"Oh, you have not heard of the billet-doux that Schwarzfelder has
written you?" he asked.
"What are you talking about?" I replied.
"It was done in the most perfect manner," said Moore; "I wish that it
had come for me."
"I refuse to go a step farther unless you tell me what you are talking
about," I said, and I stopped short. They could have carried me on only
by dragging me, and that would have looked undignified.
"Suppose we let him have the letter,--Schwarzfelder's masterly
production," said Marcel.
"Yes, let him see it," said Vivian.
Marcel accordingly took from his waistcoat pocket, an envelope with a
broken seal, superscribed in a large heavy hand, "To Captain, the
Honorable Charles Montague." I put it to my nose, and it smelled of both
tobacco and wine.
"But think of its contents," said Marcel.
I opened it, and stared at the writing, of which I could not read a
word. It was in German. The others burst into laughter.
"That billet-doux," said Marcel, "is a challenge from your dear friend,
Schwarzfelder. It seems that you did him a wrong this morning, or at
least he thinks so, and off he rushed to his headquarters so blindingly
angry that he must challenge you at once. He thinks of me as your best
friend, and, still mad with anger, he forgets himself so far as to write
the body of the letter in German, and also to ignore the use of a second
for himself. But Belfort has set all of that right. Now it seems that
fate won't let you fight Belfort; but I don't see how you can keep from
meeting Schwarzfelder. Lieutenant Melville, if I had your quarrelsome
disposition, I certainly should expect to die on the field of honor
before I was turned twenty-five."
Then they laughed again, enjoying my plight and vexation.
"Belfort is at any rate a gentleman," I said; "but Schwarzfelder is at
least three-fourths ruffian, and I think that it would be a disgrace to
meet him."
"But you cannot refuse on that account," said Catron, gravely, "these
men seem bent upon persecuting you, Melville, and you will have to put a
stop to it with either sword or pistol. Suppose that we go to your
quarters and discuss it."
I was willing, and ten minutes later we were around a table in our room,
talking over the situation. Marcel had ordered wine from the
commissariat, and the glasses were filled by the orderly, Waters, who
was silent, and, as usual, apparently respectful.
"It is obvious that our friend Melville must meet Schwarzfelder," said
Marcel, at length. "This Hessian is a drunkard and a bravo; but he is an
officer of rank, even of much higher rank than Melville. Our man,
therefore, must teach him a lesson. Do you say so, gentlemen?"
"We do say so," replied Catron, Moore, and Vivian together.
I saw that they were right, according to the code of the day, and I
began, in spite of myself, to feel a willingness for the combat. Catron
said that they were persecuting me, and that word "Persecute" began to
inflame my anger. I would show them that persecuting had its risks.
"I am not much of a swordsman," I said; "but I am a good shot, and so I
choose pistols at twenty paces."
"Then pistols it is," said Catron; "and now for a letter to Belfort, who
is to be Schwarzfelder's second, which will show that we know how to
manage such an affair as this in the most courteous manner."
Then we set ourselves to the task of writing the letter,--a labor that
was by no means small,--and while we were hard-set at it, Waters came
into the room again and saluted.
"Well?" said Catron, impatiently.
"Your honor," said Waters, apologetically, "there is some news of
interest in the city, and I thought that you would pardon me for telling
it to you."
"Wait! Do you not see that we are busy? You should not interrupt!"
replied Marcel.
"But this is a most extraordinary affair, and the whole town is ringing
with it," rejoined the man.
I saw now that his eyes were sparkling after the manner of one who has a
budget of good gossip to tell and is anxious to tell it. The others
noticed it too, and our own curiosity began to rise.
"What is it, Waters?" I asked.
He opened his hands, showing a piece of white paper about a foot long
and perhaps half as wide.
"There is writing upon it; I ask your honor to read it," he said.