M. DE STAINVILLE'S SECONDS
When Monsieur Achille, having escorted Madame la Marquise as far as
her apartments, once more retraced his sedate footsteps toward those
occupied by Lord Eglinton, he was much surprised to find the worthy
Baptiste Durand in the octagonal room which gave immediately on
milor's study.
The wizened little man looked singularly upset; he had a couple of
heavy books under his arm: and two large white quills, one behind each
ear, gave him the look of a frightened stork.
It was long past the usual hour when M. Durand laden with his bulky
books habitually entered the Marquis's private room and remained
closeted therein with milor until long past midnight. Every evening at
the self-same hour he came to the octagonal room, passed the time of
day with Monsieur Achille and then went in, to milor: he always
carried a leather bag filled with papers neatly tied in bundles, and
he wore a somewhat anxious look when he entered and one of relief when
he finally departed. Monsieur Achille had often bent his broad and
majestic back, in order to bring his ear down to the level of the
keyhole of the door, through which Monsieur Durand invariably
disappeared at ten o'clock in the evening; but all the satisfaction
which his curiosity obtained was the sound of two voices, one steady
and low and the other somewhat shrill, without any individual or
comprehensible sentence detaching itself from the irritating babel.
And when M. Durand came out of the room after midnight, he bade
Monsieur Achille a curt good-night and invariably refused any
information with regard to the work he did for milor at that late hour
of the night.
When closely pressed he would vaguely say: "Accounts!" which of course
was ridiculous. Monsieur Achille had never heard of a nobleman
troubling himself about accounts, at the time when most people of
consideration were either at _petits soupers_ or else comfortably in
bed.
As time went on Monsieur Achille ceased to take any interest in these
nightly proceedings; they were so monotonous and so regular, that they
were no longer exciting. But to-night everything seemed changed. M.
Durand instead of marching straight through with his books into the
study, stood in the middle of the room, a veritable picture of
helpless perturbation.
"Why, M. Durand," said Achille greatly astonished, "what ails you? You
look as if you had seen a ghost."
"Sh!---sh!---sh!" whispered the timorous little man, indicating with a
jerk of his lean shoulder the distant door of the study, "do you hear
that?"
Monsieur Achille bent his ear to listen. But strive how he might he
could hear nothing but the great bracket-clock on the wall ticking
monotonously. He shrugged his shoulders to indicate that the worthy
Baptiste had been dreaming, but there was a certain look in the
wizened face which caused him to tiptoe toward the study door and once
more to bring his ear down to the level of the keyhole.
Then he shook his head, and tiptoed back to the centre of the room.
"I can hear nothing," he whispered. "Are you sure he is in there?"
"Quite, quite sure," replied Durand.
"Then why don't you go in as usual?"
"I . . . I can't!"
"Why not?"
"I . . . I don't know. . . . I seemed to hear such a funny sound as if
. . ." he paused a moment searching for the words that would best
render his impression of what he had heard. Finding none apparently,
he reiterated:
"It is a very funny sound."
"Perhaps milor was asleep and snoring," suggested the practical
Achille.
"No, no," protested Durand very energetically.
"Or ill . . ."
"Ah yes! . . . perhaps . . ." stammered the little man, "perhaps milor
is ill."
"Then I'll to him at once."
And before M. Durand could prevent him--which undoubtedly he would
have done--Achille had gone back to the study door and loudly knocked
thereat.
At first there was no answer. M. Achille knocked again, and yet again,
until a voice from within suddenly said:
"Who is it?"
"Achille, M. le Marquise!" responded the worthy with alacrity.
"I want nothing," said the voice. "Tell Durand that I shall not need
him to-night."
M. Durand nearly dropped his heavy books on the floor.
"Not want me!" he ejaculated; "we shall get terribly in arrears!"
"Will milor go to bed?" again queried M. Achille.
"No!" came somewhat impatiently from within. "Do not wait up for me.
If I want you later I will ring."
Achille looked at M. Durand and the worthy Baptiste returned the look
of puzzlement and wonder. Both shrugged their shoulders.
