He walked about the room, sat down to the table, took a sheet of paper, traced a few lines on it, and at once blotted them out…. He recalled Gemma’s wonderful figure in the dark window, in the starlight, set all a-fluttering by the warm hurricane; he remembered her marble arms, like the arms of the Olympian goddesses, felt their living weight on his shoulders…. Then he took the rose she had thrown him, and it seemed to him that its half-withered petals exhaled a fragrance of her, more delicate than the ordinary scent of the rose.
“And would they kill him straight away or maim him?”
He did not go to bed, and fell asleep in his clothes on the sofa.
Some one slapped him on the shoulder…. He opened his eyes, and saw Pantaleone.
“He sleeps like Alexander of Macedon on the eve of the battle of Babylon!” cried the old man.
“What o’clock is it?” inquired Sanin.
“A quarter to seven; it’s a two hours’ drive to Hanau, and we must be the first on the field. Russians are always beforehand with their enemies! I have engaged the best carriage in Frankfort!”
Sanin began washing. “And where are the pistols?”
“That _ferroflucto Tedesco_ will bring the pistols. He’ll bring a doctor too.”
Pantaleone was obviously putting a good face on it as he had done the day before; but when he was seated in the carriage with Sanin, when the coachman had cracked his whip and the horses had started off at a gallop, a sudden change came over the old singer and friend of Paduan dragoons. He began to be confused and positively faint-hearted. Something seemed to have given way in him, like a badly built wall.
“What are we doing, my God, _Santissima Madonna!_” he cried in an unexpectedly high pipe, and he clutched at his head. “What am I about, old fool, madman, _frenetico_?”
Sanin wondered and laughed, and putting his arm lightly round Pantaleone’s waist, he reminded him of the French proverb: “_Le vin est tiré—il faut le boire_.”
“Yes, yes,” answered the old man, “we will drain the cup together to the dregs—but still I’m a madman! I’m a madman! All was going on so quietly, so well … and all of a sudden: ta-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta!”
“Like the _tutti_ in the orchestra,” observed Sanin with a forced smile. “But it’s not your fault.”
“I know it’s not. I should think not indeed! And yet … such insolent conduct! _Diavolo, diavolo_!” repeated Pantaleone, sighing and shaking his topknot.
The carriage still rolled on and on.
It was an exquisite morning. The streets of Frankfort, which were just beginning to show signs of life, looked so clean and snug; the windows of the houses glittered in flashes like tinfoil; and as soon as the carriage had driven beyond the city walls, from overhead, from a blue but not yet glaring sky, the larks’ loud trills showered down in floods. Suddenly at a turn in the road, a familiar figure came from behind a tall poplar, took a few steps forward and stood still. Sanin looked more closely…. Heavens! it was Emil!
“But does he know anything about it?” he demanded of Pantaleone.
“I tell you I’m a madman,” the poor Italian wailed despairingly, almost in a shriek. “The wretched boy gave me no peace all night, and this morning at last I revealed all to him!”
“So much for your _segredezza_!” thought Sanin. The carriage had got up to Emil. Sanin told the coachman to stop the horses, and called the “wretched boy” up to him. Emil approached with hesitating steps, pale as he had been on the day he fainted. He could scarcely stand.
“What are you doing here?” Sanin asked him sternly. “Why aren’t you at home?”
“Let … let me come with you,” faltered Emil in a trembling voice, and he clasped his hands. His teeth were chattering as in a fever. “I won’t get in your way—only take me.”
“If you feel the very slightest affection or respect for me,” said Sanin, “you will go at once home or to Herr Klüber’s shop, and you won’t say one word to any one, and will wait for my return!”
“Your return,” moaned Emil—and his voice quivered and broke, “but if you’re—”
“Emil!” Sanin interrupted—and he pointed to the coachman, “do control yourself! Emil, please, go home! Listen to me, my dear! You say you love me. Well, I beg you!” He held out his hand to him. Emil bent forward, sobbed, pressed it to his lips, and darting away from the road, ran back towards Frankfort across country.
