Chapter Twenty Five.
The Second Second.
“Ah, oui, of course,” said Leronde, exhaling a little puff of smoke. “It is so, of course. I know. If there had been no knog viz ze stique, ze huzziband would shallenge you. But viz ze knog viz ze stique—so big a knog, I sink you shallenge him, and satisfy l’honneur. I go at once and ask him to name his friends.”
“Yes, I suppose that will be right,” said Armstrong, after a few moments’ thought.
“But I am not sure that you can fight so soon.”
“Why?”
“You ’ave ze bad head.”
“Bah! a mere nothing. I am ready; but of course, as you say, it cannot be here. Listen! Is not that some one on the stairs?”
They were not left in doubt, for Keren-Happuch came in, round-eyed and wondering, with a couple of cards held in her apron-guarded thumb and finger.
“Please, Mr Dale, sir, here’s two doctors come to see you.”
“Ma foi! two,” cried Leronde. “One is bad, too much. Send zem away, my friend.”
“Bah! Show them up,” said the artist; and Keren-Happuch hurried out. “Look,” continued Armstrong; “Italians—his friends, I suppose.”
“Aha! that is good,” cried Leronde, holding out the cards. “He shallenge then. I am glad, for I was get in head muddled after all vezzer you ought to shallenge. Now we are quite square.”
A minute later two important-looking men were ushered in, to whom Leronde at once advanced with a dignified mien, receiving them and listening to the declaration of their mission, and after a few exchanges of compliments on one side of the studio, away from where Armstrong sat scowling, they left with the understanding that Leronde was to wait upon them shortly to arrange all preliminaries.
“I am still not quite satisfy,” said Leronde thoughtfully. “I ought to have been first, and take your shallenge to him.”
“But what does it matter if we are to meet?”
“But you vas ze insulte.”
“Indeed!” said Armstrong, with a bitter smile. “Opinions are various, boy. But let that rest. Help me to lie down on that couch, and give me a cigar.”
Leronde obeyed, watching his friend anxiously.
“You vill not be vell enough to fight.”
“I will be well enough to fight, man,” cried Armstrong savagely. “There: wait a bit. It is too soon to follow them yet;” and for a while they sat and smoked, till Leronde burst out with—
“I am so glad you go to fight, my dear Dale.”
“Are you?” said Armstrong gruffly.
“Yes; it do me good that you are ready to fight M’sieu le Conte like a gentleman. I thought all Englishmans degrade themself viz le boxe. Bah! it is not good. You have ze muscle great, but so have ze dustman and ze navigator; let them fight—so.”
“But look here, Leronde; this must be kept a secret from every one.”
“Oh, certainement, name of a visky and sodaire. I tell nobdis. You think I go blab and tell of ze meeting? Valkaire! Mums!”
“Have you ever seen one of these affairs at home?”
“Oh no, my friend, not chez-moi—at home. It was in the Bois de Boulogne.”
“And you saw one there?”
“Four—five—and all were journalistes. I was in two as principal, in two as friend of my friend, and in ze oder one I go as ze friend of ze docteur.”
“Then you quite understand how it should be carried out?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Leronde, nearly closing his eyes, and nodding his head many times. “Soyez content. I mean make yourself sholly comfortable, and it shall all go off to ze marvel.”
“Very well, then; I leave myself in your hands.”
“That is good. Everything shall be done, as you say, first-class.”
“And about weapons?”
“You are ze person insulte, and you have ze choice. Le sword, of course?” cried Leronde; and, throwing himself on guard, he foiled, parried, and hopped about the studio, as if he were encountering an enemy.
“Sit down, man,” said Armstrong peevishly. “No; I choose the pistol.”
“My friend! Oh!”
“It is shorter and sharper.”
“But you do not vant to shoot ze man for stealing—fence like angels, and there will be a little gentlemanly play; you prick ze Conte in ze arm, honneur is satisfy, you embrace, and we return to Paris. What can be better than that?”
“Pistol!” said Armstrong sternly.
“But you do not want to shoot ze man for stealing away his vife.”
“No,” said Armstrong, in a low voice. “I want him to shoot me.”
“Ha, ha! You are a fonnay fellow, my dear Dale. You will not talk like zat when you meet ze sword?”
“Pistols.”
“As you will,” said the Frenchman, shrugging his shoulders. “You are my principal, and I see zat your honneur is satisfy. I go then to see ze friend of M’sieu le Conte, and to make all ze preparations for to cross to Belgium; but, my faith, my dear Dale, it is very awkward: I have not ze small shange for all ze preliminary. May I ask you to be my banker?”
“Yes, of course. I ought to have thought,” said Armstrong.
He went to his desk and took out the necessary sum, passed it to the voluble little Frenchman, who rose, shook him by both hands, looked at him with tears in his eyes, told him he was proud of him, and then hurried off with his head erect his hat slightly cocked, and his eyes now sparkling with excitement.
