“Why do you follow them?”
“Because I have the hope for good devil-_op_-ments.”
His “devil-_op_-ments” amused me, and I could not help laughing.
“Ah, Signore, I have very much troubley in my harrit,” he added.
“And you will have trouble in other parts of your system if you do not
go away,” I said. “If you follow these ladies again I shall ask the
police to protect us. If they cannot keep you away I shall injure you in
some manner, or hire a boy to do it.”
“What! You cannot achieve it!” he answered, in some heat. “You have
given me the insults. I shall implore my friend to call on you.”
“Send him along,” I said, as he hurried away.
The ladies came out presently, and I observed that Gwendolyn and her
mother seemed to miss the count.
“He's discouraged, poor thing!” said Mrs. Norris, as we drove away.
VIII.--I AGREE TO FIGHT A DUEL AND NAME A WEAPON WITH WHICH EUROPEAN
GENTLEMEN ARE UNFAMILIAR
THE count's friend called to see me that evening, as I expected. He was
a very good-looking young fellow who had more humor and better English
than the count. He was a Frenchman of the name of Vincent Aristide
de Langueville. Betsey had gone to the opera with Mrs. Norris and
Gwendolyn. I was alone.
“For my friend, the Count Carola, I have the honor to ask you to name
the day and the weapons,” he said, with politeness, before he had sat
down.
Now I was in for it. After all, I thought for traveling with an heiress
in this country one needs a suit of armor.
“I'm a born fighter,” I said, “but almost always my weapons have been
words. They are the only weapons with which I am thoroughly familiar. I
propose that we have a talking-match. Put us, say, ten paces apart and
light the fuse and get back out of the way while we explode. We'll load
the guns with Italian, if he prefers it, and I'll give him the first
shot. After ten minutes you can carry him off the field. He'll be
severely wounded, but it won't hurt him any.”
Vincent Aristide de Langueville laughed a little and said:
“But, my dear sir, this is not one joke. We desire the satisfaction.”
“And I will guarantee it,” was my answer.
“But, sir, we must have the fight until the blood comes.”
“Ah, you are looking for blood also,” I said. “Well, I have thought of
another weapon which once upon a time I could handle with some skill.
Let's have a duel with pitchforks.”
“Pitchforks! What is it?” he asked. “I do not understand.”
“It's a favorite weapon in New England. My great-grandfather fought
the Indians and the British with it, and it was one of the weapons
with which I fought against poverty when I was a boy. It's a great
blood-letter. I used to kill coons and hedgehogs with the pitchfork.”
“Please tell me what it is. What is it?” he pleaded.
With my pencil I drew a picture of it and said: “This handle is about
five feet in length and very strong. These three prongs are of steel and
curved a little and long enough to go through the abdomen of the most
prosperous mayor in France.”
“My God! It is the devil's weapon!” he exclaimed.
“You may report to him that the American pitchfork is the
'devil-_op_-ment' of our interview, and I shall name the day and hour as
soon as I can get hold of the weapon.”
“I shall tell my friend, and, please, may I take the picture with me?”
said Vincent.
“Certainly, and you may say to him that I shall cable for the forks
to-night, and that as soon as they arrive I shall appoint the day and
hour.”
He gave me his card.
“You live here in Rome?” I asked.
“I do.”
“Do you work for a living?”
“I am a sculptor.”
“I have often thought that I should like to see a sculptor. Sit down
till I get you framed and hung in my portrait-gallery.”
“I must go,” said he. “Perhaps you will do me the honor to call.”
I agreed to do so, just to show that I entertained no grudge, and with
that he left me.
Before going to bed that night I cabled to my secretary as follows:
“Ship to me immediately four well-made American pitchforks, three tines
each.”
I said nothing to Betsey of the proposed duel, but broke the news that I
had met a great sculptor, and she wanted to see his studio, and next day
we called there. Mrs. Mullet was sitting for a bust, in her dinner gown.
Before we had had time to recognize the lady the artist had introduced
her as the Madame Mullette, from Sioux City.
“Isn't this an adorable place?” she asked in that lyrical tone which one
hears so often in the Italian capital. She pointed at busts of several
Americans standing on pedestals and awaiting delivery.
“Look at the whiskers embalmed in marble!” Betsey exclaimed, as she
gazed at one of the busts. It had that familiar chin tuft of the
Zimmermann hay-seed and a dish collar and string tie. The face wore the
brave, defiant, me-against-the-world look that I had observed in
the statue of Titus, made after he had turned Palestine into a
slaughter-house.
“Why, that is our old friend from Prairie du Chien who came over on the
_Toltec_,” I said. “You remember the man who is studying the history of
the world, all about the life of the world, especially the life of the
ancients?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Betsey.
“He is one lumber king, and one very rich man,” the artist remarked.
“You are spending some time here in Rome,” I said to Mrs. Mullet.
“Oh, I am devoted to the Eternal City!” she exclaimed, and how she loved
the sound of that musty old phrase “Eternal City”! She added, “I have
been here four times, and I love every inch of it.”
The sculptor resumed his work with a new sitter, while Mrs. Mullet went
with us from end to end of the great studio and whispered at the first
opportunity:
“De Langueville is a wonderful man; he is a baron in his own country. If
you want a bust he will let you pay for it in instalments. Five hundred
dollars down and the remainder within three years.”
The hectic flush of art for Heaven's sake was in her face.
“A bust is a good thing,” I said. “I have often dreamed of having one.
There are times when I feel as if I couldn't live without it. If I had a
bust where I could look at it every day I suppose it would take some of
the conceit out of me. When I had stood it as long as possible I could
tie a rope around its neck and use it for an anchor on my rowboat.”
“Perhaps it would scare the fish,” said Betsey.
“In that case I could use it to hold down the pork in the brine of the
family barrel,” I suggested.
“Oh, I think that you would sculp beautifully,” said Mrs. Mullet, in
a tone of encouragement, as she looked at my head. Then, by way of
changing the subject, she added, “I believe that Colonel Wilton is a
friend of yours.”
“Colonel Wilton!” I said, puzzling over the name with its new title.
Even the American gentlemen enjoy titles.
“Don't you remember meeting us in Saint Paul's? And didn't you trade
hats and coats with him in New York?”
“No, he traded with me,” I said. “I know him like a book.”
“Is he not a friend of yours?”
“It would be truer to say that I am a friend of his.”