An hour later the waiter came in again to Sanin, and handed him an old,
soiled visiting-card, on which were the following words: “Pantaleone
Cippatola of Varese, court singer (_cantante di camera_) to his Royal
Highness the Duke of Modena”; and behind the waiter in walked
Pantaleone himself. He had changed his clothes from top to toe. He had
on a black frock coat, reddish with long wear, and a white piqué
waistcoat, upon which a pinchbeck chain meandered playfully; a heavy
cornelian seal hung low down on to his narrow black trousers. In his
right hand he carried a black beaver hat, in his left two stout chamois
gloves; he had tied his cravat in a taller and broader bow than ever,
and had stuck into his starched shirt-front a pin with a stone, a
so-called “cat’s eye.” On his forefinger was displayed a ring,
consisting of two clasped hands with a burning heart between them. A
smell of garments long laid by, a smell of camphor and of musk hung
about the whole person of the old man; the anxious solemnity of his
deportment must have struck the most casual spectator! Sanin rose to
meet him.
“I am your second,” Pantaleone announced in French, and he bowed
bending his whole body forward, and turning out his toes like a dancer.
“I have come for instructions. Do you want to fight to the death?”
“Why to the death, my dear Signor Cippatola? I will not for any
consideration take back my words—but I am not a bloodthirsty person!…
But come, wait a little, my opponent’s second will be here directly. I
will go into the next room, and you can make arrangements with him.
Believe me I shall never forget your kindness, and I thank you from my
heart.”
“Honour before everything!” answered Pantaleone, and he sank into an
arm-chair, without waiting for Sanin to ask him to sit down. “If that
_ferroflucto spitchebubbio_,” he said, passing from French into
Italian, “if that counter-jumper Klüberio could not appreciate his
obvious duty or was afraid, so much the worse for him!… A cheap soul,
and that’s all about it!… As for the conditions of the duel, I am your
second, and your interests are sacred to me!… When I lived in Padua
there was a regiment of the white dragoons stationed there, and I was
very intimate with many of the officers!… I was quite familiar with
their whole code. And I used often to converse on these subjects with
your principe Tarbuski too…. Is this second to come soon?”
“I am expecting him every minute—and here he comes,” added Sanin,
looking into the street.
Pantaleone got up, looked at his watch, straightened his topknot of
hair, and hurriedly stuffed into his shoe an end of tape which was
sticking out below his trouser-leg, and the young sub-lieutenant came
in, as red and embarrassed as ever.
Sanin presented the seconds to each other. “M. Richter,
sous-lieutenant, M. Cippatola, artiste!” The sub-lieutenant was
slightly disconcerted by the old man’s appearance … Oh, what would he
have said had any one whispered to him at that instant that the
“artist” presented to him was also employed in the culinary art! But
Pantaleone assumed an air as though taking part in the preliminaries of
duels was for him the most everyday affair: probably he was assisted at
this juncture by the recollections of his theatrical career, and he
played the part of second simply as a part. Both he and the
sub-lieutenant were silent for a little.
“Well? Let us come to business!” Pantaleone spoke first, playing with
his cornelian seal.
“By all means,” responded the sub-lieutenant, “but … the presence of
one of the principals …”
“I will leave you at once, gentlemen,” cried Sanin, and with a bow he
went away into the bedroom and closed the door after him.
He flung himself on the bed and began thinking of Gemma … but the
conversation of the seconds reached him through the shut door. It was
conducted in the French language; both maltreated it mercilessly, each
after his own fashion. Pantaleone again alluded to the dragoons in
Padua, and Principe Tarbuski; the sub-lieutenant to “_exghizes
léchères_” and “_goups de bistolet à l’amiaple_.” But the old man would
not even hear of any _exghizes_! To Sanin’s horror, he suddenly
proceeded to talk of a certain young lady, an innocent maiden, whose
little finger was worth more than all the officers in the world …
(_oune zeune damigella innoucenta, qu’a elle sola dans soun péti doa
vale piu que tout le zouffissié del mondo!_), and repeated several
times with heat: “It’s shameful! it’s shameful!” (_E ouna onta, ouna
onta_!) The sub-lieutenant at first made him no reply, but presently an
angry quiver could be heard in the young man’s voice, and he observed
that he had not come there to listen to sermonising.
“At your age it is always a good thing to hear the truth!” cried
Pantaleone.
The debate between the seconds several times became stormy; it lasted
over an hour, and was concluded at last on the following conditions:
“Baron von Dönhof and M. de Sanin to meet the next day at ten o’clock
in a small wood near Hanau, at the distance of twenty paces; each to
have the right to fire twice at a signal given by the seconds, the
pistols to be single-triggered and not rifle-barrelled.” Herr von
Richter withdrew, and Pantaleone solemnly opened the bedroom door, and
after communicating the result of their deliberations, cried again:
“_Bravo Russo! Bravo giovanotto!_ You will be victor!”
A few minutes later they both set off to the Rosellis’ shop. Sanin, as
a preliminary measure, had exacted a promise from Pantaleone to keep
the affair of the duel a most profound secret. In reply, the old man
had merely held up his finger, and half closing his eyes, whispered
twice over, _Segredezza_! He was obviously in good spirits, and even
walked with a freer step. All these unusual incidents, unpleasant
though they might be, carried him vividly back to the time when he
himself both received and gave challenges—only, it is true, on the
stage. Baritones, as we all know, have a great deal of strutting and
fuming to do in their parts.