George Streeter was in Paris, because he hoped and expected to meet
Alfred Davison there. He knew that Davison was going to be in Paris for
at least a fortnight, and he had a particular reason for wishing to
come across him in the streets of that city rather than in the streets
of London.
Streeter was a young author who had published several books, and who
was getting along as well as could be expected, until suddenly he met a
check. The check was only a check as far as his own self-esteem was
concerned; for it did not in the least retard the sale of his latest
book, but rather appeared to increase it. The check was unexpected, for
where he had looked for a caress, he received a blow. The blow was so
well placed, and so vigorous, that at first it stunned him. Then he
became unreasonably angry. He resolved to strike back.
The review of his book in the Argus was vigorously severe, and perhaps
what maddened him more than anything else was the fact that, in spite
of his self-esteem he realized the truth of the criticism. If his books
had been less successful, or if he had been newer as an author, he
might possibly have set himself out to profit by the keen thrusts given
him by the Argus. He might have remembered that although Tennyson
struck back at Christopher North, calling him rusty, crusty, and musty,
yet the poet eliminated from later editions all blemishes which musty
Christopher had pointed out.
Streeter resolved to strike back with something more tangible than a
sarcastic verse. He quite admitted, even to himself, that a critic had
every right to criticise--that was what he was for--but he claimed that
a man who pretended to be an author's friend and who praised his books
to his face, had no right to go behind his back and pen a criticism so
scathing as that which appeared in the Argus: for Streeter knew that
Alfred Davison had written the criticism in the Argus, and Davison had
posed as his friend; and had pretended as well, that he had a great
admiration for Streeter's books.
As Streeter walked down the Boulevard des Italians, he saw, seated in
front of a café, the man whom he hoped to meet: and furthermore, he was
pleased to see that the man had a friend with him. The recognition of
author and critic was mutual.
"Hallo, Streeter," cried Davison; "when did you come over?"
"I left London yesterday," answered Streeter.
"Then sit down and have something with us," said Davison, cordially.
"Streeter, this is my friend Harmon. He is an exile and a resident in
Paris, and, consequently, likes to meet his countrymen."
"In that case," said Streeter, "he is probably well acquainted with the
customs of the place?"
"Rather!" returned Davison; "he has become so much of a Frenchman--he
has been so contaminated, if I may put it that way--that I believe
quite recently he was either principal or second in a duel. By the way,
which was it, Harmon?"
"Merely a second," answered the other.
"I don't believe in duelling myself," continued Davison: "it seems to
me an idiotic custom, and so futile."
"I don't agree with you," replied Streeter, curtly; "there is no reason
why a duel should be futile, and there seem to be many reasons why a
duel might be fought. There are many things, worse than crimes, which
exist in all countries, and for which there is no remedy except calling
a man out; misdemeanors, if I may so term them, that the law takes no
cognisance of; treachery, for instance;--a person pretending to be a
man's friend, and then the first chance he gets, stabbing him in the
back."
Harmon nodded his approval of these sentiments, while Davison said
jauntily:
"Oh, I don't know about that! It seems to me these things, which I
suppose undoubtedly exist, should not be made important by taking much
notice of them. What will you have to drink, Streeter?"
"Bring me a liqueur of brandy," said Streeter to the garçon who stood
ready to take the order.
When the waiter returned with a small glass, into which he poured the
brandy with the deftness of a Frenchman, filling it so that not a drop
more could be added, and yet without allowing the glass to overflow,
Streeter pulled out his purse.
"No, no!" cried Davison; "you are not going to pay for this--you are
drinking with me."
"I pay for my own drinks," said Streeter, surlily.
"Not when I invite you to drink with me," protested the critic. "I pay
for this brandy."
"Very well, take it, then!" said Streeter, picking up the little glass
and dashing the contents in the face of Davison.
Davison took out his handkerchief.
"What the devil do you mean by that, Streeter?" he asked, as the color
mounted to his brow.
Streeter took out his card and pencilled a word or two on the
pasteboard.
"There," he said, "is my Paris address. If you do not know what I mean
by that, ask your friend here; he will inform you."
And with that the novelist arose, bowed to the two, and departed.
When he returned to his hotel, after a stroll along the brilliantly-
lighted Boulevards, he found waiting for him Mr. Harmon and a
Frenchman.
"I had no idea you would come so soon," said Streeter, "otherwise I
would not have kept you waiting."
"It does not matter," replied Harmon; "we have not waited long. Affairs
of this kind require prompt action. An insult lasts but twenty-four
hours, and my friend and principal has no desire to put you to the
inconvenience of repeating your action of this evening. We are taking
it for granted that you have a friend prepared to act for you; for your
conduct appeared to be premeditated."
"You are quite right," answered Streeter; "I have two friends to whom I
shall be pleased to introduce you. Come this way, if you will be so
kind."
The preliminaries were speedily arranged, and the meeting was to take
place next morning at daylight, with pistols.
Now that everything was settled, the prospect did not look quite so
pleasant to Streeter as it had done when he left London. Davison had
asked for no explanation; but that, of course, could be accounted for,
because this critical sneak must be well aware of the reason for the
insult. Still, Streeter had rather expected that he would perhaps have
simulated ignorance, and on receiving enlightenment might have avoided
a meeting to apologizing.
Anyhow, Streeter resolved to make a night of it. He left his friends to
arrange for a carriage, and see to all that was necessary, while he
donned his war-paint and departed for a gathering to which he had been
invited, and where he was to meet many of his countrymen and
countrywomen, in a fashionable part of Paris.
