“It is Barouffski,” Silverstairs, with some idea that de Fresnoy might be aware of the anterior complication, threw out.
“Barouffski!” de Fresnoy repeated, his head held appreciatively a little to one side. “In a bout he is very clever. Barring d’Arcy, Helley-Quetgen”—and myself he was about to add, but throwing the veil he desisted—“I don’t know his equal. How he is on the field, personally I cannot say. But there, the absence of buttons, the absence of masks, the inevitable emotion, the sight of the other man, the consciousness of an injury to be maintained or avenged, the consciousness too of the definite character of any thrust you may give and particularly of any thrust you may receive, these things have such an effect that often the cleverest acts like a fool. On the boards, fencing is an exercise, it is an amusement. On the field, it is another man’s blood—or yours. Though, after all, one is rarely killed except by one’s seconds.”
He turned to Verplank. “You fence? Or is it that you shoot?”
Verplank leaned back in his chair. “Oh, I suppose I can fire a gun.”
Silverstairs laughed. “I say now! You are too modest by half.” He looked at de Fresnoy. “Verplank is one of the crack shots of America.”
De Fresnoy turned again to Verplank. “You should demand pistols then. Barouffski draws well, but at twenty paces he is less sure of himself. Have you selected your seconds?”
“I suppose I may count on Silverstairs for one——”
The young earl nodded. “That’s of course, and perhaps you, de Fresnoy, will act with me.”
The Parisian smoothed his moustache. “I shall be much honoured. In that case, however, as necessary preliminary, I shall have to ask to be made acquainted with all the circumstances.”
But now Léopold, bearing a dish on which were oysters green as stagnant scum, approached and with an air of infinite tenderness, much as though it were a baby, placed it before de Fresnoy.