It was not yet sunrise when Elliott, entering the studio with Selby,
lighted the gas and started to prepare for bed. As Elliott turned up the
gas Selby encountered the owl-like eyes of his Excellency, blinking,
limpid, vacant.
“What’s that?” he said nervously. But when he saw the evening dress,
the disordered tie, the hat, he approached the Ambassador curiously.
Presently he reached up, slipped the note from his Excellency’s hat-band,
opened it, read it in silence, then passed it to Elliott without a word.
“May I ask who you are?” said Elliott. His Excellency bleated and waited
for somebody to set him in motion, with placid confidence. Elliott
frowned. This then was one of those who had lured Clifford from the
fold!—this wicked old creature, apparently paralysed by depravity,
planted in an arm-chair! His ruffled hat accused him! His crumpled tie,
coyly peeping from behind one ear, convicted him!
“Call a cab,” said Elliott thickly.
His Excellency betrayed no emotion; his round eyes followed Elliott’s
movements with trustful tranquillity. When Selby returned, saying the
cab was there, Elliott assisted the Ambassador to his feet; but, what
was his surprise and indignation to see that his Excellency was entirely
capable of movement. For, once set in motion, the Ambassador began
trotting all about the room with perfect solemnity and, apparently with
keen satisfaction.
“I beg your pardon,” said Elliott coldly, “your cab is waiting.” He
might as well have talked to the statues in the Louvre. Then he lost his
self-control and, taking his Excellency by one sleeve he led him to the
arm-chair and seated him.
“Aged man,” he said, “are you not mortified? You have dragged my comrade
into your depraved society! You’ve taken him away from the Latin Quarter,
you’ve stuffed his head full of marriage nonsense, of ambition, of desire
for wealth and position. How dare you come here and ask for a hat and a
collar!”
“Do you intend to ruin Clifford at baccarat?” demanded Selby.
“Or marry him to anybody?” added Elliott hoarsely.
“Who are you?” cried Selby; “are you a corrupt diplomat? Or are you
merely a wicked old man on a spree?”
“He can’t wear that hat; it won’t stay on,” observed Elliott. Selby took
a woman’s bonnet from the manikin, placed it on his Excellency’s head and
tied the strings under his chin. Elliott threw Clifford’s covert-coat
over his Excellency’s shoulders.
“That bonnet will keep him from catching cold,” he said, “it may teach
him a lesson, too, when his wife sees it.”
His Excellency unmoved, serene, surveyed Elliott from under his bonnet.
“Come,” said Selby, and they set the Ambassador in motion again, out
the door, along the garden to the street where the cab stood. The cabby
stared a little, but Elliott said grimly: “Take him to the United States
Embassy with Mr. Clifford’s compliments. And leave word that he can keep
the bonnet for future use.”
* * * * *
About that time, several miles away in the forest of St. Cloud, Clifford
was taking careful aim at Fantozzi’s anatomy, and Fantozzi was returning
the attention. A moment later two insignificant reports broke the
silence; both men, very pale, stood motionless; two tiny shreds of smoke
floated upward through the tender foliage above.
Captain Stanley turned to Fantozzi’s second, they conferred for a moment,
then Stanley turned away to avoid a smile and went hastily up to Clifford.
“He says he doesn’t want another shot; he says honour is satisfied; look
out, I believe he’s preparing to embrace you!”
In vain Clifford attempted to shun the fervid reconciliation, in vain he
dodged Fantozzi’s tears and hugs. Fantozzi would not leave him, not he!
Clifford dexterously escaped a kiss aimed at his cheek.
There were compliments from seconds, from the surgeon, from the
principals. Undismayed, Stanley tackled the procés-verbal. Bull locked up
his instruments, the carriages were summoned by handkerchief signal; the
duel was at an end. Gaily they drove back to breakfast—a red-hot Spanish
breakfast at Fantozzi’s apartments. They toasted each other, they toasted
the two nations, Spain and the United States.
Stanley, obliged to report at his Embassy, excused himself and promised
to return. The breakfast continued; Fantozzi played exquisite Spanish
airs on the guitar between courses; his handsome attaché accompanied him
on the piano.
Bull, tactless to the back-bone, sang “Cuba Libre,” but nobody cared
and everybody laughed. Afternoon came; they still breakfasted. Fantozzi
insisted on a bout with the foils; Clifford accepted; they broke a
handsome vase and some saucers.
About four o’clock, while Bull was singing “Cuba Libre” for the eleventh
time by special request, Stanley entered, glanced gravely around, and
motioned Clifford to come outside. Clifford went, closing the door behind
him, troubled by the stony solemnity of Stanley’s visage.
“What’s up?” he inquired.
“This,” said Stanley with inscrutable eyes. “His Excellency was sent home
in a cab this morning, wearing a woman’s bonnet and your covert-coat!”
“What!” gasped Clifford.
“Also with your compliments and a request that his Excellency keep the
bonnet for future use.”
Cold sweat broke out on Clifford’s brow.
“It’s Elliott!” he moaned. “It’s Elliott’s work! Oh, Heaven, he didn’t
know what he was doing!”
Stanley was silent.
“I’ll go to the Embassy,” cried Clifford, “I’ll go now.”
“Better not,” said Stanley kindly.
There was a pause.
“Does—does she know?” faltered Clifford.
“Yes,” said Stanley.
“And—and she—_she_ believed I did it!”
“No—I told her you were incapable of such a thing. But she is perhaps
a little prejudiced—that is—I mean—you understand, I found her much
distressed.”
Clifford raised his eyes, searching the handsome young face before him.
Something in that face made his heart turn to water.
“Stanley!” he blurted out, “it isn’t _you_, is it, she has promised to
marry—”
“Yes,” said Stanley slowly.
Clifford went and leaned over the banisters. After a long time he
straightened up, mopped his brow with his handkerchief, smiled, and came
up to Stanley holding out his hand.
“Before I take it I want to say that this incident had nothing to do with
it,” said Stanley; “I proposed and was accepted at the pigeon match.”
Clifford was staggered for a moment; then he recovered and held out his
hand again.
“She is one in a million,” he said cordially, thinking to himself, “and
the rest of the millions are just like her, oh, Lord! just like her!”
Stanley grasped his hand; they stood looking at each other with kindly
eyes. Fantozzi’s voice came through the closed door:
“Espagne! Espagne!
Bravo! Toro!”
Somewhere in there Bull still chanted “Cuba Libre!” Presently they bowed
to each other, shook hands again, and parted.
“My compliments to His Excellency and to Miss Amyce,” said Clifford. Then
he went in and took leave of Fantozzi and the others despite their united
protests. An hour later he entered the studio, fell upon Elliott and
beat him madly. They fought like schoolboys until tired; perspiring and
breathless, they retreated to separate sofas and panted.
“Confound you!” gasped Elliott, “what do you mean by it?”
“I mean that I forgive you,” said Clifford grimly; “go to the devil!”
They smiled at each other across the studio.
“Was _that_ the Ambassador, then?” asked Elliott.
“It was,—Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary.”
“He isn’t red-headed,” suggested Elliott, “your Ambassador Extraordinary.”
“Nevertheless,” said Clifford “he is a most extraordinary Ambassador.
Where shall we dine?”
“In the Quarter?”
“In the Quarter.”
“With me?”
“With you.”
“And Colette and Jacquette?”
“And Colette and Jacquette.”
Elliott, choking with emotion, nodded, and picked up a ruffled silk hat
from the floor.
“His Excellency’s,” said Clifford softly, and hung it over an easel.