I nodded in the affirmative—and while I drank my coffee my valet set out a suit of rough tweed, such as I was accustomed to wear every day. He then left me, and I quickly changed my attire, and while I did so I considered carefully the position of affairs. Neither the Marquis D’Avencourt nor Captain Freccia had ever known me personally when I was Fabio Romani—nor was it at all probable that the two tavern companions of Ferrari had ever seen me. A surgeon would be on the field—most probably a stranger. Thinking over these points, I resolved on a bold stroke—it was this—that when I turned to face Ferrari in the combat, I would do so with uncovered eyes—I would abjure my spectacles altogether for the occasion. Vaguely I wondered what the effect would be upon him. I was very much changed even without these disguising glasses—my white beard and hair had seemingly altered my aspect—yet I knew there was something familiar in the expression of my eyes that could not fail to startle one who had known me well. My seconds would consider it very natural that I should remove the smoke-colored spectacles in order to see my aim unencumbered—the only person likely to be disconcerted by my action was Ferrari himself. The more I thought of it the more determined I was to do it. I had scarcely finished dressing when Vincenzo entered with my overcoat, and informed me that the marquis waited for me, and that a close carriage was in attendance at the private door of the hotel.
“Permit me to accompany you, eccellenza!” pleaded the faithful fellow, with anxiety in the tone of his voice.
“Come then, amico!” I said, cheerily. “If the marquis makes no objection I shall not. But you must promise not to interrupt any of the proceedings by so much as an exclamation.”
He promised readily, and when I joined the marquis he followed, carrying my case of pistols.
“He can be trusted, I suppose?” asked D’Avencourt, glancing keenly at him while shaking hands cordially with me.
“To the death!” I replied, laughingly. “He will break his heart if he is not allowed to bind up my wounds!”
“I see you are in good spirits, conte,” remarked Captain Freccia, as we took our seats in the carriage. “It is always the way with the man who is in the right. Ferrari, I fear, is not quite so comfortable.”
And he proffered me a cigar, which I accepted. Just as we were about to start, the fat landlord of the hotel rushed toward us, and laying hold of the carriage door—“Eccellenza,” he observed in a confidential whisper, “of course this is only a matter of coffee and glorias? They will be ready for you all on your return. I know—I understand!” And he smiled and nodded a great many times, and laid his finger knowingly on the side of his nose. We laughed heartily, assuring him that his perspicuity was wonderful, and he stood on the broad steps in high good humor, watching us as our vehicle rumbled heavily away.
“Evidently,” I remarked, “he does not consider a duel as a serious affair.”
“Not he!” replied Freccia. “He has known of too many sham fights to be able to understand a real one. D’Avencourt knows something about that too, though he always kills his man. But very often it is sufficient to scratch one another with the sword-point so as to draw a quarter of a drop of blood, and honor is satisfied! Then the coffee and glorias are brought, as suggested by our friend the landlord.”