Sernine started back from his chair, lest one of the footmen should fall upon him unawares. Then he burst out laughing:
“Look here, baron, next time you want to poison one of your friends, try to steady your voice and to keep your hands from shaking. … Otherwise, people suspect you. … But I thought you disliked murder?”
“With the knife, yes,” said Altenheim, quite unperturbed. “But I have always had a wish to poison someone. I wanted to see what it was like.”
“By Jove, old chap, you choose your subjects well! A Russian prince!”
He walked up to Altenheim and, in a confidential tone, said:
“Do you know what would have happened if you had succeeded, that is to say, if my friends had not seen me return at three o’clock at the latest? Well, at half-past three the prefect of police would have known exactly all that there was to know about the so-called Baron Altenheim; and the said baron would have been copped before the day was out and clapped into jail.”
“Pooh!” said Altenheim. “Prison one escapes from … whereas one does not come back from the kingdom where I was sending you.”
“True, but you would have to send me there first; and that’s not so easy.”
“I only wanted a mouthful of one of those cakes.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Try.”
“One thing’s certain, my lad: you haven’t the stuff yet which great adventurers are made of; and I doubt if you’ll ever have it, considering the sort of traps you lay for me. A man who thinks himself worthy of leading the life which you and I have the honor to lead must also be fit to lead it, and, for that, must be prepared for every eventuality: he must even be prepared not to die if some ragamuffin or other tries to poison him. … An undaunted soul in an unassailable body: that is the ideal which he must set before himself … and attain. Try away, old chap. As for me, I am undaunted and unassailable. Remember King Mithridates!”
He went back to his chair:
“Let’s finish our lunch. But as I like proving the virtues to which I lay claim, and as, on the other hand, I don’t want to hurt your cook’s feelings, just pass me that plate of cakes.”
He took one of them, broke it in two and held out one half to the baron:
“Eat that!”
The other gave a movement of recoil.
“Funk!” said Sernine.
And, before the wondering eyes of the baron and his satellites, he began to eat the first and then the second half of the cake, quietly, conscientiously, as a man eats a dainty of which he would hate to miss the smallest morsel.
They met again.
That same evening, Prince Sernine invited Baron Altenheim to dinner at the Cabaret Vatel, with a party consisting of a poet, a musician, a financier and two pretty actresses, members of the Théâtre Français.
The next day, they lunched together in the Bois and, at night, they met at the Opéra.
They saw each other every day for a week. One would have thought that they could not do without each other and that they were united by a great friendship, built up of mutual confidence, sympathy and esteem.
They had a capital time, drinking good wine, smoking excellent cigars, and laughing like two madmen.
In reality, they were watching each other fiercely. Mortal enemies, separated by a merciless hatred, each feeling sure of winning and longing for victory with an unbridled will, they waited for the propitious moment: Altenheim to do away with Sernine; and Sernine to hurl Altenheim into the pit which he was digging for him.
Each knew that the catastrophe could not be long delayed. One or other of them must meet with his doom; and it was a question of hours, or, at most, of days.
It was an exciting tragedy, and one of which a man like Sernine was bound to relish the strange and powerful zest. To know your adversary and to live by his side; to feel that death is waiting for you at the least false step, at the least act of thoughtlessness: what a joy, what a delight!
One evening, they were alone together in the garden of the Rue Cambon Club, to which Altenheim also belonged. It was the hour before dusk, in the month of June, at which men begin to dine before the members come in for the evening’s card-play. They were strolling round a little lawn, along which ran a wall lined with shrubs. Beyond the shrubs was a small door. Suddenly, while Altenheim was speaking, Sernine received the impression that his voice became less steady, that it was almost trembling. He watched him out of the corner of his eye. Altenheim had his hand in the pocket of his jacket; and Sernine saw that hand, through the cloth, clutch the handle of a dagger, hesitating, wavering, resolute and weak by turns.
O exquisite moment! Was he going to strike? Which would gain the day: the timid instinct that dare not, or the conscious will, intense upon the act of killing?
His chest flung out, his arms behind his back, Sernine waited, with alternate thrills of pleasure and of pain. The baron had ceased talking; and they now walked on in silence, side by side.
“Well, why don’t you strike?” cried the prince, impatiently. He had stopped and, turning to his companion: “Strike!” he said. “This is the time or never. There is no one to see you. You can slip out through that little door; the key happens to be hanging on the wall; and goodbye, baron … unseen and unknown! … But, of course, all this was arranged … you brought me here. … And you’re hesitating! Why on earth don’t you strike?”
He looked him straight in the eyes. The other was livid, quivering with impotent strength.
“You milksop!” Sernine sneered. “I shall never make anything of you. Shall I tell you the truth? Well, you’re afraid of me. Yes, old chap, you never feel quite sure what may happen to you
