With almost a smile, he reflected that this inscription would make
Monsieur Pantan very angry; yes, he would insist on it. He looked down
at his fat fists and sighed profoundly, and shook his big head. They had
never pulled a trigger or gripped a sword-hilt; the knife, the peaceful
table knife, the fork, and the leash of Anastasie--those had occupied
them. Anastasie! A globular tear rose slowly from the wells in which his
eyes were set, and unchecked, wandered gently down the folds of his
face. Who would care for Anastasie? With another sigh that seemed to
start in the caverns of his soul, he reached out and took a dusty book
from a case, and bent over it. It contained the time-honored dueling
code of ancient Perigord. Suddenly, as he read, his eyes brightened, and
he ceased to sigh. He snapped the book shut, took from a peg his best
hat, dusted it with his elbow, and stepped out into the starry Perigord
night.
* * * * *
At high noon, three days later, as duly decreed by the dueling code,
Monsieur Pantan, in full evening dress, appeared at the shop of
Monsieur Bonticu, accompanied by two solemn-visaged seconds, to make
final arrangements for the affair of honor. They found Monsieur Bonticu
sitting comfortably among his coffins. He greeted them with a serene
smile. Monsieur Pantan frowned portentously.
"We have come," announced the chief second, Monsieur Duffon, the town
butcher, "as the representatives of this grossly insulted gentleman to
demand satisfaction. The weapons and conditions are, of course, fixed by
the code. It remains only to set the date. Would Friday at dawn in the
truffle preserve be entirely convenient for Monsieur?"
Monsieur Bonticu's shrug contained more regret than a hundred words
could convey.
"Alas, it will be impossible, Messieurs," he said, with a deep bow.
"Impossible?"
"But yes. I assure Messieurs that nothing would give me more exquisite
pleasure than to grant this gentleman"--he stressed this word--"the
satisfaction that his honor"--he also stressed this word--"appears to
demand. However, it is impossible."
The seconds and Monsieur Pantan looked at Monsieur Bonticu and at each
other.
"But this is monstrous," exclaimed the chief second. "Is it that
Monsieur refuses to fight?"
Monsieur Bonticu's slowly shaken head indicated most poignant regret.
"But no, Messieurs," he said. "I do not refuse. Is it not a question of
honor? Am I not a sportsman? But, alas, I am forbidden to fight."
"Forbidden."
"Alas, yes."
"But why?"
"Because," said Monsieur Bonticu, "I am a married man."
The eyes of the three men widened; they appeared stunned by surprise.
Monsieur Pantan spoke first.
"You married?" he demanded.
"But certainly."
"When?"
"Only yesterday."
"To whom? I demand proof."
"To Madame Aubison of Barbaste."
"The widow of Sergeant Aubison?"
"The same."
"I do not believe it," declared Monsieur Pantan.
Monsieur Bonticu smiled, raised his voice and called.
"Angelique! Angelique, my dove. Will you come here a little moment?"
"What? And leave the lentil soup to burn?" came an undoubtedly feminine
voice from the depths of the house.
"Yes, my treasure."
"What a pest you are, Aristide," said the voice, and its owner, an ample
woman of perhaps thirty, appeared in the doorway. Monsieur Bonticu waved
a fat hand toward her.
"My wife, Messieurs," he said.
She bowed stiffly. The three men bowed. They said nothing. They gaped at
her. She spoke to her husband.
"Is it that you take me for a Punch and Judy show, Aristide?"
"Ah, never, my rosebud," cried Monsieur Bonticu, with a placating smile.
"You see, my own, these gentlemen wished----"
"There!" she interrupted. "The lentil soup! It burns." She hurried back
to the kitchen.
The three men--Monsieur Pantan and his seconds--consulted together.
"Beyond question," said Monsieur Duffon, "Monsieur Bonticu cannot accept
the challenge. He is married; you are not. The code says plainly:
'Opponents must be on terms of absolute equality in family
responsibility.' Thus, a single man cannot fight a married one, and so
forth. See. Here it is in black and white."
Monsieur Pantan was boiling as he faced the calm Bonticu.
"To think," stormed the little man, "that truffles may be hunted--yes,
even eaten, by such a man! I see through you, Monsieur. But think not
that a Pantan can be flouted. I have my opinion of you, Monsieur the
undertaker."
Monsieur Bonticu shrugged.
"Your opinions do not interest me," he said, "and only my devotion to
the cause of free speech makes me concede that you are entitled to an
opinion at all. Good morning, Messieurs, good morning." He bowed them
down a lane of caskets and out into the afternoon sunshine. The face of
Monsieur Pantan was black.
Time went by in Perigord. Other truffle-hunting seasons came and went,
but Messieurs Bonticu and Pantan entered no more competitions. They
hunted, of course, the one with Anastasie, the other with Clotilde, but
they hunted in solitary state, and studiously avoided each other. Then
one day Monsieur Pantan's hairy countenance, stern and determined,
appeared like a genie at the door of Monsieur Bonticu's shop. The rivals
exchanged profound bows.