“A noble heart too,” muttered Pantaleone; but Sanin glanced severely at him…. The old man shrank into the corner of the carriage. He was conscious of his fault; and moreover, he felt more and more bewildered every instant; could it really be he who was acting as second, who had got horses, and had made all arrangements, and had left his peaceful abode at six o’clock? Besides, his legs were stiff and aching.
Sanin thought it as well to cheer him up, and he chanced on the very thing, he hit on the right word.
“Where is your old spirit, Signor Cippatola? Where is _il antico valor_?”
Signor Cippatola drew himself up and scowled “_Il antico valor_?” he boomed in a bass voice. “_Non è ancora spento_ (it’s not all lost yet), _il antico valor!_”
He put himself in a dignified attitude, began talking of his career, of the opera, of the great tenor Garcia—and arrived at Hanau a hero.
After all, if you think of it, nothing is stronger in the world … and weaker—than a word!
XXII
The copse in which the duel was to take place was a quarter of a mile from Hanau. Sanin and Pantaleone arrived there first, as the latter had predicted; they gave orders for the carriage to remain outside the wood, and they plunged into the shade of the rather thick and close-growing trees. They had to wait about an hour.
The time of waiting did not seem particularly disagreeable to Sanin; he walked up and down the path, listened to the birds singing, watched the dragonflies in their flight, and like the majority of Russians in similar circumstances, tried not to think. He only once dropped into reflection; he came across a young lime-tree, broken down, in all probability by the squall of the previous night. It was unmistakably dying … all the leaves on it were dead. “What is it? an omen?” was the thought that flashed across his mind; but he promptly began whistling, leaped over the very tree, and paced up and down the path. As for Pantaleone, he was grumbling, abusing the Germans, sighing and moaning, rubbing first his back and then his knees. He even yawned from agitation, which gave a very comic expression to his tiny shrivelled-up face. Sanin could scarcely help laughing when he looked at him.
They heard, at last, the rolling of wheels along the soft road. “It’s they!” said Pantaleone, and he was on the alert and drew himself up, not without a momentary nervous shiver, which he made haste, however, to cover with the ejaculation “B-r-r!” and the remark that the morning was rather fresh. A heavy dew drenched the grass and leaves, but the sultry heat penetrated even into the wood.
Both the officers quickly made their appearance under its arched avenues; they were accompanied by a little thick-set man, with a phlegmatic, almost sleepy, expression of face—the army doctor. He carried in one hand an earthenware pitcher of water—to be ready for any emergency; a satchel with surgical instruments and bandages hung on his left shoulder. It was obvious that he was thoroughly used to such excursions; they constituted one of the sources of his income; each duel yielded him eight gold crowns—four from each of the combatants. Herr von Richter carried a case of pistols, Herr von Dönhof—probably considering it the thing—was swinging in his hand a little cane.
“Pantaleone!” Sanin whispered to the old man; “if … if I’m killed—anything may happen—take out of my side pocket a paper—there’s a flower wrapped up in it—and give the paper to Signorina Gemma. Do you hear? You promise?”
The old man looked dejectedly at him, and nodded his head affirmatively…. But God knows whether he understood what Sanin was asking him to do.
The combatants and the seconds exchanged the customary bows; the doctor alone did not move as much as an eyelash; he sat down yawning on the grass, as much as to say, “I’m not here for expressions of chivalrous courtesy.” Herr von Richter proposed to Herr “Tshibadola” that he should select the place; Herr “Tshibadola” responded, moving his tongue with difficulty—“the wall” within him had completely given way again. “You act, my dear sir; I will watch….”
And Herr von Richter proceeded to act. He picked out in the wood close by a very pretty clearing all studded with flowers; he measured out the steps, and marked the two extreme points with sticks, which he cut and pointed. He took the pistols out of the case, and squatting on his heels, he rammed in the bullets; in short, he fussed about and exerted himself to the utmost, continually mopping his perspiring brow with a white handkerchief. Pantaleone, who accompanied him, was more like a man frozen. During all these preparations, the two principals stood at a little distance, looking like two schoolboys who have been punished, and are sulky with their tutors.