Fantomas the Diabolique; or

Around The World in Eighty Days; or

How The Hunters Became The Hunted

by

Caroline Miniscule

A sumptuously furnished landau pulled up in front of the gold inlaid doors of the London Sword Club. The coachman descended with alacrity (one had to move with alacrity when driving Miss Rebecca Fogg) and held out his hand to assist the young woman to alight. The lady, her long, elegantly coifed hair curling about her shoulders, smiled in appreciation of her coachman�s dedication to duty and allowed him to see her safely down the steps and onto firm ground.

Miss Rebecca Fogg was a tall woman, but her slenderness and the grace with which she moved was not immediately apparent, for, despite the earliness of the hour, her entire form was cloaked in heavy, shimmering velvet. The doors of the Sword Club opened as if by magic � but it was only the hall porter, rather too plump to be a good advertisement for his employers.

��Miss,�� he said, bowing her in.

Rebecca crossed the hallway which led to the changing rooms, and went immediately in to the vast sall� du arms. Light gleamed off the highly polished hardwood floors, and her footsteps echoed round and round the high ceilings. Every available wall space was covered with floor to ceiling mirrors. In one corner was a jumble of weight training equipment � for the proprietors of the London Sword Club believed in keeping up to date with modern inventions; in another corner were human-shaped dummies � rather the worse for wear - suspended from chains from the ceiling, with red hearts upon their chests.

Rebecca threaded her way through these dummies to the racks against the wall, in which reposed helmets of all sizes, and left and right handed fencing foils, sabres, epees, Italian spadas, fleurets � any kind of edged weapon you could imagine.

Rebecca removed her cloak and draped it over the shoulders of one of the dummies, revealing her clothing � a heavy white canvas jacket, black knickers, and soft-soled, black shoes. She plucked up a spada, swished it through the air a couple of times and was satisfied with its balance and the resiliency of the steel.

After a few stretching exercises to limber up, Rebecca rose once more to her feet, and moved back to the equipment rack to select a mask. She picked it up, lifted her eyes, and met her own eyes in the mirror. She looked at her face, her high cheekbones, her creamy white skin, her lips, elegantly painted but set with determination �.her body clad in men�s clothing. Rebecca�s lips quirked into a smile. She would have made a good looking man�.but she made a better looking woman. With one crisp gesture Rebecca completed the masquerade by slipping the helmet over her head, and them moved out into the open floor, followed on all sides by reflections of herself. As one they sank into an en garde stance, their left hands dangling loosely behind them, their rights holding the spada with the point before their eyes. She began to advance up the floor, her feet gliding noiselessly across the hardwood.

��Mon dieu.��

Albert Deveraux, generally regarded as the best swordsman in Europe, and come to England, it was claimed, to set up a fencing salon in order to share his knowledge with the scions of English aristocracy, stood on the hardwood floor of the exclusive London Sword Club and stared at the figure at the far end of the sall�. It was a woman! Furthermore, it was a woman dressed not in the long, flowing skirts becoming to the modesty of the female, but in the close-fitting knickers and stockings of a man, revealing her lower limbs for all to see!

His escort, Sir Frederick Wilder, the manager of the Club, turned and saw the object of his astonishment, and flushed.

��My dear Deveraux, I must apologize. I�.we weren�t expecting you so early in the day�that lady�I assure you she is a lady� belongs to one of the most wealthy families in the kingdom�..father a founding member�she is rather�.eccentric�she comes here every day at this time.��

��Do not disarrange yourself, my friend,�� Deveraux said quickly. ��You misunderstood me. It was not meant as a criticism�.I was merely surprised.�� He continued to stare at her. ��She is�Rebecca Fogg, is she not?��

The English are known for their stiff upper lip, but Frederick Wilder�s lower lip sagged and his jaw with it. ��How in the world did you know that?��

Devereaux darted a sideways look at him. ��Oh, someone must have mentioned her name to me.�� He gave a gallic shrug.

��Good god. Well, yes, that is Rebecca Fogg. But we need not pay attention to her. Shall we continue our tour?��

��No�let us repair to one side�I wish to see this young lady at her practice.��

Wilder smoothed his mustache��these Frenchmen�.� he thought to himself, but he followed Deveraux into the corner which housed the jumble of weight training equipment. Deveraux seated himself on a press-up bench, while Wilder remaining standing upright, stiff as a grenadier.

