CHAPTER X

AT MARISI GARDENS

Thirty Minutes later, Richard Stetton was sitting on the edge of the bed in his own room, with his brain still whirling in inextricable confusion concerning the cause and meaning of the scene in the dining-room of the Walderin.

His friend Naumann had just left him, after a twenty-minutes’ conversation consisting mainly of a most amazing series of instructions and inquiries.

In the first place, what had happened?

Stetton pressed his hand to his brow in bewilderment and tried to bring order to his thoughts. M. Chavot had for no apparent reason called him a liar. He had instantly returned the epithet to the giver, which, according to his way of thinking, made the score a tie. Then Chavot had struck him—Stetton’s face grew red at the memory—and then—

Well, then Naumann had led Stetton to his room and begun to ask him the most absurd questions.

First, he had offered to “act” for his friend. To this proposition Stetton had assented vaguely without understanding at all what it meant.

Then the young diplomat had asked if he was a good pistol shot. The answer was, rotten. How about rapiers? Stetton replied that he had fenced some. At that point Stetton lost the sense of things entirely and began to think that his friend Naumann was going crazy.

Finally he managed dimly to grasp the idea that he was expected to fight somebody with swords or something; but, by the time he opened his mouth to disclaim utterly any such intention, Naumann had departed. His last words had been something about returning in the morning as soon as he had completed “negotiations.”

The combination of unusual and exciting events left no definite impression on Stetton’s mind. There was too much to think about. He said something aloud to himself and realized, in a sort of surprise, that he had pronounced the word “duel.” That was a starting-point; his thoughts assumed a degree of clearness.

Then his gaze shifted to his trunks, standing in the middle of the floor, and his mind shifted to the query, “What is that for? Where was I going?”

That in turn brought the thought of Aline, the scenes of the night before at her house, his threat to expose her, and the message that had not come. Then he had seen her in the dining room, and there was M. Chavot, who had done something or other, and he would avenge himself on Aline tomorrow morning, and he might as well unpack the trunks.

He rose to his feet with a muttered oath, undressed himself mechanically, and went to bed and to sleep.

In the morning everything was different. He awoke early, with a depressing sense of impending misfortune and a feeling that the face of the world had changed entirely in the past twenty-four hours. A cold plunge revivified his body and cleared his mind.

All that had the night before been chaos and confusion now resolved itself into two or three definite facts which suddenly presented themselves with staggering force.

There was the contemplated trip to Paris; that must be abandoned—at least, for the present. He unpacked his trunks and returned the clothing and other articles to their places in the room. By the time he had completed this task, which took a full hour, he felt that he was hungry, and telephoned for breakfast to be sent to his room.

Over his fruit and coffee he reflected on the second problem: the fulfillment of his threat to Mlle. Solini. After all, now that he came to consider the details, it presented some little difficulty. He could not very well make a round of the drawing rooms of Marisi to carry the information that Mlle. Solini was an impostor and a liar; he still stopped a little short of belief in Naumann’s story of her.

He settled it finally with a decision to go to the Prince of Marisi with his wondrous tale, and by one stroke destroy both Aline and General Nirzann.

There remained the matter of the little unpleasantness with M. Chavot. He made short shrift of that. He simply dismissed the whole thing as an outlandish absurdity.

Granting that duels were considered good form in Marisi, they were not so in New York, and he, for one, had the common sense and the courage to stick to the customs of his native land. This phase of the matter he thought important enough to be argued out in detail.

Why, he said to himself, if we believe that when in Rome we should do as the Romans do, it amounts to this, that when we find ourselves among cannibals we should eat each other. Which is manifestly absurd. Quod erat demonstrandum.

Nevertheless, he somehow felt himself in this instance to be treading on dangerous and delicate ground, and he vetoed his first impulse, which was to go in search of his friend Naumann and end the thing in two words. Instead, he decided that he had better remain in his room and wait for Naumann to come to him, as he had promised to do.

It was a long wait, for it was then only nine o’clock, and Naumann did not appear until eleven. Exactly at that hour a message came over the telephone to say that M. Frederick Naumann was asking at the hotel desk for Mr. Richard Stetton. Stetton instructed that the visitor be shown up to his room.

The young diplomat entered breezily, yet with a certain air of seriousness which he seemed to consider suitable to the gravity of the occasion. His response to Stetton’s slightly embarrassed greeting was a profound bow and a warm shake of the hand.

He wanted to know how Stetton felt, and congratulated him on his appearance of having had a good night’s sleep. Then he sat down on a chair with the air of one about to begin an important and lengthy conversation, and said abruptly:

“Well, everything is settled.”

