She stood up and went to the window, from which, since the day of the ambuscade, she had had no heart to look.
Below, a footman in a canary coat and black knee-breeches was walking, bareheaded, straight on. At the gate he stopped, fumbled with the latch, drew back the door, held it open.
A man entered. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had a rigid face, calm eyes, the air of a judge. His beard, intensely black, the beard of a Saracen, was close cut and pointed. He was dressed in black.
Another man followed. Shorter, fairer, distinctly fat, he had a box under his arm. About the box were broad bands, sealed with red wax.
A third man appeared. Older than the others, he had gray hair, glasses rimmed with tortoiseshell, and a bag.
All three were in black, all were grave, all were silent, and as they stood before the gate they partially concealed a fourth man, who, in black also, wore white gloves.
What they had come for Leilah could not imagine. Then, at once, she recalled what Violet had said: the rigors of French justice, a husband’s ability to cage an erring wife, to put her away, indefinitely, among the demented and the depraved, and at the sight of these men, at the thought of the Byzantine abysses of Barouffski’s nature, abysses perhaps unsounded yet, dread shook her. She shuddered.
But now another procession appeared, one that issued not from the gate, but from the house, a procession also composed of four men, also grave, also silent. One of them she vaguely recalled, and her stumbling memory tried to put a name on him, Dal, Mal, Pal-Palencia! Another, too, she remembered, Tyszkiewicz. A third also, and, to her cost, she knew. It was Barouffski.
In the first procession there was now a fourth acquaintance. The man with white gloves was raising his hat. As he did so she recognised d’Arcy. Then at last she understood, and, lest they should see her, drew back.
Meanwhile the footman had disappeared. From the first procession the man with the umbrella and the man with the box detached themselves. From the second, Palencia and Tyszkiewicz advanced.
For a little, grouped together, they conversed inaudibly, but amply with gestures and movements that included the tossing of a coin.
A pantomime followed. Tyszkiewicz, Palencia and the fat man moved to one side. The man with the umbrella drew with the ferule of it a line on the ground. Then, his head bent, one foot put directly in front of the other, he walked slowly until he had covered a space equal apparently to about fifteen yards. There he drew a second line, straightened himself, turned to Barouffski, who went to that line, while d’Arcy stationed himself at the other.
Immediately the fat man handed his box to Palencia. Palencia looked at the seals, broke them, opened the box, and, going to where d’Arcy stood, presented it. D’Arcy removed a glove, removed his hat, which he put brim upward beside him, and taking a pistol from the box, pointed it at the ground.
Palencia went back, restored the box to the fat man, who presented it to Barouffski. Another pistol was extracted. The fat man moved to one side. The man with the umbrella placed himself at an angle to d’Arcy and Barouffski. In front of him, at an equal angle, Palencia, Tyszkiewicz and the fat man stood. These the old man with the bag and the fourth member of the Barouffski party joined. The man with the umbrella took out a watch, and held it open in his hand.
“Attention!”
The pantomime had ended. Leilah leaned forward. Of Barouffski she could see now but the back of his head, the back of his tight-fitting coat. But d’Arcy, who stood sideways, his heels drawn together, might have been posing for a photograph.
The sky was leaden. The shrubbery resembled it. From behind an urn a cat appeared. It meowed and vanished. For a moment more there was silence.
The man with the umbrella looked from d’Arcy to Barouffski.
“Messieurs, after I give the command ‘Fire,’ I will count from one to ten, leaving between each number an interval of ten seconds. It is unnecessary, but it is my duty to add, that to fire before I have given the word, or after I have counted ten, constitutes attempted assassination and, should death ensue, murder.”
He paused, looked at his watch, looked at d’Arcy, again at Barouffski.
“Fire!”
Simultaneously the two men raised and extended their right arms, d’Arcy in such a manner that the forearm and butt of the pistol masked the abnormal beauty of his face. The hand was bare, but the left, which hung at his side, was gloved.
“One! Two! Three!”
With the ridiculous noise of a firecracker a pistol went off. D’Arcy, lowering his right hand, raised and shook the left. The delicate material of the glove had reddened, and on the ground specks of crimson dropped.
“Four! Five!”
D’Arcy’s left hand fell back. He raised the right.
“Six! Seven! Eight!”
Measuredly, monotonously, but more loudly than before, the final numbers were being called. Infinitesimally the point of d’Arcy’s pistol moved. His heels were no longer drawn together. His right hand was held less high. His left hand burned. Otherwise he was entirely at his ease.
He had withstood Barouffski’s fire. It was Barouffski’s turn to withstand his. He had time and to spare. Slowly, coolly, deliberately, he was taking aim.
It was very agreeable. He was smiling. He was enjoying himself. He was enjoying Barouffski’s presumable suspense. He was savouring his equally presumable agitations. The man’s face had turned ashen. The fact that it had, that he could see it had, delighted him. He felt sure of himself, and his thoughts were pleasant.
He was thinking: “That glass of wine of yours was the last you will ever ask me or anyone else to drink.”
He had become