The woman was totally intent on the matter at hand, Deveraux noted with approval. He was positive that she did not even know they were there.

Her stance was good. As she advanced up the floor she always maintained the proper distance between front and rear foot. She was well-centered, but she bent her knees much too far, in the classic manner. What a sacrifice of speed for the sake of form! She held her sword arm out well, the point unwavering, as she advanced, while her rear hand curved above her shoulder loosely. She was all relaxation and controlled power as she advanced in this manner up the long floor. Reaching the end of the room she executed a lunge with fluid grace, right arm extended, right leg thrust forward, left arm flung backward to give her the extra burst of speed. She recovered backward into her en garde stance easily, lunged and recovered again, and then began to retreat back down the long hallway.

Thrice she advanced up the floor in this manner and thrice she retreated, her eyes fixed on her form intently. Without pausing she went into another practice drill, again performed three times across the sall�, performing an advance, an advance, and then a lunge. Even through the mesh mask that obscured her face he knew that occasionally her eyes flickering sideways to the mirrors to ensure that her front leg was perpendicular to the ground, her back leg well stretched out, but he knew that mostly she stared at the mirrors before, at herself as at an oncoming adversary.

��She�s rather good, isn�t she?�� Deveraux commented, thoughtfully.

��Oh, perhaps. There isn�t a mirror that she could not best in even combat,�� Wilder said dismissively.

Again without a stop for rest Rebecca went into yet another practice drill, advancing, performing a circular parry, advancing and parrying, to the end of the wall, and then retreating and parrying again.

��Does no one ever fence with her?�� Deveraux asked.

Wilder shrugged. ��She is a woman.��

The Frenchman turned and stared incredulously at him companion. ��I hear the words but your tone of voice indicates that you mean something entirely different.��

��I beg your pardon?��

Deveraux chuckled. ��Never mind.��

Wilder�s face reddened. �As a matter of fact, many of our members have approached her and offered to bout with her, but she has always refused. She comes here only to march up and down the floor, exposing herself to any gaze, not to cross swords with opponents. Perhaps if she did so she would realize her folly.��

��Oh, sacre�.my friend, even if this woman chose to fence solely for the exercise of it, you cannot deny that it has done her a wondrous bit of good. I have never seen a woman so�strong�so confident�so full of energy�.most women walk up a single flight of stairs and must subside on the fainting couch for half an hour!��

Wilder forbore to say that that was how women should be affected.

The woman on the floor continued untiringly with yet another drill; she advanced, parried, and lunged. Perfect, classical, form again, strength in her wrist as she parried, excellent point control�.oh, la la, Deveraux thought to himself. Advance, parry, lunge.

Rebecca Fogg lunged for a final time, the point of her sword stopped within millimeters of the mirrored, wall, recovered backwards, and then took a deep breath of finality, saluted her reflection and removed the mask, clearly finished for the day.

��Ah, non, non!��

To Frederick Wilder�s never-ending surprise, Albert Deveraux grabbed up his sword and covered the distance between them in a few long-legged strides.

��Mademoiselle, forgive me, but you cannot stop now. Surely you do not end your practice on such a note.��

Rebecca Fogg plucked a kerchief from within the long wrist guard of her fencing glove and wiped perspiration from her glowing face as she studied the man before her. She knew who he was, of course � placards announcing his arrival had been placed in strategic areas throughout the Sword Club for many weeks. She saw that he was gazing at her not with the lasciviousness of a man suspecting a woman of easy virtue, nor of one tolerant of the eccentricities of a beautiful�and rich�woman. His enthusiasm was all for the sword and her skill.

��Mademoiselle, I have watched you practice, and you practice superbly. Your form as you advance, retreat, lunge, your parries, your thrusts, all superb. But all separate. You have not combined them into a whole. You are stopping yourself too soon.��

Rebecca replaced her kerchief. ��What more can I do?��

��You watch yourself in the mirror � I see that. You ensure that your form is correct. But that is not the purpose of the mirror at all. Look into the mirror and see an enemy. Look into the mirror, not at your eyes but at the sword in the hand of your opponent. Every parry, every thrust, every lunge is not a practice movement but a parry against a thrust, a thrust against an opponent, a lunge to hit!�

Rebecca nodded thoughtfully. ��Yes, I understand you.��

��And we must take this further, mademoiselle. You have practiced your advance, then your retreat, then your lunge, then your parries, and so on. One after the other. All well and good, and as it should be. But your opponent will not attack you by rote. You must now practice�.�� Deveraux waved his hand as his English failed him� ��a l� cart�. Wildly. Throwing everything in your arsenal at your opponent and doing it quickly. For you will forgive me mademoiselle but in all your practice you have been moving slowly, deliberately, more concerned to have proper form than with anything else. Is this not so?"

