“Meestaire Nash,” said De Moulin, “I understand zat you are ze gent’man
who ees ze secon’ of Monsieur—pardon, sair, I meant ‘Meestaire’
Hemingway, ees eet not true?”
Cyrus Nash, a broad-shouldered, blue-eyed Yankee giant, nodded and
glanced across the room at his principal.
Herbert Hemingway, standing at a long French window which gave egress to
a balcony overlooking the Rue Royale, wheeled, but was silent.
“I am the representative of Mr. Hemingway,” said Nash, loftily, “and I
presume you are the representative of Mr. Grymes?”
“Correc’, sair, _c’est vrai_. I ’ave ze honnaire of being a secon’ of
my frien,’ Monsieur Grymes. I ’ave come to arrange ze mitting of owêh
preencipals on ze fiel’ _d’honneur_!” He glanced across at Hemingway,
who, rigid, his hand gripping the back of an armchair, stared at him
strangely.
“Quite so,” replied the Yankee. “We ... I—have been expecting you. But,
Mister dee Moolan, can we not reach an understanding in some other way?”
He glanced at Hemingway, who almost imperceptibly nodded.
The young indigo-planter drew himself up.
“Pardon, monsieur, I do not understan’. If Monsieur weel ’ave ze kin’nez
to exbhlain.”
“I mean, mister, can’t we settle this some other way? My principal would
prefer not to fight—”
“Ees you’ preencipal a coward?” demanded the Creole, astonished.
The other hastily made a sign of deprecating negation.
“Of course not!” he cried. “Only Mr. Hemingway would dislike
the—er—publicity that would unavoidably become connected with this
affair. He would prefer—”
Hemingway leaned forward, his voice somewhat strained.
“What my good friend means, sir,” he said, “is that I am very strongly
opposed to dueling, to personal chastisement—er—encounters, of such a
murderous nature. In my opinion, sir, it is a barbarity, the relic of
a depraved and uncivilized age! It would be against my principles, my
ideals—”
“Ees eet zat monsieur wish’ to refuse Monsieur Grymes _l’amende
honorable_?” the Creole cried, aghast. His chivalric soul could not
understand such idealistic scruples, such a Puritanical conscience.
For a moment Hemingway was at a loss. The Yankee sought to remedy the
situation.
“Look here, mister; Mister Hemingway is not afraid to fight, not by a
damn sight—”
“Ah, zen monsieur wish’ to ’pologize? Pardon, messieurs, _Que je suis
bête_!... ’Ow stupid h’I am! Eef Meestaire Hemingway weel ’pologize,
retrac’, mek ze _amende honorable_, zat ees altogether anozzer ’ting.
I ’ave no doubt zat Meestaire Grymes weel consent to conseeder eet!
Monsieur Livin’ston, he sayce to me—”
The district attorney held up his hand, and his face wore an air of
dignity.
“I—I have no intention of apologizing,” he said, calmly, although his
heart was beating furiously. And he murmured to himself, “The Lord knows
I cannot!”
The Creole looked frankly bewildered. He looked from one to the other.
“Zen what in ze name of ze thousand devils do you mean to do?” he
queried, in exasperation.
Hemingway was thinking rapidly. There was nothing to be done, after all,
he thought, but give in with the best grace possible. For all his faults,
Herbert Hemingway was somewhat of a sportsman ... a gambler, with all the
varying moods of men who are born to be eternally doomed to indecision.
His lips whitened.
“You are right, Mr. de Moulin, you are right! I cannot but give your
principal the satisfaction that he demands ... though it cost me my life.
God knows that it is only a farce, this dueling—this official murder—but
I shall not back out; I shall fight ... if need be, die!
“But I still maintain,” he continued, grasping this opportunity for a sly
thrust, “that your principal is no gentleman and should not even be given
this opportunity to—er—fight, as gentlemen do, since he has forfeited the
right to put himself in that class through his dishonorable dealings
with those pirates, of which I—er—fearlessly,” he mouthed the word,
“accused him! Do you still think I am afraid to fight, sir?” he cried,
waving his hand in an assumption of dignity, “when I have the moral
courage to accuse this fire-eating, swashbuckling Virginian to his face,
before his fellow-citizens and fellow-dupes?”
“I would hardly cayeh to say,” rejoined the Creole, dryly, his eyes
showing his utter contempt.
“Mister Hemingway is right,” suddenly interjected the last-named
gentleman’s self-styled second, “neither he nor anyone else is afraid
of this shyster, this Judas. I believe in calling a spade a spade. Mr.
Grymes is not only working for these pirates, for blood money, but it’s
my belief that he’s a smuggler, himself!
“Personally, Mister dee Moolan, I wouldn’t lower myself to fight with Mr.
Grymes, myself. He’s no gentleman, as Hemingway—”
The Creole turned on him in a flash, his fine sensibilities infuriated at
the liberties being taken with him in his character of ambassador.
“But I’m zhure you’ll have no objection to mitting me!” he snapped,
enraged. “François de Moulin ees at you’ sairvice h’at any time ... an’
at any man’s! But wait—I meestake—I mean at ze sairvice of any gentleman.
But for such _canaille_ as you, monsieur, I only use my cane!”
Before his surprised auditors could recover from the effect of his only
too justifiable wrath, the zealous young Creole had leaned over and
tweaked the prominent nose of the Yankee!
Cursing obscenely, the infuriated Nash sprang at him, but he was stopped
by Hemingway.
“Here, gentlemen, here!” the latter cried. “This is no time for
quarreling. Let us finish this unpleasant business! Nash, be quiet!”
There was a ring of command in his voice. The Yankee subsided, strangely
enough, and glowered at the young Creole, who, regaining his composure,
was superbly oblivious of him.
“As the challenged party,” said the district attorney, “of course I have
choice of weapons?”
“_Oui_, monsieur, zat ees ze propaire etiquette,” said De Moulin,
soberly, “ze choice ees yours!”
For once Hemingway dropped his habitual indecision. An observer would
have thought that he was the second in this case, rather than the
principal, so cool and matter-of-fact was his demeanor.
“Well, then, I choose pistols. And the usual place, I suppose. I believe
that is Slaughterhouse Point, is it not?”
The young planter nodded mutely.
“And, if it will not inconvenience your principal,” went on Hemingway, “I
would like the meeting to take place at dawn. Let us have it over with as
quickly as possible.”
De Moulin bowed.
“Zat ees pairfectly sateesfactory,” he answered. “Meestaire Grymes, he
sayce, ‘_Mon ami_, mek all arrangements. I leave zem to you.’ At dawn,
zen, shall it be.”
The district attorney bowed in turn.
“Thank you for calling, Mr. de Moulin. We shall meet in the morning, I
trust.”
“_Très bien_,” returned the Creole. “In ze morning zen.” He turned to
leave the room.
At this point, however, Nash interrupted.
“Wait, Mr. dee Moolan,” he cried, pointing to his nose. “What about this?
What about this, sir?” he choked with rage.
François de Moulin laughed.
“_Le nez, mon ami?_” he asked, mockingly, “w’at about eet? _Eh, bien_,
my opinion, monsieur, eet ees razzer objec’sh’n’able to zee eye. Take my
advice, Meestaire Nash, and remove eet!” He laughed debonairly.
A moment later and he was gone.