Sanin dropped into a chair directly he had gone, and stared at the floor. “What does it all mean? How is it my life has taken such a turn all of a sudden? All the past, all the future has suddenly vanished, gone,—and all that’s left is that I am going to fight some one about something in Frankfort.” He recalled a crazy aunt of his who used to dance and sing:
“O my lieutenant! My little cucumber! My little love! Dance with me, my little dove!”
And he laughed and hummed as she used to: “O my lieutenant! Dance with me, little dove!” “But I must act, though, I mustn’t waste time,” he cried aloud—jumped up and saw Pantaleone facing him with a note in his hand.
“I knocked several times, but you did not answer; I thought you weren’t at home,” said the old man, as he gave him the note. “From Signorina Gemma.”
Sanin took the note, mechanically, as they say, tore it open, and read it. Gemma wrote to him that she was very anxious—about he knew what—and would be very glad to see him at once.
“The Signorina is anxious,” began Pantaleone, who obviously knew what was in the note, “she told me to see what you are doing and to bring you to her.”
Sanin glanced at the old Italian, and pondered. A sudden idea flashed upon his brain. For the first instant it struck him as too absurd to be possible.
“After all … why not?” he asked himself.
“M. Pantaleone!” he said aloud.
The old man started, tucked his chin into his cravat and stared at Sanin.
“Do you know,” pursued Sanin, “what happened yesterday?”
Pantaleone chewed his lips and shook his immense top-knot of hair. “Yes.”
(Emil had told him all about it directly he got home.)
“Oh, you know! Well, an officer has just this minute left me. That scoundrel challenges me to a duel. I have accepted his challenge. But I have no second. Will _you_ be my second?”
Pantaleone started and raised his eyebrows so high that they were lost under his overhanging hair.
“You are absolutely obliged to fight?” he said at last in Italian; till that instant he had made use of French.
“Absolutely. I can’t do otherwise—it would mean disgracing myself for ever.”
“H’m. If I don’t consent to be your second you will find some one else.”
“Yes … undoubtedly.”
Pantaleone looked down. “But allow me to ask you, Signor de Tsanin, will not your duel throw a slur on the reputation of a certain lady?”
“I don’t suppose so; but in any case, there’s no help for it.”
“H’m!” Pantaleone retired altogether into his cravat. “Hey, but that _ferroflucto Klüberio_—what’s he about?” he cried all of a sudden, looking up again.
“He? Nothing.”
“_Che_!” Pantaleone shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “I have, in any case, to thank you,” he articulated at last in an unsteady voice “that even in my present humble condition you recognise that I am a gentleman—_un galant’uomo_! In that way you have shown yourself to be a real _galant’uomo_. But I must consider your proposal.”
“There’s no time to lose, dear Signor Ci … cippa …”
“Tola,” the old man chimed in. “I ask only for one hour for reflection…. The daughter of my benefactor is involved in this…. And, therefore, I ought, I am bound, to reflect!… In an hour, in three-quarters of an hour, you shall know my decision.”
“Very well; I will wait.”
“And now … what answer am I to give to Signorina Gemma?”
Sanin took a sheet of paper, wrote on it, “Set your mind at rest, dear friend; in three hours’ time I will come to you, and everything shall be explained. I thank you from my heart for your sympathy,” and handed this sheet to Pantaleone.
He put it carefully into his side-pocket, and once more repeating “In an hour!” made towards the door; but turning sharply back, ran up to Sanin, seized his hand, and pressing it to his shirt-front, cried, with his eyes to the ceiling: “Noble youth! Great heart! (_Nobil giovanotto! Gran cuore!_) permit a weak old man (_a un vecchiotto!_) to press your valorous right hand (_la vostra valorosa destra!_)” Then he skipped back a pace or two, threw up both hands, and went away.
Sanin looked after him … took up the newspaper and tried to read. But his eyes wandered in vain over the lines: he understood nothing.
XVIII
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!”