"Give the word, old fellow!" said Jacques, interrupting Ninny Moulin, "or I will give it myself."
"Since you will have it so--so be it!"
"The first who gives in is conquered," said Jacques.
"Agreed!" answered Morok.
"Come, gentlemen, attention! we must follow every movement," resumed Ninny Moulin."Let us first see if the bottles are of the same size--
equality of weapons being the foremost condition."
During these preparations, profound silence reigned in the room.The courage of the majority of those present, animated for a moment by the arrival of the punch, was soon again depressed by gloomy thoughts, as they vaguely foresaw the danger of the contest between Morok and Jacques.
This impression joined to the sad thoughts occasioned by the incident of the coffin, darkened by degrees many a countenance.Some of the guests, indeed, continued to make a show of rejoicing, but their gayety appeared forced.Under certain circumstances, the smallest things will have the most powerful effect.We have said that, after sunset, a portion of this large room was plunged in obscurity; therefore, the guests who sat in the remote corners of the apartment, had no other light than the reflection of the flaming punch.Now it is well known, that the flame of burning spirit throws a livid, bluish tint over the countenance; it was therefore a strange, almost frightful spectacle, to see a number of the guests, who happened to be at a distance from the windows, in this ghastly and fantastic light.
The painter, more struck than all the rest by this effect of color, exclaimed: "Look! at this end of the table, we might fancy ourselves feasting with cholera-patients, we are such fine blues and greens.
This jest was not much relished.Fortunately, the loud voice of Ninny Moulin demanded attention, and for a moment turned the thoughts of the company.
"The lists are open," cried the religious writer, really more frightened than he chose to appear."Are you ready, brave champions?" he added.
"We are ready," said Morok and Jacques.
"Present! fire!" cried Ninny Moulin, clapping his hands.And the two drinkers each emptied a tumbler full of brandy at a draught.
Morok did not even knit his brow; his marble face remained impassible;
with a steady hand he replaced his glass upon the table.But Jacques, as he put down his glass, could not conceal a slight convulsive trembling, caused by internal suffering.
"Bravely done!" cried Ninny Moulin."The quarter of a bottle of brandy at a draught--it is glorious! No one else here would be capable of such prowess.And now, worthy champions, if you believe me, you will stop where you are."
"Give the word!" answered Jacques, intrepidly.And, with feverish and shaking hand, he seized the bottle; then suddenly, instead of filling his glass, he said to Morok: "Bah! we want no glasses.It is braver to drink from the bottle.I dare you to it!"
Morok's only answer was to shrug his shoulders, and raise the neck of the bottle to his lips.Jacques hastened to imitate him.The thin, yellowish, transparent glass gave a perfect view of the progressive diminution of the liquor.The stony countenance of Morok, and the pale thin face of Jacques, on which already stood large drops of cold sweat, were now, as well as the features of the other guests, illuminated by the bluish light of the punch; every eye was fixed upon Morok and Jacques, with that barbarous curiosity which cruel spectacles seem involuntarily to inspire.
Jacques continued to drink, holding the bottle in his left hand;
suddenly, he closed and tightened the fingers of his right hand with a convulsive movement; his hair clung to his icy forehead, and his countenance revealed an agony of pain.Yet he continued to drink; only, without removing his lips from the neck of the bottle, he lowered it for an instant, as if to recover breath.Just then, Jacques met the sardonic look of Morok, who continued to drink with his accustomed impassibility.
Thinking that he saw the expression of insulting triumph in Morok's glance, Jacques raised his elbow abruptly, and drank with avidity a few drops more.But his strength was exhausted.A quenchless fire devoured his vitals.His sufferings were too intense, and he could no longer bear up against them.His head fell backwards, his jaws closed convulsively, he crushed the neck of the bottle between his teeth, his neck grew rigid, his limbs writhed with spasmodic action, and he became almost senseless.
"Jacques, my good fellow! it is nothing," cried Morok, whose ferocious glance now sparkled with diabolical joy.Then, replacing his bottle on the table, he rose to go to the aid of Ninny Moulin, who was vainly endeavoring to hold Sleepinbuff.
This sudden attack had none of the symptoms of cholera.Yet terror seized upon all present; one of the women was taken with hysterics, and another uttered piercing cries and fainted away.Ninny Moulin, leaving Jacques in the hands of Morok, ran towards the door to seek for help,--
when that door was suddenly opened, and the religious writer drew back in alarm, at the sight of the unexpected personage who appeared on the threshold.