Stetton glanced up quickly, with an expression on his face that plainly indicated relief.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “then M. Chavot—”

“M. Chavot had little to do with it,” the other interrupted, “though in that little he behaved admirably. M. Framinard, a friend of mine attached to the French legation, acted for him.”

Stetton rose from his chair and grasped the hand of his friend Naumann.

“I owe you a world of thanks,” he said with some emotion.

“Not at all,” declared the young diplomat. “I did my best, of course, and the arrangements are about as advantageous to us as they could possibly be. M. Framinard, who was in a position to make demands, graciously granted all my requests.”

This speech appeared a little strange to Stetton; he could not understand why M. Framinard was “in a position to make demands.” Had not he himself been the recipient of the blow? A feeling that he must uphold his rights in the matter showed in his voice as he said:

“Of course, M. Chavot will apologize?”

Naumann appeared astonished at this observation.

“Apologize!” he exclaimed.

“Certainly,” said Stetton in a firmer tone. “I know you said that everything is settled, but I insist on an apology. Unless,” he added, “he sends one through you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Naumann, apparently mystified. “M. Chavot has not apologized, and there is no reason why he should. He is willing to give you satisfaction.”

“But you said everything was settled!”

“So it is, and as satisfactorily as possible. You are to fight M. Chavot with infantry swords tomorrow morning at six o’clock behind the old Marisi Gardens on the Tsevor Road.”

Stetton dropped back into his chair with a sudden feeling that he needed fresh air.

He was completely taken aback.

So that was what Naumann had meant when he said that everything was settled! Great Heavens! Everything was the exact opposite of settled! He wanted to say something, he wanted to cry, “Impossible!”—he wanted to inform Naumann, who appeared to be as much of a barbarian as Chavot himself, that he (Stetton) possessed the common sense and the courage to stick to the customs of his native land.

He actually opened his mouth to speak, but somehow there seemed to be no words anywhere.

Naumann, in the meanwhile, was talking at some length. He said that M. Framinard had been inclined to choose pistols, but that he had been overborne by his (Naumann’s) strategy. He explained that the selection of weapons was in the nature of a triumph, as the heavy infantry sword would be much less dangerous in the hands of the expert, Chavot, than the agile rapier would have been.

It thus became a matter of strength rather than agility, though, of course, they would use only the points. Despite Chavot’s marvelous excellence as a swordsman—Stetton shuddered—it really placed the combatants nearly on a par. The young diplomat ended by questioning his principal concerning the nature and extent of his experience in fencing.

Stetton found his tongue.

“Is this thing necessary?” he blurted out.

The other looked at him.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean—all this—all this—it’s silly. Rank nonsense. I won’t do it.”

Naumann, beginning to understand, gazed at him oddly.

Then he said slowly: “That’s ridiculous, Stetton. You have challenged M. Chavot. You must meet him. It is not only necessary; it is inevitable.”

Stetton exclaimed:

“I tell you I won’t do it! It’s rank nonsense!”

The young diplomat rose sharply to his feet, and when he spoke his voice was clear as the ring of steel.

“M. Stetton, it was with your sanction I carried your challenge to M. Chavot. My own honor is implicated. If you do not fight him as I have arranged, I will be compelled to go to his second and apologize for having acted on behalf of a coward.”

There was a silence. Naumann stood motionless, tense, gazing straight at Stetton, who again was beginning to feel bewildered and helpless as he had the night before. The word “coward” was ringing in his ears like the sound of an alarm of fire, and confusing his thoughts.

He managed to stammer something which carried no sense to his own ears, but which seemed to mean something to Naumann, who said, without relaxing his attitude of stern inquiry:

“Then you will fight?”

Somehow feeling that he was speaking against his will, Stetton uttered the word:

“Yes.”

Instantly Naumann’s manner changed. He resumed his seat, and in a cordial and friendly tone repeated all the details of the arrangements. Stetton understood not a word of it; his brain was engaged in a little civil war of its own.

Then, caught by some phrase, his ear gave attention. Naumann was talking of a man, by name Donici, and by profession master of fencing.

“He has rooms just above mine,” the young diplomat was saying. “You’d better spend an hour or two with him this afternoon and freshen up a bit. I’ll go over and see him now. Then I must go to the office for an hour or two, after which I’ll come after you.

“I shouldn’t advise you to go out, unless you want everyone to stare at you. Lie around and take it easy—read a book or something. Au revoir.”

And on the word he departed.

As the door closed behind him, Stetton rose to his feet. He was glad to be alone—that was his first thought; then, the next instant, he felt that he wanted someone to talk to. He crossed over and sat on the edge of the bed.