"I have the honor," said Monsieur Pantan, in his most formal manner, "to
announce to Monsieur that the impediment to our meeting on the field of
honor has been at last removed, and that I am now in a position to send
my seconds to him to arrange that meeting. May they call to-morrow at
high noon?"
"I do not understand," said Monsieur Bonticu, arching his eyebrows. "I
am still married."
"I too," said Monsieur Pantan, with a grim smile, "am married."
"You? Pantan? Monsieur jests."
"If Monsieur will look in the newspaper of to-day," said Monsieur
Pantan, dryly, "he will see an announcement of my marriage yesterday to
Madame Marselet of Pergieux."
There was astonishment and alarm in the face of the undertaker. Then
reverie seemed to wrap him round. The scurrying of footsteps, the bumble
of voices, in the rooms over the shop aroused him. His face was tranquil
again as he spoke.
"Will Monsieur and his seconds do me the honor of calling on me day
after to-morrow?" he asked.
"As you wish," replied Monsieur Pantan, a gleam of satisfaction in his
eye.
Punctual to the second, Monsieur Pantan and his friends presented
themselves at the shop of Monsieur Bonticu. His face, they observed, was
first worried, then smiling, then worried again.
"Will to-morrow at dawn be convenient for Monsieur?" inquired the
butcher, Duffon.
Monsieur Bonticu gestured regret with his shoulders, and said:
"I am desolated with chagrin, Messieurs, believe me, but it is
impossible."
"Impossible. It cannot be," cried Monsieur Pantan. "Monsieur has one
wife. I have one wife. Our responsibilities are equal. Is it that
Monsieur is prepared to swallow his word of insult?"
"Never," declared Monsieur Bonticu. "I yearn to encounter Monsieur in
mortal combat. But, alas, it is not I, but Nature that intervenes. I
have, only this morning, become a father, Messieurs."
As if in confirmation there came from the room above the treble wail of
a new infant.
"Behold!" exclaimed Monsieur Bonticu, with a wave of his hand.
Monsieur Pantan's face was purple.
"This is too much," he raged. "But wait, Monsieur. But wait." He clapped
his high hat on his head and stamped out of the shop.
Truffles were hunted and the days flowed by and Monsieur Pantan and his
seconds one high noon again called upon Monsieur Bonticu, who greeted
them urbanely, albeit he appeared to have lost weight and tiny
worry-wrinkles were visible in his face.
"Monsieur," began the chief second, "may I have the honor----"
"I'll speak for myself," interrupted Monsieur Pantan. "With my own voice
I wish to inform Monsieur that nothing can now prevent our meeting, at
dawn to-morrow. To-day, Monsieur the undertaker, I, too, became a
father!"
The news seemed to interest but not to stagger Monsieur Bonticu. His
smile was sad as he said:
"You are too late, Monsieur the apothecary and veterinarian. Two days
ago I, also, became a father again."
Monsieur Pantan appeared to be about to burst, so terrible was his rage.
"But wait," he screamed, "but wait." And he rushed out.
Next day Monsieur Pantan and his seconds returned. The moustachios of
the little man were on end with excitement and his eye was triumphant.
"We meet to-morrow at daybreak," he announced.
"Ah, that it were possible," sighed Monsieur Bonticu. "But the code
forbids. As I said yesterday, Monsieur has a wife and a child, while I
have a wife and children. I regret our inequality, but I cannot deny
it."
"Spare your regrets, Monsieur," rejoined the small man. "I, too, have
two children now."
"You?" Monsieur Bonticu stared, puzzled. "Yesterday you had but one. It
cannot be, Monsieur."
"It can be," cried Monsieur Pantan. "Yesterday I adopted one!"
The peony face of Monsieur Bonticu did not blanch at this intelligence.
Again he smiled with an infinite sadness.
"I appreciate," he said, "Monsieur Pantan's courtesy in affording me
this opportunity, but, alas, he has not been in possession of the facts.
By an almost unpardonable oversight I neglected to inform Monsieur that
I had become the father not of one child, but of two. Twins, Messieurs.
Would you care to inspect them?"
Monsieur Pantan's face was contorted with a wrath shocking to witness.
He bit his lip; he clenched his fist.
"The end is not yet," he shouted. "No, no, Monsieur. By the thumbs of
St. Front, I shall adopt another child."
At high noon next day three men in grave parade went down the Rue Victor
Hugo and entered the shop of Monsieur Bonticu. Monsieur Pantan spoke.
"The adoption has been made," he announced. "Here are the papers. I,
too, have a wife and three children. Shall we meet at dawn to-morrow?"
Monsieur Bonticu looked up from his account books with a rueful smile.
"Ah, if it could be," he said. "But it cannot be."
"It cannot be?" echoed Monsieur Pantan.
"No," said Monsieur Bonticu, sadly. "Last night my aged father-in-law
came to live with me. He is a new, and weighty responsibility,
Monsieur."
Monsieur Pantan appeared numbed for a moment; then, with a glare of
concentrated fury, he rasped.
"I, too, have an aged father-in-law."
He slammed the shop door after him.