“Step ze first to be in ordaire; whom shall ve ’ave for ze ozaire seconde?”
He frowned severely and walked on a few yards, looking very thoughtful. Then the idea came.
“Of course: Shoe Pacey. He vill be proud to go viz me to meet ze ozaire secondes.”
Leronde had been in the lowest of low spirits that morning. The news from Paris had been most disastrous for gentlemen of communistic principles, who, in spite of crying “Vive la Commune!” saw the unfortunate idol of their lives withering and dying daily. Money, too, had been very “shorts,” as he called it, and he had gone to Armstrong Dale’s in the most despondent manner. But now all that was altered. He had money in his purse, and walked as if on air. There was no opportunity for following the tracks of either “la gloire, or l’amour;” but here was “l’honneur,” the other person of a Frenchman’s trinity, calling him to the front; and on the strength of the funds in hand, he entered the first tobacconist’s, bought a whole ninepenny packet of cigarettes, and then smoked in triumph all the way to Pacey’s lodgings.
This gentleman was growling over a notice of the Old Masters’ Exhibition which he had written for a morning paper, and with which, to use his own words, “the humbug of an editor had taken confounded liberties.”
“Hallo! Signor Barricado, what’s up? Republic gone to the dogs?”
“No, no, mon ami; but great news—a secret.”
“Keep it, then.”
“No, no; it is for you as well. An affaire of honneur.”
“An affair of fluff! Bosh! we don’t fight here.”
“No,” said Leronde, frowning fiercely. “Belgium.”
“Why, you confounded young donkey, whom are you going to fight?”
“I fight? But, no; I am one seconde. I come to you as my dear friend to be ze ozaire.”
“Oh, of course,” cried Pacey ironically. “Exactly—just in my line.”
“I knew you would,” cried Leronde, lighting a fresh cigarette, and offering the packet, which was refused.
“Bah! I like a draught, not a spoonful,” growled Pacey, taking up and filling his big meerschaum. “Now then, about this honour mania? Who’s the happy man?”
“Armstrong Dale, of course, for certaine.”
“What!” roared Pacey. “Who with?”
“Ze Conte Dellatoria, my friend.”
“The devil. Has it come to that?”
“But, yes. Why not? Zes huzziband is sure to find out some ozaire day.”
“Phew!” whistled Pacey, wiping his brow. Then striking a match, he began to smoke tremendously.
“And you will help our friend?” said Leronde.
“Help him? Certainly.”
“I knew it. Pacey, my friend, you are one grand big brique.”
“Oh yes, I am,” cried Pacey banteringly. “Now then, how was it?”
“Ze Conte follow his vife to chez Armstrong, find zem togezzer, and knog our dear friend down viz a cane.”
“Humph! Serious as that?”
“Oh yes. There is a great offence, of course. Zey meet in Belgium, and we go togezzer to see ze friend of ze Conte and arrange ze—ze—ze—vat you call zem?”
“Preliminaries?”
“Precisely. Now, my dear ole friend, you put on your boot an’ ze ozaire coat, and brush your hair—oh! horreur; why do you not get zem cut short like mine?”
“Because I don’t want to look like a convict. Come in here.”
Pacey seized his tobacco-jar and a box of matches.
“Got any cigarette papers?”
“But yes, and plenty of cigarettes.”
“Come in here, then.”
He opened the door leading into his little bedroom, and Leronde followed him.
Pacey banged down the tobacco-jar upon the dressing-table, and then threw open the window.
“Come and look out here,” he cried.
“But we have no time to spare, my friend.”
“Come and look out here,” roared Pacey.
As Leronde approached him wonderingly, Pacey seized him by the collar, and half dragged his head out.
“Look down there,” he said, pointing into the square pit-like place formed by the backs of the neighbouring houses, from the second floor, where they stood, to the basement; “you can’t jump down there?”
“My faith, no. It would be death.”
“And there is no way of climbing on to the roof.”
Leronde shook his head, and looked to see if his friend was mad.
“And you cannot fly?”
“No; I leave zat to your cocksparrow de Londres,” said Leronde, trying to conceal his wonder and dread by a show of hilarity.
“That’s right, then. You sit down there and smoke cigarettes till I come back.”
“But, my friend, ze engagement, ze meeting viz ze amis of ze Conte. What go you to do?”
“See Armstrong Dale, and bring him to his senses. If I can’t—go and break the Count’s neck.”
“But, mon cher Pacey!” cried Leronde, “l’honneur?”
“Hang honour!” roared his friend. “I’m going in for common-sense;” and before the Frenchman could arrest him, the door was banged to, locked, the key removed, and steps were heard on the landing; then the sitting-room door was locked, and, with his face full of perplexity, Leronde lit a fresh cigarette.
“Faith of a man, these English,” he said, “zey are mad, as Shakespeare did say about Hamlet, and I am sure, if zey do shave Shoe Pacey head, zey will find ze big crack right across him.”