Then he jumped to his feet and began to pace rapidly up and down the room. An overwhelming thought, which is only faintly conveyed in the words, “I am going to fight a duel,” was hammering at his temples with sickening force and regularity.

He became possessed of a sudden, insane anger—at Chavot, at Aline, at himself, at everybody! “Fool!” he cried aloud, without any idea as to whom he meant to apply the epithet. He crossed to the mirror in the door of the wardrobe and looked at himself, his face, his hands, his clothing, as though the object had never met his gaze before.

He felt himself seized by a sullen lethargy, an irresistible torpor of mind and body; he believed that he was about to faint. He threw himself across the bed and lay there, without moving, for two hours.

He was roused by the ringing of the telephone bell; a few minutes later Naumann entered. He started slightly at sight of Stetton’s pale face and rumpled clothing, then announced that he had made arrangements with Signer Donici, who was at that moment waiting for them.

Stetton never forgot that afternoon in the room of the Italian fencing-master, with its two large windows overlooking Walderin Place, and its walls covered with foils, rapiers, masks, and daggers. The bloodthirsty appearance of the room was in direct contrast with that of Signer Donici himself—a little, round man of most astonishing grace and agility, and a face that would have reminded you of the face of a cherub but for the little turned-up mustache.

While the instruction was in progress, Naumann sat on a chair at a side of the room, smoking cigarettes, and now and then offering a suggestion, for he was no mean swordsman himself. He was surprised and considerably encouraged at sight of Stetton’s ability with the foils, for, though he was plainly an amateur, he showed that he was acquainted with the principles of the game.

All his tricks, however—those little twists in variation of the four chief movements—were absurdly antiquated, and Signor Donici, noticing this, turned his attention to teaching him new ones.

For two hours, resting at intervals, Stetton lunged and parried and leaped and slid till he finally threw down his weapon from sheer exhaustion. Sweat was pouring down his face and neck, and he was panting heavily.

“That’s enough,” he declared. “Gad, I was never so hot in my life!”

Naumann went with him back to the hotel and left him in his room, saying that he would return at dinnertime, and Stetton found himself again alone. But the fatigue of his body had communicated itself to the brain; he was too tired even to think. He took a cold plunge, wrapped himself in a dressing gown, and sat down in an easy chair to rest.

That evening at dinner, the table in the main dining-room of the Walderin which was occupied by Mr. Richard Stetton and M. Frederick Naumann was the center of every gaze. Gossip had been busy with the scene of the night before, and the one that was expected to follow as its natural sequel, and fancy was flying high.

Many stories were being whispered about; it is unnecessary to pay any attention to them further than to say that the name of Mlle. Solini was mentioned in none of them. Rumor, therefore, was running true to form.

Though the two young men furnished plenty of matter for pleasing conversation at other tables, there was very little of it at their own. To be sure, Naumann talked enough, but his companion found it anything but pleasing.

The young diplomat had somehow got started on a recital of the details of the half dozen or so duels he had witnessed—in one of which he had been a principal—and his descriptions of some of the fancy thrusts and cuts were so just and vivid that Stetton would have sworn he could see the blood flow.

With this difference, that the wounds and gashes appeared to him to be on his own body instead of those of the combatants in Naumann’s little tales. By the time they reached the roast he felt like a dead man! He had long before wished to be one.

The dinner ended, and the two young men left the room, followed by a hundred pairs of eyes, and Stetton felt the gaze of every pair. They separated in the lobby; Naumann’s last words were, “Don’t bother to leave a call—I’ll be around in time to get you up.” Just as though they were going to spend a pleasant day in the country.

Stetton started for the elevator, realizing that the eyes of everyone in the lobby were turned upon him in open curiosity, perhaps even—he shuddered—in pity. The elevator-boy, too, regarded him as though he were some unusually interesting animal.

Again he found himself alone in his room, this time with a long night before him. He undressed himself and put on a bathrobe and slippers, feeling vaguely that to make his body easy and comfortable might have a similar effect on his mind. In this expectation he was grievously disappointed.

For upward of an hour he alternately lay on the bed and paced the floor; then he walked to the writing-table, took out a sheet of paper and a pen, and began a letter to his father and mother.

The letter was a most curious document, and it is to be regretted that there is not space to give it in full. Never before in all his life had Stetton felt that he had so much to say. He wrote with feverish rapidity, covering page after page, feeling that in the midst of a horrible nightmare he was talking to some one who knew and loved him, and would sympathize with him.

The letter was for the most part tender, reminiscent, and sentimental, though there was in it no touch of philosophy save that of egoism. For three full hours he wrote, and when he finally rose from the table, after placing the letter in an envelope and sealing it, he had worked himself into a frenzy of self-pity that was little short of sublime.

