Louradour smiled, displaying as he did so teeth small, even, white as white paper. It was obvious to him that that door had opened or closed on something extremely definite.
“I see,” he replied. “No child’s play.” Turning to Le Hillel he added: “M. de Malakoff resides I suppose in his avenue? Good. It would be discourteous to keep his friends waiting.” Turning back to Welden he continued: “You will remain here? Good. In an hour at the latest. Meanwhile allow me to express all my pleasure at meeting an American who views matters as we do.”
Laughing and nodding, the two men passed on.
Presently Welden got the club chasseur and sent him with a five franc piece to buy a little cardboard box which cost two sous.
“Keep the change,” he said when the servant reappeared.
Welden was lunching then. The meal concluded, he took out his watch from which hung the sapphire with its old French device: Aultre n’auray
—None but you.
The moderate irony of it mocked him. He detached it, put it in the box and going to the reading-room, wrapped, sealed and directed it to Miss Barhyte, in the care of her bankers, Rue Scribe. Then, again requisitioning the chasseur, he sent him with another white piece to deliver it.
“Finis!” he muttered with set teeth and for a while contemplated the epitaph.
“Pardon. There are gentlemen who demand monsieur.”
Welden looked up. He had been far away, on the longest journey that a mortal can take, into the depths of the irreparable. It was the colossal lackey that had addressed him. Rising, he followed the man into the hall where Le Hillel and Louradour waited.
“Tomorrow at eight,” the former announced. “Baron Louradour has obligingly arranged to have the meeting take place at the residence of M. de Ponthieu, his father-in-law.”
“You are really too good,” said Welden.
The baron bowed. “It is nothing, nothing at all. M. de Ponthieu is with my family at the waters. And let us see. Yes. It is foils.”
He smiled, patted his tie and added: “You will excuse me, my dear sir, will you not? Till tomorrow.”
“Deuced nice of him too,” said Le Hillel when he had gone. “We might have had to go to Neuilly. His father-in-law’s place is five minutes from your hotel. I will stop by for you in the morning. And now, what is the programme?”
Welden lit a cigarette. “Later, if you like, I will have a bout with you. Then we might dine somewhere and I will go to bed early.”
Approvingly Le Hillel nodded. Welden was a man after his own heart, a man sure of himself, one who had no intention of writing letters, of making a will or even a night of it, a virtuoso who knew that the wrist of a swordsman is as sensitive as that of a violinist.
VIII
The Duel
The morning broke darkly. When Welden reached the street the sky was heaped with clouds sulphurous and evil. To the thin thunder of metal shutters a lout, across the way, was opening a shop. Beyond, two Percherons, harnessed to a high white cart, snorted their ennui. At the curb, in a motor, was Le Hillel. With him was a little man in a tall hat, who held a bag on his knees.
“Hello!” Le Hillel threw out. “Hop in. Be careful.” As he spoke he indicated a long green bundle that lay at his feet. “Avenue Gabriel,” he called at the chauffeur.
“Do you remember Sarcey?”—he presently resumed as the motor flew up the street. “On a morning a bit worse than this he had an affair which he insisted on conducting under an umbrella. ‘I may be winged,’ the old idiot declared, ‘but I refuse to catch cold.’ How did you sleep? This is Dr. Meyer.”
The machine now had turned into the Rue de Rivoli. Scudding on, it crossed the fountained Place and shortly stopped in the briefest and most seigneurial of Parisian avenues.
Before them, a great double doorway opened slowly, with respect. Above it was a stone arch in which a blazon had been cut. On either side was a vast, white wall. Within was a vista of trees, large urns, marble benches. Beyond was a tennis court, farther away a house. In the damp, fresh air, a scent of roses and acacias clung. Over all was a brooding quiet, the splendid disdain of nature for the imbecile activity of man.
Simultaneously with the motor, a crimson touring car flew up. From it descended Malakoff, Aquaviva, Saraguine and a man also in a high hat, also with a bag who, as the others saluted, exchanged with Dr. Meyer a professional smile.
Without speaking all passed in and slowly, respectfully, the great doors closed. On each side a servant in brown was stationed. A step beyond stood Louradour.
He raised his hat. “Gentlemen, I salute you.” As the others raised their hats, he added: “It may rain. If preferred, we can get under cover.”
Saraguine, withdrawing a glove, stretched his hand horizontally and looked at the sky.
“A little mist,” he announced. “It is nothing.”
“Good,” Louradour rejoined. “There is then nothing to detain us and no better place than the court over there. You have the foils, Le Hillel?”
For answer the green bundle was displayed.
At once, with the French observance of what is correct or, more exactly, of what is so considered, gravely, dumbly, in two detachments, the eight men proceeded to the tennis court where four of them, gathering together, consulted.
Welden took off his coat and waistcoat and tossed them on a bench. He undid his collar, opened his shirt, rolled up a sleeve and was rolling the other when he paused, arrested by a remark overheard.
“I say, Le Hillel,” he called. “What is all that about Aquaviva’s holding a stick within reach of our foils? To prevent an accident, is it? Well then, be good enough to say that I will submit to nothing of the kind. I am not here to learn how