* * * * *
That night when Monsieur Bonticu went to the immaculate little stye back
of his shop to see if the pride of his heart, Anastasie, was
comfortable, to chat with her a moment, and to present her with a morsel
of truffle to keep up her interest in the chase, he found her lying on
her side moaning faintly. Between moans she breathed with a labored
wheeze, and in her gentle blue eyes stood the tears of suffering. She
looked up feebly, piteously, at Monsieur Bonticu. With a cry of horror
and alarm he bent over her.
"Anastasie! My Anastasie! What is it? What ails my brave one?" She
grunted softly, short, stifled grunts of anguish. He made a swift
examination. Expert in all matters pertaining to the pig, he perceived
that she had contracted an acute case of that rare and terrible disease,
known locally as Perigord pip, and he knew, only too well, that her
demise was but a question of hours. His Anastasie would never track down
another truffle unless---- He leaned weakly against the wall and clasped
his warm brow. There was but one man in all the world who could cure
her. And that man was Pantan, the veterinarian. His "Elixir Pantan," a
secret specific, was the only known cure for the dread malady.
Pride and love wrestled within the torn soul of the stricken Bonticu. To
humble himself before his rival--it was unthinkable. He could see the
sneer on Monsieur Pantan's olive face; he could hear his cutting words
of refusal. The dew of conflicting emotions dampened the brow of
Monsieur Bonticu. Anastasie whimpered in pain. He could not stand it. He
struck his chest a resounding blow of decision. He reached for his hat.
Monsieur Bonticu knocked timidly at the door of the
apothecary-veterinarian's house. A head appeared at a window.
"Who is it?" demanded a shrill, cross, female voice.
"It is I. Bonticu. I wish to speak with Monsieur Pantan."
"Nice time to come," complained the lady. She shouted into the darkness
of the room: "Pantan! Pantan, you sleepy lout. Wake up. There's a great
oaf of a man outside wanting to speak to you."
"Patience, my dear Rosalie, patience," came the voice of Monsieur
Pantan; it was strangely meek. Presently the head of Monsieur Pantan,
all nightcap and moustachios, was protruded from the window.
"You have come to fight?" he asked.
"But no."
"Bah! Then why wake me up this cold night?"
"It is a family matter, Monsieur," said the shivering Bonticu. "A matter
the most pressing."
"Is it that Monsieur has adopted an orphanage," inquired Pantan. "Or
brought nine old aunts to live with him?"
"No, no, Monsieur. It is most serious. It is Anastasie. She--is--dying."
"A thousand regrets, but I cannot act as pall-bearer," returned Monsieur
Pantan, preparing to shut the window. "Good-night."
"I beg Monsieur to attend a little second," cried Monsieur Bonticu. "You
can save her."
"I save her?" Monsieur Pantan's tone suggested that the idea was
deliciously absurd.
"Yes, yes, yes," cried Bonticu, catching at a straw. "You alone. She has
the Perigord pip, Monsieur."
"Ah, indeed."
"Yes, one cannot doubt it."
"Most amusing."
"You are cruel, Monsieur," cried Bonticu. "She suffers, ah, how she
suffers."
"She will not suffer long," said Pantan, coldly.
There was a sob in Bonticu's voice as he said:
"I entreat Monsieur to save her. I entreat him as a sportsman."
In the window Monsieur Pantan seemed to be thinking deeply.
"I entreat him as a doctor. The ethics of his profession demand----"
"You have used me abominably, Monsieur," came the voice of Pantan, "but
when you appeal to me as a sportsman and a doctor I cannot refuse.
Wait."
The window banged down and in a second or so Monsieur Pantan, in
hastily donned attire, joined his rival and silently they walked through
the night to the bedside of the dying Anastasie. Once there, Monsieur
Pantan's manner became professional, intense, impersonal.
"Warm water. Buckets of it," he ordered.
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Olive oil and cotton."
"Yes, Monsieur."
With trembling hands Monsieur Bonticu brought the things desired, and
hovered about, speaking gently to Anastasie, calling her pet names,
soothing her. The apothecary-veterinarian was busy. He forced the
contents of a huge black bottle down her throat. He anointed her with
oil, water and unknown substances. He ordered his rival about briskly.
"Rub her belly."
Bonticu rubbed violently.
"Pull her tail."
Bonticu pulled.
"Massage her limbs."
Bonticu massaged till he was gasping for breath.
The light began to come back to the eyes of Anastasie, the rose hue to
her pale snout; she stopped whimpering. Monsieur Pantan rose with a
smile.
"The crisis is passed," he announced. "She will live. What in the name
of all the devils----"
This last ejaculation was blurred and smothered, for the overjoyed
Bonticu, with the impulsiveness of his warm Southern nature, had thrown
his arms about the little man and planted loud kisses on both hairy
cheeks. They stood facing each other, oddly shy.
"If Monsieur would do me the honor," began Monsieur Bonticu, a little
thickly, "I have some ancient port. A glass or two after that walk in
the cold would be good for Monsieur, perhaps."
"If Monsieur insists," murmured Pantan.
Monsieur Bonticu vanished and reappeared with a cob-webbed bottle. They
drank. Pantan smacked his lips. Timidly, Monsieur Bonticu said:
"I can never sufficiently repay Monsieur for his kindness."