He was still speaking when Lesable hurled the inkstand of old Savon full at his head.
A flood of ink covered his face and metamorphosed him into a Negro with surprising rapidity. He sprang forward, rolling the whites of his eyes, with his hands raised ready to strike. But Cachelin covered his son-in-law, and grasping Maze by the arms pushed him aside, and, after pounding him well, dashed him against the wall. Maze disengaged himself with a violent effort, and rushed through the door, crying to the two men: “You shall soon hear from me!” Pitolet and Boissel followed him.
Boissel explained his moderation by declaring he should have killed someone if he had taken part in the struggle.
As soon as he entered his room Maze endeavoured to remove the stain, but without success. The ink was violet, and was indelible and ineffaceable. He stood before his glass furious and disconsolate, rubbing savagely at his face with a napkin rolled in a knot. He obtained only a richer black, mixed with red, the blood coming to the surface with the friction.
Boissel and Pitolet strove to advise and console him. One suggested the application of pure olive oil, the other prescribed a bath of ammonia. The office boy was sent to ask the advice of a chemist. He brought back a yellow liquid and pumice stone, which was used with no result.
Maze, disheartened, sank into a chair and declared: “Now it only remains to settle the question of honour. Will you act as seconds for me, and demand of Monsieur Lesable a sufficient apology, or the reparation by arms?”
They both at once consented, and began to discuss the steps to be taken. They had no idea about affairs of this kind, but not wishing to betray their ignorance, and desiring to appear correct, their advice were timorous and conflicting. It was finally decided that they should consult a sea captain who was attached to the Ministry to look after the coal distribution. But he was as ignorant as they were. After some moments of reflection, however, he advised them to go and see Lesable and ask to be put in touch with two of his friends.
As they proceeded to the office of their colleague, Boissel suddenly stopped. “Is it not imperative that we should have gloves?” he asked.
Pitolet hesitated an instant. “Perhaps it is,” he replied seriously. But in order to procure the gloves it would have been necessary to go out, and the chief was rather severe.
They sent the office boy to bring an assortment from the nearest glove-store.
To decide upon the colour was a question of time. Boissel preferred black. Pitolet thought that shade out of place in the circumstances. At last they chose violet.
Seeing the two men enter gloved and solemn, Lesable raised his head and brusquely demanded: “What do you want?”
Pitolet replied: “Monsieur, we are charged by our friend, Monsieur Maze, to ask of you an apology, or a reparation by arms for the insult you have inflicted on him.”
Lesable, still greatly exasperated, cried: “What, he insults me, and sends you to provoke me? Tell him that I despise him—that I despise all he can say or do.”
Boissel advanced with a tragic air. “You will force us, Monsieur, to publish in the papers an official report, which will be very disagreeable to you.”
Pitolet maliciously added: “And which will gravely injure your honour, and your future advancement.”
Lesable, overwhelmed, looked at them. What should he do? He sought to gain time. “Will you wait a moment in the office of Monsieur Pitolet? You shall have my answer in ten minutes.”
When at last alone he looked around him, seeking for some counsel, some protection.
A duel! He was going to fight a duel!
He sat terrified, with a beating heart. He, a peaceful man, who had never dreamed of such a possibility, who was not prepared for the risk, whose courage was not equal to such a formidable event. He rose from his chair and sat down again, his heart wildly beating, his legs sinking under him. His anger and his strength had totally deserted him.
But the thought of the opinion of the Ministry, the gossip the story would make among his acquaintances, aroused his failing pride, and, not knowing what to decide, he sought his chief to ask his advice. M. Torchebeuf was surprised and perplexed. An armed encounter seemed to him unnecessary, and he thought a duel would demoralise the service. He replied: “I can give you no advice. It is a question of honour, which does not concern me. Do you wish that I should give you a note to Commandant Bouc? He is a competent man in such matters, and will be able to advise you.”
Lesable accepted the offer, and saw the commandant, who even consented to be his second; he took an under-chief for another.
Boissel and Pitolet waited with their gloves on. They had borrowed two chairs from another office, in order to have four seats.
They saluted gravely and took their places, while Pitolet explained the situation. The commandant, having listened attentively, replied: “The case is serious, but it does not appear to me to be irreparable. Everything depends on the intention.” He was a sly old sailor, who was enjoying himself.
A long discussion began regarding the reciprocal apologies the principals should make. M. Maze acknowledging not to have had the intention to offend, M. Lesable should hasten to avow himself in the wrong in throwing the inkstand at the head of M. Maze, and pray to be excused for his inconsiderate violence.
The four proxies returned to their clients.
Maze, seated before his table, was agitated by the dread of the possible duel, although expecting
