A rap had come. It was time to be going and shortly, the bill paid, the service fee’d, he was off to the station.
There, already, an employee was calling loudly for the voyageurs, and Welden, after purchasing his fare and getting his luggage ticketed, went from the bare white room to the platform and mounted into the grey upholstery of an empty compartment of the train.
He was but seated when he saw Malakoff swinging in. Rising abruptly, brusquely he forced himself by and out.
Malakoff turned angrily.
“Monsieur,” he called, “you have a manner of disregarding the bagatelles of the door which I do not applaud. If you care to apologise—”
“I never apologise,” Welden threw at him.
Malakoff, pulling a glove from one hand, raised it with the other.
Instantly that hand was pinioned. In another instant it was flung aside and Welden, whose jaw had become ominously square, confronted him.
“That is sufficient. Where can my friends find yours?”
“At my house if it suits them.”
“En voiture, messieurs, en voiture!” a guard yelped, for now there were more laggards; Aquaviva, Saraguine and a man whom Welden did not know.
These, ignorant as yet of the little scene, had just issued from the station.
“Monsieur Welden,” said the Russian, “my thanks for the envoi of last night.”
“Monsieur Welden,” said the Italian, “do not forget Chantilly tomorrow.”
To an accompaniment of the employees’ yelps both were speaking at once.
“You go with us, do you not?” asked the prince, climbing as he spoke into the section into which already Malakoff had mounted and where Aquaviva followed.
“This way, this way,” a guard barked.
Welden had but time to clamber into an adjoining compartment. At once the bolt was shot, a whistle tooted, the train was off.
In a corner sat a woman, very well dressed, tall, fair, presumably English, who looked invitingly at him. Except to remove his hat, Welden ignored her completely.
The clarity of the morning sky, the poplars that bowed and fainted, the lovely Norman land, these things he ignored as well. Over the white leagues his thoughts had run on ahead. He was standing somewhere, in tennis shoes, his neck bare, his sleeves rolled up, a yard of steel in his hand, and Malakoff was before him. Mechanically his wrist moved. The point of the steel advanced and retreated in a line absolutely straight, effecting in the parries only the minimum circle. There were men that stood about and watched and suddenly they saw Malakoff fall, spitted, that yard of steel gone through him.
What was the fair English woman, the clarity of the sky, the bowing poplars, the lovely Norman land beside these pleasantly murderous sensations? They entertained him fully until the rush of the train decreased into a soapy slide and the porters of Saint-Lazare were calling at him.
Leaving his things in the Rue de la Paix, Welden drove on to the Escrime, the fencers’ club of which he was a member.
There, in the main hall, on a black divan, a cigar between his teeth, Le Hillel was seated.
Adjacently other members were seated and two men, their hands behind their backs, paced slowly up and down. From a lateral entrance, a colossal lackey in the club livery, with knee breeches and silk stockings, called loudly the sempiternal announcement of French clubs, the amount of money in the baccarat bank.
Le Hillel, withdrawing his cigar, waved it.
“I got your wire. Nothing serious, eh?”
“Do you know Malakoff?” Welden asked, seating himself on the divan.
“Enough to say Good day. Anything wrong between you?”
Welden nodded. “We had some words this morning.”
Le Hillel stretched himself luxuriously. “About a woman?”
“No. On the contrary.”
Le Hillel assumed an attitude of still greater luxuriousness. “You mean that the lady is not to be mentioned. That’s of course. Whom have you got?”
“You for one, I suppose?”
“My dear fellow, with the greatest pleasure.”
“And I will ask Cantire.”
“Cantire, no. He is undersecretary. A little matter of this kind always makes talk and that is displeasing in an embassy. Do you know Louradour?”
Welden shook his head.
Le Hillel stood up, balanced himself on his heels, then, with that tread which athletes share with panthers, he joined the two men who were pacing up and down and spoke to one of them.
With a motion of apology to the other, the former turned with Le Hillel to where Welden was seated.
As they approached, Welden arose.
“Baron Louradour,” said Le Hillel, “this is my friend and brother-in-arms M. Welden of New York. M. Welden has had an argument over—By the way,” he interrupted himself to ask. “What did you say it was about?”
Welden, raising his hat in response to the baron’s salutation, answered. “A door.”
“A door!” Le Hillel repeated. “That is a very dangerous topic.”
“Monsieur,” said the baron, employing as he spoke an inflection which musically rose and fell, “we have here in France an adage with which doubtless you are familiar. It is that a door should be open or closed. Perhaps this one was neither—”
With that, in a gesture of complete appreciation, the baron extended both hands. Though presumably fifty, he had the pink skin of a child, a smile of infinite indulgence, and a large, loose tie.
“But permit me,” he resumed. “With whom did this argument occur?”
“With Malakoff.”
“And permit me, is he to send his seconds?”
“No, I am to send mine.”
“That is to say,” interrupted Le Hillel, “You and me, Baron, if you will do my friend that honour.”
“But how, then! It is your friend who honours me. Permit me once more. Your adversary has the choice of arms; and you, monsieur, have you any preference?”
“Thanks,” Welden
