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⸺”