Rebecca nodded.

��All that is nothing without speed, my dear. Speed of foot and speed of reflexes. You need both to save your life at that penultimate moment when the sharp and unguarded blade of cold steel hovers before your eyes.��

��Oh, I say, Deveraux,�� Frederick Wilder had approached and heard all and he was shocked at Deveraux�s earnestness. ��You�re trying to frighten this poor woman! I know you�ve fought duels in your time���

Deveraux swung on him excitedly. ��Yes, yes � I have fought duels � I have looked into the eyes of men intent on killing me � and yet here it is I that stand before you.��

��Yes, but this young lady will fight no duels!��

��Heh, heh,�� Deveraux twitched his lips in a smile. ��Heh heh.�� He turned to Rebecca. That�s true, isn�t it, mademoiselle. You will fight no duels. I apologize.��

Rebecca raised an eyebrow at his tone of voice, for there was something about it, but she shrugged it off. She smiled. ��Not at all. I find your advice most invigorating.��

��Excellent! Then you will permit me to be your opponent in these next drills. I will call out my attacks, and you will defend. Then you will call out your attacks, and I will defend. Truly, mademoiselle, you have not fenced until you have fenced with me.��

A flippant ripost� came to Rebecca�s lips �.he had not fenced until he had fenced with her. She did not voice it because it would be rude as well as foolish � braggadocio which would ill-become her. Contrary to what the men at this club might think, she had felt the pressure of steel upon steel before. Her father, denied the son that he had so fervently desired, had taught her how to fence when she was but a child, and she fenced with her cousin whenever he could summon up the energy to step away from his club and his card games�but they were family and that was sport. Here was a man who could teach her more about the art of the duel�.and of staying alive�then perhaps he would ever know.

Rebecca Fogg stood at attention and brought up her sword in a salute. Albert Deveraux returned the salute and the lesson began.

��You are too slow, my dear,�� he barked���raise your center of balance, you must not sink so low in the knees� it looks stylish but it slows you down�that�s better�yes�was that a parry sixte that you were trying to do there? Firm up your wrist, my dear, your point wavered that time�.mademoiselle�your rear foot you keep flat on the ground at all times. Every fencing instructor will tell you to do this. I say, no. Your rear leg is not just a prop. It is the spark plug, or better still the piston of the whole fencing machine. It is what provides a great deal of the power and power that is needed for a quick, fast lunge. Your heel should always�always be slightly off the floor. The arch of your foot is the mightiest spring in creation. With your lunge it releases its tremendous power through the pressure exerted on the ground by the ball of the foot itself.��

Rebecca, who had been practicing fencing drills for over an hour now, stamping up and down the floor until the muscles in her legs were screaming in revolt, lifted her left heel off the floor, thrust herself forward at a run, or balestra, and thrust savagely at Devereaux�s heart � anything to stop this session!

Deveraux retreated with a jump, parrying her blade just in time, and burst out laughing. He knew when his students had had enough. He also knew that here was a phenomenal fencer. Raw talent, untrained, but what could be done with it if she applied herself! What he had heard about her was true. She would make a worthy adversary one day�.if she lived long enough.

Deveraux drew up his sword in a salute, and removed his mask. ��Mademoiselle,�� he said softly, ��I cannot tell you what an honor this has been.��

Quivering in exhaustion in all limbs, Rebecca nevertheless managed to smile with her usual insouciance. ��You know how much you have taught me, sir. I thank you.��

��I am going to be in England for several more days. I hope we may meet again.��

��I am usually here every day at this time, sir.��

��Then I shall see you tomorrow.�� Deveraux bowed to her, spun on his heel and joined Wilder. Taking him by the arm he led the speechless Englishman away.

Her coachman jumped forward as her cloaked figure swept out into the street, and he assisted her into the landau. ��Are you all right, madam?�� he asked in concern.

Rebecca grinned. ��Home, James, and quickly. I feel like a walking sauna, and I must remedy the situation quickly.��