"There's nothing to be done, my good Baptiste," said Achille at last;
"you had best take your paraphernalia away and go to bed. I know that
tone of voice, I have heard it once before when . . . but never mind
that," he added abruptly checking himself, as if he feared to commit
an indiscretion, "enough that I know if milor says, in that tone of
voice, that he does not want you and that you are to go away--well
then, my good Durand, he does not want you and you are to go away.
. . . Do you see?"
And having delivered himself of this phrase of unanswerable logic he
pointed toward the door.
M. Durand was about to take his friend's sound advice, when a loud
ring broke in upon the silence which had fallen over this portion of
the stately palace.
"A visitor at this late hour," mused Monsieur Achille. "Ma foi!
methinks perhaps milor was expecting a fair and tardy visitor. . . .
eh, M. Durand? . . . and that perhaps this was the reason why you and
I were to go away . . . eh? . . . and why you were not wanted
to-night, . . . What?"
M. Durand was doubtful as to that, but there was no time to discuss
that little matter, for a second ring, louder and more peremptory than
the first, caused M. Achille to pull himself together, to flick at his
cravat, and to readjust the set of his coat, whilst M. Durand loath to
retire before he knew something of the tardy visitor, withdrew with
books, bag and papers into a dark corner of the room.
Already the sound of approaching footsteps drew nearer; the visitor
had been admitted and was now being escorted through the reception
rooms by the two footmen carrying torches. The next moment the doors
leading to the official suite of apartments were thrown open, M.
Achille put himself in position in the centre of the room, whilst a
loud voice from the distant hall announced:
"M. le Marquis de Belle-Isle! M. le Comte de Lugeac!"
Achille's broad back was bent nearly double. The names were well known
to him and represented, if not exactly the flower of aristocratic
France, at least the invisible power which swayed her destinies. M. le
Marquis de Belle-Isle was Madame de Pompadour's best friend, and M. de
Lugeac was her nephew.
"Your master . . . is he within?"
It was M. de Belle-Isle who spoke; his voice was loud and peremptory,
the voice of a man who only recently had been in a position to
command.
"Milor is . . . er . . . within, M. le Marquis," said Achille with
slight hesitation. It is not often that he was taken aback when in the
exercise of his duties, but the situation was undoubtedly delicate,
and he had not yet made up his mind exactly how he ought to deal with
it.
Neither of the two gentlemen, however, seemed to have any intention of
leaving him much longer in doubt.
"Go and tell him at once," said M. de Lugeac, "that Monsieur le
Marquis de Belle-Isle and myself will have to trouble him for about
two minutes."
Then as Achille seemed to be hesitating--for he did not move with any
alacrity and his well-kept hand stroked his smooth, heavy chin--M. de
Belle-Isle added more loudly:
"Go knave! and at once. . . . Par le diable, man! . . . how dare you
hesitate?"
Indeed Monsieur Achille dared do that no longer. M. le Marquis de
Belle-Isle was not a gentleman to be trifled with so he shrugged his
majestic shoulders, and rubbed his hands together in token that the
affair had passed out of their keeping, and that he no longer held
himself responsible for any unpleasant consequences which might accrue
from such unparalleled intrusion.
He strode with becoming majesty to the study door, his broad, straight
back emphasising the protest of his whole attitude. Once more he
knocked, but more loudly, less diffidently than before.
The voice from within queried with marked impatience:
"What is it now?"
"An urgent call, Monsieur le Marquis!" replied Achille in a firm
voice.
"I can see no one. I am busy," said the voice from within.
M. de Belle-Isle felt that this little scene was not quite dignified;
neither he nor M. de Lugeac was accustomed to stand behind a lacquey's
back, parleying with a man through closed doors: therefore when
Monsieur Achille turned to him now with a look which strove to
indicate respectfully but firmly that the incident was closed, he
pushed him roughly aside and himself called loudly:
"Pardi, Marquis, methinks you are over-anxious to forbid your door
to-night. I, André de Belle-Isle and my friend le Comte de Lugeac
desire a word with you. We represent M. le Comte de Stainville, and
unless you are closeted with a lady, I summon you to open this door."
