Poems (Hooper)/The Duel

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THE DUEL.
You need not turn so pale, love; I'm unhurt. We quarreled at the opera last nightAbout some trifle. Nay, I scarce know what. We men will quarrel for the merest slight.We settled time, place, weapon on the spot; Bois de Boulogne, this morning, pistols—well,—I fear that you are cold, you shudder so,— At the first shot my adversary fell,
Shot through the heart stone-dead. Nay, now don't faint! I hate a fainting woman. Here's your fan;A little water? So you're better now. Pray, hear my story out, love, if you can.I think he uttered something as he fell: A woman's name—I scarcely caught the sound:It passed so quickly that I am not sure, For he was dead before he reached the ground.
Ah, poor de Courcy! Handsome, was he not? A favorite with the ladies, I believe. ​They'll miss him sadly. More than one fair dame Will o'er his sudden fate in secret grieve.How well he looked this morning, as he stood Waiting my fire with such a careless grace,The breezes playing with his raven curls, The sunshine lighting up his gay bright face!
Suppose my hand had trembled? If it had, I would have fallen instead of him. You're whiteAt the bare thought. Nay, here I am, quite well, And ready for the opera to-night.Ronconi plays, and I would like to see "Marie de Rohan" once or twice again.His acting as De Chevreuse is sublime; How he portrays the jealous husband's pain!
All husbands have not such a wife as you; Fair as the sun, and chaste as winter's moon!How very pale you still are, dearest wife! There is no danger of another swoon?How wrong I was to tell you I had fought; I think you've scarce recovered from the shock.One kiss upon your brow, and then I'll go; And pray be ready, love, at eight o'clock!
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