Most of the long night yet remained.

What to do?

He felt that sleep was impossible. Thoughts—plain thoughts, that brought plain pictures—returned in their keenness to torture him. He sat down with a book and gritted his teeth in the effort to bury his mind in it, but the effort was useless.

He got up and walked to the window, which he opened; the cold air rushed across his face. But the sight of the city with its twinkling lights seemed to madden him; he shook his fist furiously at the unoffending night.

Then he closed the window and walked to a chair and sat down, burying his face in his hands.

* * * *

At half past five the following morning Stetton, accompanied by his friend Naumann, entered a big, gray touring-car in front of the Hotel Walderin.

The morning was cold—so cold that the wet snow which had fallen during the night was turned into frosty ice on the pavements and sidewalks.

The two young men were dressed warmly in fur coats and caps, and had just gulped down two hot cups of coffee.

As they seated themselves and the car started forward, Stetton’s gaze was riveted on the back of a man, dressed likewise in fur, who was seated beside the chauffeur. He turned to Naumann and inquired with a whisper:

“Who is that?”

“The doctor.”

Stetton looked away.

The car sped swiftly down the drive nearly to its end, then turned to the left on the Tsevor Road. The streets were deserted and silent, and there was that odd, splotchy appearance of the atmosphere as though daylight were arriving only in spots. Everything seemed to be covered by a cloak of gray solemnity.

Stetton no longer felt or thought; he sat as one in a dream; but he was being gradually roused by the cold air entering his lungs; he breathed deeply, feeling a pleasure in the sharp twang in his breast and at his nostrils. He knew that the time was not long now; Naumann had told him that the car would carry them to the rendezvous in twenty minutes.

Struck by a sudden thought, he leaned forward to look over the seat in front, then began feeling about on the floor of the tonneau with his feet.

“What is it?” asked Naumann.

Stetton replied:

“I don’t see—where are the swords?”

“Framinard is bringing them.”

Again silence. They had reached the country now, and the car sped swiftly onward past rows of gaunt, bare trees with layers of icy snow on their black branches, and now and then a farmhouse or a peasant’s hut.

The cold seemed to increase; the men buried their chins deeper in the fur collars of their coats. The car crossed a bridge and just beyond turned sharply to the left; ahead was a long, level road, at one side of which, about a mile away, appeared a large, sprawling frame structure that looked like a deserted sheep-barn. As the car neared this building Naumann leaned forward and touched the arm of the chauffeur, who nodded and brought the car to a stop.

The men sprang out and started down a narrow, winding path which led to the rear of the building. Naumann was in front, followed by Stetton; the doctor, who was carrying a black leather satchel, brought up the rear.

They found the others already there in one of the numerous outlying sheds warming their hands over a fire they had made of old boards. As the newcomers entered they straightened up and bowed stiffly.

Stetton noticed a long, black wooden box lying on the ground at the feet of M. Chavot, and gazed at it in a sort of fascination.

Naumann and M. Framinard moved together to a corner of the shed and began to converse in low tones. The doctor placed his satchel on the ground and sat down on it. M. Chavot remained standing by the fire and assumed an attitude of amazing unconcern.

Presently the two seconds returned from their corner to announce their decision that it was not light enough within the shed; upon which the whole party moved outside. Framinard and Naumann carried the wooden box, which they placed on the ground and opened, displaying to view two swords unsheathed.

“Remove your coats, messieurs,” said M. Framinard, who, as the elder of the two seconds, was entitled to the office of spokesman. He added in an undertone to Chavot: “Hurry up, man, we’ll freeze to death.”

The adversaries removed their coats and hats. Chavot appeared in a tight-fitting woolen jacket, while Stetton wore a heavy-knit jersey.

Stetton, for his part, was acting purely mechanically; a piece of advice from Signor Donici, the finishing touch for one of his tricks, was repeating itself over and over in his head:

“Twist under with the point—twist under with the point.”

Stetton closed his lips tight to keep from saying it aloud: “Twist under with the point.”

“M. Chavot, you have the choice,” M. Framinard was saying. As he spoke he lifted the wooden box and stood it on one end.

Chavot approached and put out his hand to take one of the swords. As he did so M. Framinard slipped on the icy snow and fell.

The box overturned and Chavot grabbed at it to keep it from falling.

His hand came in contact with the point of one of the swords, and he drew it back hastily with an oath.

“What is it?” asked Naumann, stepping forward.

“Nothing. A mere prick,” said M. Chavot indifferently while picking up his sword.

“But if you are wounded—”

“I tell you it is nothing!”