Then as the door remained obstinately closed--too long at any rate for
M. le Marquis's impatience--he boldly placed his hand on the knob and
threw it open. The heavy panels flew back, revealing Lord Eglinton
sitting at his secrétaire writing. His head was resting on his hand,
but he turned to look at the two gentlemen, as they stood, momentarily
silent and subdued in the doorway itself. He rose to greet them, but
stared at them somewhat astonished and not a little haughtily, and he
made no motion requesting them to enter.
"We crave your pardon, milor," began Monsieur de Belle-Isle, feeling,
as he afterward explained, unaccountably bashful and crestfallen, "we
would not have intruded, M. de Lugeac and I, only that there was a
slight formality omitted this evening without which we cannot proceed
and which we must pray you to fulfill."
"What formality, Monsieur?" asked milor courteously. "I am afraid I do
not understand."
"The whole incident occurred very rapidly, we must admit," continued
M. de Belle-Isle still standing in the doorway, still unwilling
apparently to intrude any further on this man whom he had known for
some time, yet who seemed to have become an utter stranger to him now:
haughty, grave and courteous, with an extraordinary look of aloofness
in the face which repelled the very suggestion of familiarity. "And
that is no doubt the reason, milor, why you omitted to name your
seconds to Monsieur de Stainville."
"My seconds?" repeated milor. "I am afraid you must think me very
stupid . . . but I still do not understand . . ."
"But surely, milor . . ." protested M. de Belle-Isle, a little taken
aback.
"Would you be so kind as to explain? . . . if it is necessary."
"Necessary? Pardi, I should not have thought that it had been
necessary. You, milor, in yourself also and through Madame la Marquise
your wife have insulted M. le Comte de Stainville and Madame la
Comtesse too. We represent M. le Comte de Stainville in this affair,
wherein we presume that you are prepared to give him satisfaction. And
we have come to-night, milor, to ask you kindly to name your own
representatives so that we may arrange the details of this encounter
in the manner pre-eminently satisfactory to M. le Comte de Stainville,
since he is the aggrieved party."
Gradually M. de Belle-Isle had raised his voice. His feeling of
bashfulness had entirely left him and he felt not a little wrathful at
this strange _rôle_ which he was being made to play. It was quite
unheard of that a gentleman who had so grossly insulted another, as
Lord Eglinton had insulted M. de Stainville, should require such
lengthy explanations as to what the next course of events would
necessarily be.
"Therefore, milor," he continued with some acerbity as Lord Eglinton
had vouchsafed no reply to his tirade, "we pray you to name your
seconds to us, without delay, so that we may no longer intrude upon
your privacy."
"I need not do that, M. le Marquis," said milor quietly. "I require no
seconds."
"No seconds?" gasped the two gentlemen with one breath.
"I am not going to fight M. de Stainville."
If Lord Eglinton had suddenly declared his intention of dethroning
King Louis and placing the crown of France on his own head, he could
not more have astonished his two interlocutors. Both M. de Belle-Isle
and M. de Lugeac were in fact absolutely speechless: in all their vast
experience of Court life such a situation had never occurred before,
and literally neither of them knew exactly how to deal with it. M. de
Lugeac, young and arrogant, was the first to recover his presence of
mind. Like his successful relative Jeanne Poisson de Pompadour he had
been born in the slums of Paris, his exalted fortune, following so
quickly in the wake of the ex-victualler's wife, had given him an
assurance and an amount of impudence which the older de Belle-Isle
lacked, and which stood him in good stead in the present crisis.
"Are we to look on this as a formal refusal, milor?" he now asked
boldly.
"As you please."
"You will not give M. le Comte de Stainville the satisfaction usually
agreed upon between men of honour?"
"I will not fight M. de Stainville," repeated milor quietly. "I am
busy with other things."
"But milor," here interposed M. de Belle-Isle testily: "you cannot
have reflected on the consequences of such an act, which I myself at
this moment would hardly dare to characterize."
"You will excuse me, gentlemen," said Lord Eglinton with seeming
irrelevance, "but is there any necessity for prolonging this
interview?"
