“How can you arrange that?”
Pierre brushed aside the objection with a wave of the hand. “Very simple. You spoke of the edict of the new prefect of police. I shall insist that we wear masks in order to avoid recognition. I shall also arrange to go to the rendezvous alone — any pretext will serve. All you need do is to be there at the appointed hour, speak little and — shoot straight.”
“And who are you?”
“You do not know me?” Pierre asked in a tone of surprise.
“I know no one.”
“Dramatic critic on L’Avenir,” said Pierre, taking a card from his case and handing it to the other.
“Ah! This, then, is professional?”
“Yes. I have never even seen Lamon... Of course there are other details to be arranged, and it will be safest for you to wear one of my suits. I will bring it myself tomorrow morning.” Pierre was moving toward the door.
Phillips rose from his chair. “But, monsieur! The thousand francs.”
“I will bring you five hundred tomorrow morning; the remainder after the duel.”
For that afternoon and evening and the following day, Pierre found much work to do. The arrangement of details proved to be not so simple as he had expected. The seconds of Monsieur Lamon fell in readily with his scheme of masking; but Pierre’s own friends were not so easily persuaded. They denounced it as childish and absurd, inasmuch as the projected duel was an open topic of discussion in every café in Paris; and they particularly objected to their principal’s determination to go to the rendezvous unattended. The thing was unprecedented, monstrously irregular; it would amount, on their part, to an absolute breach of duty. “Our honor, our very honor, will be compromised! It is impossible!” But Pierre, who had much more than honor at stake, prevailed against all entreaties and protests.
On Wednesday morning he spent a full hour in Phillips’s room, coaching him against every possible mischance. Luckily Phillips was acquainted with the appearance of one of his seconds, and Pierre gave him a minute description of the other; and since Pierre himself had never seen Lamon, Phillips would of course not be expected to recognize him. As to any minor oddities of gesture or voice they would be easily accounted for as the result of the strain under which the duelist might be supposed to labor. Pierre finally rose from his chair with a gesture of approbation.
“Perfect!” he declared, surveying Phillips from head to foot. “I wouldn’t know the difference myself.” Opening a purse, he took from it five hundred-franc notes and laid them on the table. “There is half. And remember, this is the most important of alclass="underline" after it is over, come at once to the Restaurant de la Tour d’Ivoire. There you will change your garments and become Monsieur Phillips again, and I will pay the remainder. It will be difficult, for they will insist on accompanying you, but you must manage it somehow.”
Phillips picked up the banknotes, folded them and placed them in his pocket. Then, turning to Pierre, “There is one thing we have not considered,” he said. “What if I am wounded? Then the fraud would be discovered.”
Pierre’s face paled. “I had thought of that. But we must take our chances. And you — for God’s sake, shoot first, and shoot straight.”
“Monsieur Dumain,” said Phillips, “rest easy. When I aim at this Lamon, I shall hit him.”
But that night Pierre was unable to sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes he found himself looking into the muzzle of a revolver which, in size, bore a strong resemblance to a cannon. This was disquieting. Pierre sat up in bed and reached for a cigarette. “It’s absurd,” he said aloud. “I’m as shaky as though I were going to do it myself.”
At half-past four he rose, dressed, and finding the cab he had ordered at the door, proceeded through the silent, dim streets toward the Pont de Suresnes.
The rear of the Restaurant de la Tour d’Ivoire, which Pierre had selected as his place of retreat during the duel, overlooked the Seine at a point about a hundred yards up the river from this bridge. It was dilapidated, shabby, and disrespectable; which was exactly what Pierre desired. What with a garrulous concierge and a prying neighborhood, to have remained in his own rooms would have been hazardous; and the Restaurant de la Tour D’Ivoire, besides the advantages already named, possessed the further and greatest one of an old window with broken panes which looked out directly upon the scene of the duel.
The clock was hard on five as Pierre entered the restaurant and accosted the proprietor, who was dozing in a lump behind the little wooden desk. He awoke with a start and looked angrily at the intruder.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“I desire a private dining room,” said Pierre.
The greasy old man looked angrier still. “The devil you do!” he shouted. “There isn’t any.” He settled back into his chair and immediately fell asleep. Pierre shrugged his shoulders, glanced around, and noticing a door in the opposite corner, passed through it into the room beyond.
This room was cold, dirty and filled with that particularly disagreeable odor which is the effect of stale tobacco smoke and poisoned breaths in a close atmosphere. Tables and chairs were piled in confusion at one end; a row of them extended along the farther wall; and the only light was that which came in through the window with broken panes overlooking the Pont de Surenes entrance, and its fellow directly opposite. Three or four men, sleeping with their heads nodding at various angles, were scattered here and there on the wooden chairs; another was seated at a table with a bottle before him reading a newspaper; and a drowsy and bedraggled waiter rose to his feet and stood blinking foolishly as Pierre entered.
Pierre, having seated himself and ordered a bottle of wine, looked up to meet the curious gaze of the man with the newspaper. It was sustained almost to the point of impertinence, and at once made Pierre uneasy. Was it possible he had been recognized? The fellow’s dress was very different from that of the ordinary habitué of holes such as the Restaurant de la Tour d’Ivoire; and though Pierre could find nothing familiar in either the face or figure, he became every minute more restless and suspicious; until, finally, he accosted the stranger.
“It is very cold,” he said, in as indifferent a tone as possible, glancing up at the broken window through which the damp river air found its way.
The stranger started and glanced up quickly. “Were you speaking to me, monsieur?”
“I did myself that honor,” said Pierre.
“And you said—”
“That it is very cold.”
“Yes. In fact, it is freezing.” The stranger shivered slightly and drew his cloak closer around his shoulders. “Do you play?” he asked.
“A little,” said Pierre, who felt somehow reassured by the mere fact that the other had spoken to him.
The waiter brought cards and another bottle of wine, and Pierre moved over to the other’s table.
For a half-hour the game proceeded, for the most part in silence. Once or twice Pierre glanced at his watch, then up at the window, which from his viewpoint disclosed only a glimpse of dark, gloomy sky and the upper framework of the Pont de Suresnes. Gradually, as the waiter continued to replace empty bottles with full ones, the stranger’s tongue was loosened.
“You’re lucky,” said he, eyeing the little heap of silver and small notes at Pierre’s elbow.
Pierre glanced again at his watch. “Let us hope so,” he muttered.
“And yet you are uneasy and agitated. That is wrong. Learn, my friend, the value of philosophy — of stoicism.” The stranger waved a hand in the air and grinned foolishly. “Learn to control your fate. For whatever happens today, or tomorrow, you are still a man.”