people have no idea who it belongs to.

At this moment, the atmosphere inside the mansion was heavy, as if it were a completely different world from the hustle and bustle of the forest.

All the male servants had been cleared out of the main house area, and the spacious ballroom had been temporarily set up as a dueling arena.

The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, blocking out all the sunlight and any curious glances that might fall from the sky.

The enormous crystal chandelier was lit, and the gas lamps on both walls were also ignited, making the dance floor dazzling and colorful, like a grand event.

Lionel was sitting alone in a high-backed chair in the corridor outside the ballroom.

The heavy oak door almost completely blocked out the sounds from inside; he could only vaguely hear some faint noises.

Lionel's feelings were complicated and hard to describe. The rule of "taking off his shirt" made him feel inexplicably awkward and nervous, even through the door.

He tried to dispel those inappropriate thoughts, listened intently to the sounds coming from inside the door, and silently prayed that nothing unexpected would happen.

Inside the dance hall—

Eleonore Adelaide de Rothschild and Sofia Ivanovna Durova-Sherbatova have already removed their elaborate upper garments.

They stood facing each other like female warriors in the ancient Greek arena, wearing only floor-length dresses and holding slender court daggers.

The candlelight shone on their shoulders, necks, arms, and backs, giving them an ivory-like sheen.

Mrs. Rothschild's blonde hair was neatly styled in a bun at the back of her head. She stood with an elegant posture, the tip of her sword slightly lowered.

Sophia, on the other hand, was like a suppressed flame, her long, golden hair piled high in a bun, her hand gripping the sharp sword tightly.

The Marquise de La Vernoy, as the chief witness, stood solemnly at the side of the stage.

Standing beside her were two witnesses from Sofia's side—Miss de Motmar and Duchess de Berry.

They also looked tense, their hands clasped tightly to their chests, as if in prayer.

In the corner, a hired female doctor had already opened her medical kit, prepared bandages and disinfectant, and was ready for anything.

The Marquise de La Vernoy's voice rang out in the empty ballroom: "Ladies, the rules are reiterated: the duel ends with the first drop of blood."

Please remember honor and propriety. Now, let's begin!

No sooner had she finished speaking than Sofia launched the first attack.

She charged forward swiftly, her rapier whistling through the air, aiming straight for Madame Rothschild's shoulder—

This is a spot that is neither fatal nor difficult to bleed quickly.

Mrs. Rothschild glided gracefully to the side and back, simultaneously flicking her wrist to deflect Sophia's thrust.

With a clang, the two swords clashed, producing a crisp metallic sound.

Missing her first strike, Sophia's sword tip arced across the ground, aiming for Madame Rothschild's ribs.

Mrs. Rothschild retreated again, not in a hurry to retaliate, but using her agile footwork and timely parries to observe Sophia's rhythm and habits.

Sophia, panting, retorted defiantly, "Is all you can do, Madam?"

Mrs. Rothschild pursed her lips, unmoved.

Her defense was impenetrable, and every block perfectly neutralized Sofia's attacks.

Inside the ballroom, only the women's rapid breathing, footsteps, and the clash of swords remained.

The candlelight magnified their moving figures and projected them onto the wall, outlining breathtaking silhouettes.

(End of this chapter)