XVIII
An hour later the waiter came in again to Sanin, and handed him an old, soiled visiting-card, on which were the following words: “Pantaleone Cippatola of Varese, court singer (cantante di camera) to his Royal Highness the Duke of Modena”; and behind the waiter in walked Pantaleone himself. He had changed his clothes from top to toe. He had on a black frock coat, reddish with long wear, and a white piqué waistcoat, upon which a pinchbeck chain meandered playfully; a heavy cornelian seal hung low down on to his narrow black trousers. In his right hand he carried a black beaver hat, in his left two stout chamois gloves; he had tied his cravat in a taller and broader bow than ever, and had stuck into his starched shirt-front a pin with a stone, a so-called “cat’s eye.” On his forefinger was displayed a ring, consisting of two clasped hands with a burning heart between them. A smell of garments long laid by, a smell of camphor and of musk hung about the whole person of the old man; the anxious solemnity of his deportment must have struck the most casual spectator! Sanin rose to meet him.
“I am your second,” Pantaleone announced in French, and he bowed bending his whole body forward, and turning out his toes like a dancer. “I have come for instructions. Do you want to fight to the death?”
“Why to the death, my dear Signor Cippatola? I will not for any consideration take back my words—but I am not a bloodthirsty person!… But come, wait a little, my opponent’s second will be here directly. I will go into the next room, and you can make arrangements with him. Believe me I shall never forget your kindness, and I thank you from my heart.”
“Honour before everything!” answered Pantaleone, and he sank into an arm-chair, without waiting for Sanin to ask him to sit down. “If that ferroflucto spitchebubbio,” he said, passing from French into Italian, “if that counter-jumper Klüberio could not appreciate his obvious duty or was afraid, so much the worse for him!… A cheap soul, and that’s all about it!… As for the conditions of the duel, I am your second, and your interests are sacred to me!… When I lived in Padua there was a regiment of the white dragoons stationed there, and I was very intimate with many of the officers!… I was quite familiar with their whole code. And I used often to converse on these subjects with your principe Tarbuski too…. Is this second to come soon?”
“I am expecting him every minute—and here he comes,” added Sanin, looking into the street.
Pantaleone got up, looked at his watch, straightened his topknot of hair, and hurriedly stuffed into his shoe an end of tape which was sticking out below his trouser-leg, and the young sub-lieutenant came in, as red and embarrassed as ever.
Sanin presented the seconds to each other. “M. Richter, sous-lieutenant, M. Cippatola, artiste!” The sub-lieutenant was slightly disconcerted by the old man’s appearance … Oh, what would he have said had any one whispered to him at that instant that the “artist” presented to him was also employed in the culinary art! But Pantaleone assumed an air as though taking part in the preliminaries of duels was for him the most everyday affair: probably he was assisted at this juncture by the recollections of his theatrical career, and he played the part of second simply as a part. Both he and the sub-lieutenant were silent for a little.
“Well? Let us come to business!” Pantaleone spoke first, playing with his cornelian seal.
“By all means,” responded the sub-lieutenant, “but … the presence of one of the principals …”