Framinard had by this time recovered his feet, murmuring apologies, and handed the other sword to Stetton. He insisted on examining Chavot’s hand, but, seeing that it was the merest scratch, motioned the adversaries to their places.

Stetton was biting his lip to keep his teeth from chattering, and found himself, to his own profound surprise, wishing quite naturally that it were not so cold. He was startled by Framinard’s voice:

“Messieurs, en garde!”

A quick salute, and there followed the ring of steel. Almost with the first meeting of the weapons Stetton felt his heart sink within him.

The firmness of Chavot’s eye was equaled only by that of his wrist, and Stetton felt both of them at once. It was impossible to conquer this man—and yet—and yet—he felt the blood tingle in his veins—perhaps—

They were trying each other out.

Chavot fenced with easy caution, keeping in mind the treacherous ice they had for a footing; Stetton was putting all his brains in his wrist and letting his body take care of itself. Chavot, observing this, pressed closer, advancing the hilt.

There was a sudden flash of steel, a quick turn, and Chavot, bending low, leaped forward like a panther. The point of his sword tore through the jersey of his adversary, who, in leaping aside to avoid the thrust, slipped on the ice and fell to his knees; but he regained his feet as the Frenchman turned to renew the attack.

Naumann had stepped forward with an anxious question, but as Stetton shook his head and remained on guard he stepped back again.

Then, all of a sudden, Stetton felt his adversary’s wrist lose half its firmness and cunning, and at the same instant saw an expression of distress and wonder in his face.

“A trick,” thought Stetton to himself, and he became more cautious than ever.

But Chavot’s sword had inexplicably lost all its fire; once, essaying a mild attack with feint, he quite uncovered himself, and Stetton could have easily run him through but for his own excessive caution.

A look of puzzlement appeared on the Frenchman’s face, and an anxiety that amounted to desperation. His arm grew so weak that he was barely able to hold his sword.

Then, so suddenly that no one knew just how it happened, M. Chavot sank helplessly to the ground, while his weapon fell from his hand and slid twenty feet away on the frozen snow.

Stetton, utterly bewildered, stepped back and rested the point of his sword on the toe of his boot. The two seconds and the doctor rushed forward and knelt over the prostrate figure and began feeling all over his body and asking where he was hurt. But Chavot knew no more than they.

He kept turning his eyes from one to the other and saying, in a puzzled tone: “What is it, what is it? He didn’t touch me.”

Framinard turned to Stetton:

“Did you touch him?”

Stetton shook his head emphatically.

“No.”

They were opening Chavot’s clothing to see for themselves when suddenly he made a quick movement and uttered an exclamation as though he had discovered something. His body was twisting and quivering now with the little involuntary movements of a man in great pain, and his eyes were rolling from side to side.

He raised his hand—the one that had been accidentally scratched by the point of his sword—and examined it closely, muttering to himself: “Ah—ah—ah!” in the tone of one who understands everything.

With great effort he said calmly:

“Messieurs, I am poisoned.”

An exclamation of incredulous horror burst from the lips of the onlookers. Chavot silenced them with a terrible glance and continued, speaking with difficulty:

“It was on the point of my sword, with which I scratched myself. I am not to blame, but you would not understand. I must speak to M. Stetton. I have only a few minutes.” As no one moved, he exclaimed in a tone of furious impatience: “I tell you I must speak to M. Stetton—alone! Leave me!”

The others fell back at the look of command and agonized entreaty in his eyes, and Stetton approached and stood by his late opponent.

“Kneel down,” said Chavot. “They must not hear.”

As Stetton obeyed the body of the Frenchman writhed and twisted on the ground like one in torture, and a horrible grimace of pain parted his lips. When he spoke again it was in a whisper, and he appeared to force the words from his burning throat with a terrible exertion of the will.

“Listen,” he said, and the word sounded like the hissing of a snake. “You heard—my sword was poisoned.”

He paused for an instant, trembling violently, and grasped Stetton’s arm in a grip of steel in an endeavor to steady himself.

“It was Mlle. Solini—curse her for a demon of hell!—beware—beware—”

Stetton felt the dying man’s fingers sink into the flesh of his arm.

“She wanted to kiss my sword—and I—idiot!—I took it to her last night—mine—a string of red silk—I am dying—romance—romance—”

A tremendous shudder ran over the form of the Frenchman, after which he lay still with closed lips. Stetton glanced round at the others, and they ran forward.

The doctor knelt down and placed his ear against Chavot’s breast.

After a long minute he looked up and said in a tone of horror:

“He is dead.”

They had to pry his fingers loose from Stetton’s arm, one by one.