Time silently slipped towards the last Sunday of September 1880.
The chill of dawn had not yet been dispelled by the sun, but the Saint-Germain-en-Laye forest in the western suburbs of Paris had already awakened prematurely.
Not by birdsong, but by human voices—a clamor of human voices.
Although Mrs. Rothschild and Sophia's witnesses had sworn to secrecy, the duel location made headlines the very next day.
From Saturday evening onwards, various private carriages, hired cabs, and even some people on foot...
They poured in like people going to a market, from various districts of Paris and even neighboring towns, surging towards this once tranquil forest.
By the time Sunday dawned faintly, the area around the hunting lodge was already packed.
By visual estimate alone, there were at least several thousand people, a vast and continuous crowd.
Reporters from major Parisian newspapers were naturally the main force; they carried notebooks, pencils, and even bulky cameras, vying for advantageous positions.
Le Figaro, Le Gaulois, Le Petit Journal, La République... reporters from different political stances were now huddled together, solely to compete for this unprecedented news material.
Even more astonishing was the scattering of foreign faces among the crowd.
Not only had London's The Times and Daily News sent their reporters, but journalists from Berlin and Vienna were also mingling there.
There were even a few reporters from Moscow, though their expressions were complex, as this matter concerned the reputation of their own country's nobility.
Ordinary citizens, curious idlers, and thrill-seeking dandies... made up a motley crew, a bizarre tableau of humanity.
They discussed, speculated, and excitedly awaited the "good show" about to unfold behind that tightly shut iron gate.
"I heard the two ladies really will..."
"Is that false? That's how the rules were set!"
"My God, this is the biggest news of the century!"
"Will Mrs. Rothschild win?"
"I bet on Miss Shcherbatova, Russian woman, strong build..."
"I heard her mother had an inch-thick chest hair!"
"Good heavens, isn't that like having a built-in breastplate?"
The lodge's caretaker, an old man with a livid face, along with several burly gardeners, fiercely guarded the tightly closed iron gate.
No matter how much clamor, promises, or even threats came from outside, they firmly shook their heads, refusing to reveal a single word, let alone open the gate.
During the stalemate, the sun gradually rose, and the crowd began to grow restless.
"Have they already started inside?"
Someone shouted.
"We can't see anything!"
Complaints rose from all sides.
Just then, a scrawny Le Petit Journal reporter, after repeatedly scouting, 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 colleagues, he took a deep breath and squeezed in like a loach.
Branches and sharp hedge thorns tore at his coat, leaving bloody marks on his face and hands, but he endured the pain, filled with the excitement of an impending exclusive scoop.
After several struggles, he finally succeeded in crawling through, falling onto the soft grass.
He paid no mind to tidying his clothes, immediately looking up to survey his surroundings, ready to record this historic moment with his eyes—
However, he froze.
The clearing in front of the hunting lodge was empty.
The meticulously trimmed lawn was as flat as usual, dewdrops sparkled in the morning light, with no traces of footprints.
The lodge itself had its doors and windows tightly shut, curtains drawn low, no human sound could be heard; it was so silent it seemed to be still asleep.
There was simply no one here.
The skinny reporter's heart sank; he realized they had all been fooled.
It was an elaborately designed ruse, a trick to divert attention.
The true dueling ground had already been quietly prepared elsewhere.
He slumped to the ground, the cuts on his face stinging, but more painful than that was the frustration of shattered hope and being played for a fool.
Then he cried out,
"We've been fooled, all of us!"
————
Meanwhile, in the 8th arrondissement of Paris, within a quiet mansion nestled away from the bustle, the real duel was about to begin.
This was a property rarely used by the Marquise de La Villerenoy, and ordinary people had no idea who it belonged to.
At this moment, the atmosphere within the mansion was solemn, a stark contrast to the clamor in the forest, like two different worlds.
All male servants had already been cleared from the main living areas, and the spacious ballroom had been temporarily set up as a dueling arena.
Heavy velvet curtains had been drawn, blocking out all sunlight and any curious glances that might be cast.
The grand crystal chandelier was lit, and the gas lamps on the side walls were also burning, making the ballroom resplendent, as if for a grand ball.
Lionel sat alone on a high-backed chair in the corridor outside the ballroom door.
The heavy oak door almost completely muffled the sounds from within; he could only faintly hear some subtle movements.
Lionel's mood was inexpressibly complex; the rule of "tops off" made him feel an inexplicable embarrassment and tension, even through the door.
He tried to dispel those inappropriate imaginations, focusing on listening to the movements inside the door, secretly praying that no accidents would occur.
Inside the ballroom—
Éléonore Adélaïde de Rothschild and Sophia Ivanovna Durova-Shcherbatova had already shed their elaborate upper garments.
Like female warriors in an ancient Greek arena, they stood facing each other, dressed only in floor-length gowns, holding slender court rapiers.
Candlelight reflected on their shoulders, necks, arms, and backs, gleaming with an ivory luster.
Mrs. Rothschild's golden hair was meticulously pinned back, her posture elegant, her sword tip slightly lowered.
Sophia, on the other hand, was like a suppressed flame, her molten-gold hair styled into a high bun, gripping her sharp sword tightly.
The Marquise de La Villerenoy, as the chief witness, stood by the side of the arena, her expression serious.
Beside her stood Sophia's two witnesses—Mademoiselle de Montemart and the Duchess de Berry.
They too looked tense, their hands clasped tightly in front of their chests, as if in prayer.
In the corner, a hired female doctor had already opened her medical kit, preparing bandages and disinfectants, standing ready.
The Marquise de La Villerenoy's voice resonated in the empty ballroom:
"Ladies, the rules state that the duel ceases at 'first blood'.
Please remember honor and propriety. Now, begin!"
No sooner had she spoken than Sophia launched the first attack.
She darted forward swiftly, her rapier whistling through the air, thrusting directly towards Mrs. Rothschild's shoulder blade—
This was a spot that would neither be fatal nor difficult to draw blood from quickly.
Mrs. Rothschild glided lightly to the side and back, simultaneously flicking her wrist to parry Sophia's lunge.
With a "clang," the two swords met, emitting a crisp metallic clash.
Missing her first strike, Sophia's sword tip traced an arc, sweeping towards Mrs. Rothschild's ribs.
Mrs. Rothschild retreated again; she was not in a hurry to counterattack, but rather used her agile footwork and timely parries to observe Sophia's rhythm and habits.
Sophia panted, taunting,
"Will you only ever dodge, Madame?"
Mrs. Rothschild pressed her lips together, unmoved.
Her defense was impenetrable; each parry perfectly defused Sophia's offensive.
Inside the ballroom, only the women's hurried breathing, the sound of their moving feet, and the clash of rapiers remained.
The candlelight magnified their moving figures, projecting them onto the walls, outlining a thrilling silhouette.
(End of Chapter)