Meanwhile, he studied the Frenchman for weaknesses, just as the Frenchman was studying him. He found none. He hoped that de Bergerac, who was also analyzing him, would fail to discover any flaws.
As in their first encounter, they had established a definite rhythm of thrust and parry, riposte and counterparry. Even the feints became part of the pattern, since neither was fooled and thus left an opening.
Both were waiting for the opening which would not close quickly enough. TJie sweat ran down de Bergerac’s face, streaking it where the liquid cleaned off the gunpowder grime. The salty liquid kept running into Burton’s eyes, stinging them. Then he would retreat swiftly and wipe off his forehead and eyes with the back of his free hand. Most of the time, the small Frenchman took advantage of this break to mop his own forehead with a small cloth stuck between his waist and the upper end of his towel-kilt. These intervals kept getting more and more frequent, not only to wipe their faces but to recover their wind.
During one of these, Burton removed a breast-cloth from a dead woman to blot up the sweat. Then, watching de Bergerac to make sure that he wouldn’t make afleche, a running attack, he tied the cloth around his head. De Bergerac stooped down and tore off a breast-cloth from another corpse to make a headband for himself.
Burton’s mouth was very dry. His tongue felt as if it were as large and hard as a cucumber. He croaked, “A momentary truce, Monsieur de Bergerac. Let’s both drink something before we die of thirst.”
“Agreed.”
Burton walked behind the bar, but the pipes of the sinks were empty. He went to the cabinet which the Frenchman had opened and brought out a bottle of purple passion. He removed the plastic stopper with his teeth and spat it out. He offered de Bergerac the first drink, but it was refused. He drank deeply and then handed the bottle over the bar to de Bergerac. The liquid burned in his throat and warmed his chest and guts. It helped his thirst somewhat, but he would not be satisfied until he got water.
De Bergerac held the bottle up against the light.
“Ah! You have swallowed three ounces, my friend. I shall do the same to insure an equal amount of inebriation in myself. It would not do if I were to kill you because you were drunker than I. You would then complain of unfairness, and the question of who is the superior swordsman would still be unanswered.”
Burton laughed in his curious fashion between his teeth.
De Bergerac started, then said, “You sound like a cat, my friend.”
He drank and when he put the bottle down, he coughed, his eyes tearing.
“Mordioux! It is certainly not French wine! It is for the barbarians of the North—or Englishmen!”
“You have never tasted it?” Burton said. “Not during the long voyage… ?”
“I told you I drank very little. Helas! Never in all my life have I dueled unless absolutely sober. And now I feel the blood singing, my strength beginning to return, though I know it is a falseness, the liquor lying to my senses. Never mind. If I am somewhat drunk and so my reflexes are slow and my judgment numbed, you will be in the same condition.”
“That depends upon one’s idiosyncratic reaction to alcohol,” Burton said. “It may well be that I, who love strong liquor, may be more accustomed to its effects. Hence, I will have an advantage over you.”
“We shall see,” de Bergerac said, smiling. “Now, monsieur, will you please come out from behind that bar so we may resume our little debate?”
“Certainly,” Burton said. He walked to the end of the bar and around it. Why not try lafleche, the running attack? But if his running glide missed or was parried, then he’d be off-balance, exposed to de Bergerac’s point. Still, it was possible that he could close in and thus block the Frenchman’s blade.
No. Would he consider such a move if he did not have three ounces of fifteen-percent-alcohol purple passion in his bloodstream? No. Forget it.
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