Poems (Hooper)/The Duel

by Lucy Hamilton Hooper

THE DUEL.

You need not turn so pale, love; I'm unhurt.
 We quarreled at the opera last night
About 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 white
At 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!