CHAPTER III
The indignation and flurry subsided; but the child of this eruption remained. The Polish party found the legacy of the uproar as cold as its cause had been hot. Bitzenko inspired respect as he scratched his beard, which smelt of Turkish tobacco, and wrinkled up imperturbably small grey eyes.
Then, the excitement over, the red mark on Soltyk’s cheek became merely a fact. One or two of his friends found themselves examining it obliquely, as a relic, with curiosity.
He had had his face smacked earlier in the day, as well. How much longer was his face going to go on being smacked? Here was this Russian still there. There was the chance of an affair. A duel—a duel, for a change, in our civilized life; c’était une idée.
Who was the girl the Russian kept mentioning? Was she that girl he had been telling them about who had a man-servant? Kreisler was a Frei-Herr? The Russian had referred to him as “my friend the Frei-Herr.”
“Herr Kreisler does not wish to take further measures to ensure himself some form of satisfaction,” the Russian said monotonously.
“There is always the police for drunken blackguards,” Soltyk answered.
“If you please! That is not the way! It is not usually so difficult to obtain satisfaction from a gentleman.”
“But then I am not a gentleman in the sense that your friend Kreisler is.”
“Perhaps not, but a blow on the face⸺”
The little Russian said “blow on the face” in a soft inviting way, as though it were a titbit with powers of fascination of its own.
“But it is most improper to ask me to stand here wrangling with you,” he next said.
“You please yourself.”
“I am merely serving my friend Herr Kreisler. Will you oblige me by indicating a friend of yours with whom I can discuss this matter?”
The waiter who had brought in the card again approached their table. This time he presented Soltyk with a note, written on the café paper and folded in four.
Tarr had been watching what was going on with as much interest as his ruffled personal dignity would allow him to take. He did not believe in a duel. But he wondered what would happen, for he was certain that Kreisler would not let this man alone until something had happened. What would he have done, he asked himself, in Soltyk’s place? He would have naturally refused to consider the idea of a duel as a possibility. If you had to fight a duel with any man who liked to hit you on the head—Kreisler, moreover, was not a man with whom a duel need be fought. He was in a weak position in that way, in spite of the additional blacking on his boots. Tarr himself, of course, could have taken refuge in the fact that Englishmen do not duel. But what would have been the next step, this settled, had he been in Soltyk’s shoes? Kreisler was waiting at the door of the café. If his enemy got up and went out, at the door he would once more have his face smacked. His knowledge of Kreisler convinced him that that face would be smacked all over the quartier, at all hours of the day, for many days to come. Kreisler, unless physically overwhelmed, would smack it in public and in private until further notice. He would probably spit in it, after having smacked it, occasionally. So Kreisler must be henceforth fought by his victim wherever met. Would this state of things justify the use of a revolver? No. Kreisler should be maimed. It all should be prepared with great thoroughness; exactly the weight of stick, etc. The French laws would allow quite a bad wound. But Tarr felt that the sympathetic young Prussian-Pole would soon have Bitzenko on his hands as well. Bitzenko was very alarming.
Kreisler, although evicted from the café, had been allowed by the waiters to take up his position on a distant portion of the terrace. There he sat with his legs crossed and his eye fixed on the door with a Scottish solemnity. He was an object of considerable admiration to the garçons. His coolness and persistence appeared to them amusing and typical. His solemnity aroused their wonder and respect. He meant business. He was behaving correctly.
Soltyk opened the note at once.
On it was written in German:
“To the cad Soltyk
“If you make any more trouble about appointing seconds, and delay the gentlemen who have consented to act for me, I shall wait for you at the door and try some further means of rousing you to honourable action.”
A little man sitting next to Soltyk with an eloquent, sleek lawyer’s face took the letter as though it had been a public document and read it. He bent towards his friend and said:
“What is really the matter with this gentleman?”
Soltyk shrugged his shoulders.
“He’s a brute, and he is a little crazy as well. He wants to pick a quarrel with me, I don’t know why.”
“He means trouble. Doesn’t he want to be taken seriously, only? Let his shaggy friend here have a chat with a friend of yours. He may be a nuisance—”
“What rot! Why should one, Stephen? If he comes for me at the door, let him! I wish that little man there would go away. He has annoyed us quite enough.”
“Louis, will you give me permission to speak to him on your behalf?”
“If that will give you any satisfaction.”
Stephen (Staretsky) got up and put himself at Bitzenko’s disposition. The whole party became tumultuous at this.
“What the devil are you up to, Stephen? Let them alone.”
“You’re not going⸺?”
“Tell them to go to hell!”
“Stephen, come back, you silly fool!”
Stephen Staretsky smiled at this with a sort of worldly indulgence. “You don’t understand. This is the best thing to do,” he seemed to say.
“Do you want this to last the whole evening?” he asked the man nearest him.
He followed Bitzenko out, and Tarr followed Bitzenko.