"None at all," sneered M. de Lugeac. "It is not our business to
comment on milor's conduct . . . at present," he added with audacious
significance.
But M. de Belle-Isle, who, in spite of his undignified adherence to
the Pompadour and her faction, was a sprig of the old noblesse of
France, was loath to see the humiliation of a high-born
gentleman--whatever his faults might be--before such an upstart as de
Lugeac. A kindly instinct, not altogether unexplainable, caused him to
say encouragingly:
"Let me assure you, milor--though perhaps in this I am overstepping my
official powers--that M. le Comte de Stainville has no desire to deal
harshly with you. The fact that he is the most noted swordsman in
France may perhaps be influencing you at this moment, but will you
trust to my old experience when I assure you that M. le Comte's noted
skill is your very best safeguard? He will be quite content to inflict
a slight punishment on you--being a past master with his sword he can
do that easily, without causing you graver injury. I am telling you
this in confidence of course, because I know that these are his
intentions. Moreover he starts on an important journey to-morrow and
would propose a very brief encounter with you at dawn, in one of the
spinneys of the Park. A mere scratch, I assure you, you need fear no
more. Less he could not in all honour concede."
A whimsical smile played round the corners of milor's mouth, chasing
momentarily the graver expression of his face.
"Your assurance is more than kind, M. de Belle-Isle," he said with
perfect courtesy, "but I can only repeat what I said just now, that I
will not fight M. de Stainville."
"And instead of repeating what I said just now, milor . . ." said de
Lugeac with a wicked leer.
"You will elect to hold your tongue," said M. de Belle-Isle
authoritatively, placing his hand on the younger man's wrist.
De Lugeac, who lived in perpetual fear of doing or saying something
which would inevitably betray his plebeian origin, meekly obeyed M. de
Belle-Isle's command. The latter, though very bewildered, would be
sure to know the correct way in which gentlemen should behave under
these amazing circumstances.
Lord Eglinton standing beside his secrétaire, his face in shadow, was
obviously waiting for these intruders to go. M. de Belle-Isle shrugged
his shoulders partly in puzzlement, partly in contempt; then he nodded
casually to milor, turned on his heel, and walked out of the doorway
into the octagonal room beyond, whilst M. de Lugeac imitated as best
he could the careless nod and the look of contempt of his older
friend. M. Achille stepping forward now closed the study doors behind
the two gentlemen, shutting out the picture of that grave, haughty man
who had just played the part of coward with such absolute perfection.
"Bah! these English!" said young de Lugeac, as he made the gesture of
spitting on the ground. "I had not believed it, _par tous les
diables!_ had I not heard with mine own ears."
But de Belle-Isle gravely shook his head.
"I fear me the young man is only putting off the evil day. His skin
will have to be tough indeed if he can put up with . . . well! with
what he will get when this business becomes known."
"And it will become known," asserted de Lugeac spitefully. He had
always hated what he called the English faction. Madame Lydie always
snubbed him unmercifully, and milor had hitherto most conveniently
ignored his very existence. "By G--d I hope that my glove will be the
first to touch his cheek."
"Sh!--sh!--sh!" admonished de Belle-Isle, nodding toward Achille who
was busy with the candelabrum.
"Nay! what do I care," retorted the other; "had you not restrained me
I'd have called him a dirty coward then and there."
"That had been most incorrect, my good Lugeac," rejoined de Belle-Isle
drily, and wilfully ignoring the language which, in moments of
passion, so plainly betrayed the vulgar origin. "The right to insult
Lord Eglinton belongs primarily to Gaston de Stainville, and afterward
only to his friends."
And although M. le Marquis de Belle-Isle expressed himself in more
elegant words than his plebeian friend, there was none the less spite
and evil intent in the expression of his face as he spoke.
Then giving a sign to Achille to precede them with the light, the two
representatives of M. le Comte de Stainville finally strode out of the
apartments of the ex-Comptroller General of Finance.
M. Durand, with his bulky books and his papers under his arms,
followed meekly, repeatedly shaking his head.