“Why don’t you say something?” Zurov asked with a cruel smile. “Or have you changed your mind about going shooting?”
But just then Erast Fandorin had a positively lifesaving idea. He would not have to fight the duel straightaway—at the very earliest it would be the following morning. Of course, to go running to his chief to complain would be mean and despicable, but Ivan Brilling had said there were other agents working on Zurov. It was entirely possible that one of the chief’s people was here in the hall right now. He could accept the challenge and maintain his honor, but if, for example, tomorrow at dawn the police were suddenly to raid the house and arrest Count Zurov for running a gambling den, then Fandorin would not be to blame for it. In fact, he would not know a thing about it. Ivan Brilling would know perfectly well how to act without consulting him.
His salvation, one might say, was as good as in the bag, but Erast Fandorin’s voice suddenly acquired a life of its own, independent of its owner’s will, and began uttering the most incredible nonsense and, amazingly enough, it was no longer trembling.
“No, I haven’t changed my mind. But why wait until tomorrow? Let’s do it right now. They tell me, Count, that you practice from morning to night with five-kopeck pieces, and at precisely twenty paces?” Zurov turned crimson. “I think we ought to go about things differently, as long as you don’t funk it.” Now hadn’t Akhtyrtsev’s story come in very handy! There was no need to invent a thing. It had all been invented already. “Let us draw lots and the one who loses will go out in the yard and shoot himself, without any barriers. And afterward there will be the very minimum of unpleasantness. A man lost and he put a bullet through his forehead—it’s a common story. And the gentlemen will give their word of honor that everything will remain a secret. Will you not, gentlemen?”
The gentlemen began talking and their opinion proved to be divided: some expressed immediate willingness to give their word of honor, but others suggested forgetting the quarrel altogether and drinking the cup of peace. Then one major with luxuriant mustaches exclaimed, “But the boy is putting up a good show,” and that increased Erast Fandorin’s fervor.
“Well then, Count?” he exclaimed with desperate insolence, finally slipping his reins. “Can it really be easier to hit a five-kopeck piece than your own forehead? Or are you afraid of missing?”
Zurov said nothing, staring curiously at the plucky youngster, and his expression suggested that he was figuring something out. “Very well,” he said at last with exceptional coolness. “The terms are accepted. Jean.”
A lackey promptly flew over to Zurov. The count said to him, “A revolver, a fresh deck, and a bottle of champagne.” And he whispered something else in his ear.
Two minutes later Jean returned with a tray. He had to squeeze his way through the crowd, for now every last one of the visitors had gathered around the table.
With a deft, lightning-swift movement Zurov swung out the cylinder of the revolver to show that all the bullets were in place.
“Here’s the deck.” His fingers split open the taut wrapper with a crisp crackling sound. “Now it’s my turn to deal.” He laughed, seeming to be in an excellent frame of mind. “The rules are simple: the first to draw a card from a black suit is the one to put a bullet through his forehead. Agreed?”
Fandorin nodded without speaking, already beginning to realize that he had been cheated, monstrously duped by his adversary, killed even more surely than at twenty paces. The cunning Hippolyte had outplayed him, outsmarted him finally and absolutely! A card master like him would never fail to draw the card he needed—certainly not from his own deck! No doubt he had an entire stack of marked cards.
Meanwhile Zurov, after demonstratively crossing himself, dealt the top card. It was the queen of diamonds.
“That’s Venus,” the count said with a insolent smile. “She always comes to my rescue. Your turn, Fandorin.”
To protest or haggle would be humiliating. It was too late now to demand another deck. And it was shameful to delay.
Erast Fandorin reached out his hand and turned over the jack of spades.
CHAPTER NINE
which Fandorin’s career prospects appear to improve
“AND THAT’S MOMUS, THE FOOL,” HIPPOLYTE explained, stretching luxuriously. “But it’s getting rather late. Will you take some champagne for courage or go straight outside?”
Erast Fandorin sat there, bright red. He was choking with fury not at the count but at himself for being such a total idiot. There was no point in such an idiot staying alive.
“I’ll do it right here,” he growled in his anger, deciding that he could at least play one last dirty trick on his host. “Your flunky can wash the floor. And spare me the champagne—it gives me a headache.”
In the same angry fashion, trying not to think about anything, Fandorin grabbed the heavy revolver and cocked the hammer. Then, after hesitating for a moment over where to shoot himself and deciding that it made no difference, he set the barrel in his mouth, started counting in his mind—three, two, one—and pressed the trigger so hard that he pinched his tongue painfully with the barrel. However, no shot ensued. There was nothing but a dry click. Totally bemused, Erast Fandorin squeezed the trigger again. There was another click, but this time the metal merely rasped repulsively against a tooth.
“That’ll do, that’ll do!” Zurov took the gun away from him and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good fellow! Even tried to shoot yourself without taking Dutch courage, without any hysterics. A fine younger generation we have growing up, eh, gentlemen? Jean, pour the champagne. Mr. Fandorin and I will drink to bruderschaft.”
Erast Fandorin, overcome by a strange apathy, did as he was bid. He listlessly drained his glass of the bubbly beverage and listlessly exchanged kisses with the count, who ordered him henceforth to address him simply as Hippolyte. Everyone around was laughing loudly and making a racket, but when the sound of their voices reached Fandorin’s ears it was strangely muffled. The champagne prickled his nose, and tears welled up in his eyes.
“How do you like that Jean.” The count laughed. “It only took him a minute to remove all the pins. Very adroit, Fandorin, you must admit!”
“Yes, adroit,” Erast Fandorin agreed indifferently.
“I’d say so. What’s your first name?”
“Erast.”
“Come on then, Erastus of Rotterdam. Let’s go and sit in my study and drink a little brandy. I’m fed up with all these ugly mugs.”
“Erasmus,” Fandorin automatically corrected him.
“What?”
“Not Erastus but Erasmus.”
“I beg your pardon. I misheard. Let’s go, Erasmus.”
Fandorin obediently stood up and followed his host. They walked through a dark enfilade of rooms and found themselves in a round chamber where a quite remarkable disorder prevailed—pipes and empty bottles were scattered around, a pair of silver spurs were flaunting themselves on the table, and for some reason a stylish English saddle was lying in the corner. Why this chamber should be called a study, Erast Fandorin could not understand, since there were neither books nor writing instruments anywhere in sight.
“Splendid little saddle, isn’t it?” Zurov boasted. “Won it yesterday in a wager.”
He poured some brown-colored beverage into glasses from a round-bellied bottle, seated himself beside Erast Fandorin, and said very seriously, even soulfully, “Forgive me for my joke, brute that I am. I am bored, Erasmus. Plenty of folk around, but no real people. I’m twenty-eight, Fandorin, but I feel sixty, especially in the morning when I wake up. In the evening or at night it’s not too bad. I kick up a rumpus, play the fool. Only it’s disgusting. It used to be all right before, but nowadays somehow it gets more and more disgusting. Would you believe that just now when we were drawing lots, I suddenly thought: why not really shoot myself? And, you know, I felt tempted…Why don’t you say anything? Come on now, Fandorin. Don’t be angry. I very much want you not to bear a grudge. Tell me, what can I do to make you forgive me, eh, Erasmus?”