His hostess appeared to be overjoyed at seeing him.
"You are so late," she said, "that I was afraid something had occurred
to keep you from coming altogether."
"Nothing could have prevented me from coming," said Streeter,
gallantly, "where Mrs. Woodford is hostess!"
"Oh, that is very nice of you, Mr. Streeter!" answered the lady; "but I
must not stand here talking with you, for I have promised to introduce
you to Miss Neville, who wishes very much to meet you. She is a great
admirer of yours, and has read all your books."
"There are not very many of them," said Streeter, with a laugh; "and
such as they are, I hope Miss Neville thinks more of them than I do
myself."
"Oh, we all know how modest authors are!" replied his hostess, leading
him away to be introduced.
Miss Neville was young and pretty, and she was evidently pleased to
meet the rising young author.
"I have long wanted to see you," she said, "to have a talk with you
about your books."
"You are very kind," said Streeter, "but perhaps we might choose
something more profitable to talk about?"
"I am not so sure of that. Doubtless you have been accustomed to hear
only the nice things people say about you. That is the misfortune of
many authors."
"It is a misfortune," answered Streeter.
"What a writer needs is somebody to tell him the truth."
"Ah!" said Miss Neville, "that is another thing I am not so sure about.
Mrs. Woodford has told you, I suppose, that I have read all your books?
Did she add that I detested them?"
Even Streeter was not able to conceal the fact that this remark caused
him some surprise. He laughed uneasily, and said:
"On the contrary, Mrs. Woodford led me to believe that you had liked
them."
The girl leaned back in her chair, and looked at him with half-closed
eyes.
"Of course," she said, "Mrs. Woodford does not know. It is not likely
that I would tell her I detested your books while I asked for an
introduction to you. She took it for granted that I meant to say
pleasant things to you, whereas I had made up my mind to do the exact
reverse. No one would be more shocked than Mrs. Woodford--unless,
perhaps, it is yourself--if she knew I was going to speak frankly with
you."
"I am not shocked," said the young man, seriously; "I recognize that
there are many things in my books that are blemishes."
"Of course you don't mean that," said the frank young woman; "because
if you did you would not repeat the faults in book after book."
"A man can but do his best," said Streeter, getting annoyed in spite of
himself, for no man takes kindly to the candid friend. "A man can but
do his best, as Hubert said, whose grandsire drew a longbow at
Hastings."
"Yes," returned Miss Neville, "a man can but do his best, although we
should remember that the man who said that, said it just before he was
defeated. What I feel is that you are not doing your best, and that you
will not do your best until some objectionable person like myself has a
good serious talk with you."
"Begin the serious talk," said Streeter; "I am ready and eager to
listen."
"Did you read the review of your latest book which appeared in the
Argus?"
"Did I?" said Streeter, somewhat startled--the thought of the meeting
that was so close, which he had forgotten for the moment, flashing over
him. "Yes, I did; and I had the pleasure of meeting the person who
wrote it this evening."
Miss Neville almost jumped in her chair.
"Oh, I did not intend you to know that!" she said. "Who told you? How
did you find out that I wrote reviews for the Argus?"
"You!" cried Streeter, astonished in his turn. "Do you mean to say that
you wrote that review?"
Miss Neville sank back in her chair with a sigh.
"There!" she said, "my impetuosity has, as the Americans say, given me
away. After all, you did not know I was the writer!"
"I thought Davison was the writer. I had it on the very best
authority."
"Poor Davison!" said Miss Neville, laughing, "why, he is one of the
best and staunchest friends you have: and so am I, for that matter--
indeed, I am even more your friend than Mr. Davison; for I think you
_can_ do good work, while Mr. Davison is foolish enough to believe you
are doing it."
At this point in the conversation Streeter looked hurriedly at his
watch.
"Ah! I see," said Miss Neville; "this conversation is not to your
taste. You are going to plead an appointment--as if anyone could have
an appointment at this hour in the morning!"
"Nevertheless," said Streeter, "I have; and I must bid you good-bye.
But I assure you that my eyes have been opened, and that I have learned
a lesson to-night which I will not soon forget. I hope I may have the
pleasure of meeting you again, and continuing this conversation.
Perhaps some time I may tell you why I have to leave."
Streeter found his friends waiting for him. He knew it was no use
trying to see Davison before the meeting. There was a long drive ahead
of them, and it was grey daylight when they reached the ground, where
they found the other party waiting.
Each man took his place and the pistol that was handed to him. When the
word "Fire!" was given, Streeter dropped his hand to his side. Davison
stood with his pistol still pointed, but he did not fire.
"Why don't you shoot, George?" said Davison.
Harmon, at this point, rebuked his principal, and said he must have no
communication with the other except through a second.
"Oh!" said Davison, impatiently, "I don't pretend to know the rules of
this idiotic game!"
Streeter stepped forward.
"I merely wished to give you the opportunity of firing at me if you
cared to do so," he said; "and now I desire to apologize for my action
at the café. I may say that what I did was done under a
misapprehension. Anything that I can do to make reparation I am willing
to do."
"Oh, that's all right!" said Davison; "nothing more need be said. I am
perfectly satisfied. Let us get back to the city; I find it somewhat
chilly out here."
"And yet," said Harmon, with a sigh, "Englishmen have the cheek to talk
of the futility of French duels!"