De Fresnoy, considering him over an oyster, said:
“You were at the Joyeuses then?”
Verplank nodded.
“And there Barouffski objected to your speaking to his wife?”
“Yes.”
De Fresnoy swallowed the oyster. “In that case he was guilty not only of a grave offense to you, but to Madame de Joyeuse as well. The duke would be the first to resent it.”
With an idea of making it all very clear, Silverstairs put an oar in: “Madame Barouffska, you know, was formerly Madame Verplank.”
De Fresnoy bent a little. It may be that because of Silverstairs’ ultra English accent he had not understood. “Pardon?”
But here Verplank intervened. “This lady had been divorced from me before she married Barouffski.”
De Fresnoy, over another oyster, turned to him again. Yet any surprise he may have experienced he was too civil to display.
“Ah, indeed!” he replied. He looked as though he were about to add something, but refraining, he paused.
Verplank helped him out. “You are thinking perhaps that there may have been circumstances that rendered further acquaintance between us inadmissible. I may assure you that there are none and, without wishing to intrude my private affairs, I may assure you also that to this hour I am unaware why the divorce was obtained. This lady had no grievance of any kind against me and I had none whatever against her.”
Pontifically, in his deepest note, Silverstairs threw out: “In the States they give you a divorce for a Yes or a No.”
“For married people,” de Fresnoy remarked, yet so pleasantly that the sarcasm was lost, “America is the coming country.”
As he spoke, the fat waiter, after supervising the removal of the first dish, produced, with the air of a conjurer, another. It was an omelette, golden without, frothy within.
De Fresnoy glanced up. “Countermand the pear. Instead, bring me paper and ink.”
“Perfectly, monsieur le baron.”
Slowly de Fresnoy attacked the food. After a mouthful he said to Silverstairs:
“When the writing materials come we can get off a note to Barouffski. If he has any explanation he can advance it. Otherwise—on guard!”
After another mouthful he said to Verplank:
“You have fought before?”
“I have not had the occasion.”
“Nor I,” interjected Silverstairs. “It is against the law in England.”
Gravely, as though he were receiving valuable information de Fresnoy bowed. “So it is here. But with us it is custom that rules, not law. No jury would convict an honourable man for fighting a fair fight. Besides, dueling is in our blood. It will not disappear as chivalry has. It will last as long as there are French men—and French women. And yet, in saying that chivalry has disappeared, I am in error. Not later than the week before last a cousin of mine, a young man truly charming, married a monster.”
He pushed aside his plate. “Well, then, Léopold, am I to sit here the entire day?”
Serviceably, a buvard in his hand, the waiter approached. “I have subventioned a new pen for the use of monsieur le baron.”
“There, Léopold, your sins are remitted. See at once if the chasseur is free.”
De Fresnoy looked at Silverstairs. “With your permission, in our joint names, I write.”
He looked at Verplank. “Will you pardon me if I ask how your name is spelled?”
Verplank, getting at his case, extracted a card.
De Fresnoy glanced at it. Then, taking that new pen, he read, as he wrote, aloud.
M. le Comte Barouffski.
Monsieur: M. Verplank has requested the Earl of Silverstairs and myself to arrive at an understanding with two of your friends concerning an incident which occurred last evening in the Avenue Cours la Reine.
Lord Silverstairs and I will be obliged if, as soon as possible, you will ask one of your friends to appoint a meeting at which we may deliberate.
Receive, Monsieur, the expression of my distinguished sentiments.
He looked over at Silverstairs. “Is that to your liking? Good! We will send it to the Little Club where the answer is to be left and we will have a reply today. En attendant, there are matters that claim me.”
With a movement of the chin he summoned the waiter.
A little byplay followed; the presentation of the bill, the click of gold on porcelain, the carelessly gathered change, the meagre tip, the reappearance of the hat, the bowing waiters, the craning necks, and the departure of de Fresnoy, an umbrella under his arm, a cigar between his teeth.
Verplank, emptying a glass of Chablis, looked out of the window. A panorama was forming. He saw the room at Coronado, Leilah as she told him of her love, his brief absence, his harrowing return, the hunt for her that had extended over half the globe, a hunt that divorce had not terminated, which her remarriage had not stopped and which, had he not at last discovered her, nothing could have stayed save his death or hers or the reason of the implacable Why. An obstacle to the Why or, it might be, the incarnation of it, was Barouffski, and Verplank saw himself standing somewhere with Barouffski before him. There was a command, the call of numbers, a detonation and the sight of Barouffski turning, swaying, falling down.
The panorama faded. A picture had appeared. Before the window, arrested by a congestion of traffic, a motor was stopping. In it and the mist was Leilah.
Verplank sprang to his feet. With the idea of going out to her there and forcing an explanation, he looked about for his hat.
Silverstairs also got up. He had not seen. He too was looking for his hat. Placidly he remarked:
“I have an appointment with a chap named Tempest. Will you come with me?”
But now, the congestion relieved, the motor shot on. Verplank had the spectacle of a face fading instantly in the fog and the future.
“Will you?” Silverstairs repeated.
“Will I what?”
“I have
