“Enraged you, Alphonse!—you, the pattern of all that is soft and amiable. Nay, then I am a wretch indeed, and miserable to the lowest extent. De profundis I implore you to tell me my crime; only break it to me gently, knowing the feminine tenderness of my heart.”
“The word is well chosen, M. Adair, by a man who commits a brutal outrage upon a woman.”
“And who has done such a truly shocking thing?”
“You yourself, Monsieur, and in this very apartment.”
“I begin to think, my fabulous Alphonse, that my hospitable offer of refreshment was something more than superfluous, and that you were wise to decline it. I would not presume to dictate, but I think that the interests of our trade may suffer if we indulge too freely in the sensuous pleasures, at least during business hours.”
This was said very indolently, and the punctuation supplied by light puffs of smoke.
“Your insolence, Monsieur, will not deter me from the purpose I have come for,” returned Silvain, who, though pale with anger, preserved much composure of deportment.
“I should be very sorry to deter you from anything, my dear Alphonse,” replied Adair. “I cannot charge myself with habitually keeping you out of mischief. But tipsiness is such an exceedingly objectionable frailty, that a friend’s ardour may be pardoned.”
“A friend, M. Adair. That name is never again to be used between us.”
“Exactly as you please, Alphonse. Perhaps you are right. Real friends need no parade of their affectionate sentiments.”
“In this apartment, M. Adair, you dared to permit yourself, yesterday, to outrage a woman whom you were bound to treat with respect.”
“You are rather a tiresome raconteur, Alphonse. You told me this just now, with a slight deduction. A narrative should advance—and one would think a perfumer understood fiction.”
“It is no fiction, Monsieur. Do you dare to deny having wrenched from a young girl’s hand a certain paper?”
“Suppose I denied it?”
“That would be a fresh insult, because you would charge her with a falsehood of which she is incapable. Do you know that?”
“Indeed, M. Silvain, with all apologies to you, I know of no falsehood of which any female is incapable.”
“The sentiment is worthy of you, M. Adair. But spare yourself the unnecessary trouble. Mademoiselle Matilde has informed me, somewhat reluctantly, of your conduct, and I am here.”
“Well,” said Ernest, emitting a large puff of smoke.
“Had you been the man of honour I had supposed you, this conversation would have been needless.”
“It is.”
“That is false, Monsieur. It would have been needless, for you would at once have made your reparation, and charged me with apology. I do not observe that you are in the slightest hurry to do either.”
“Did you ever observe me in the slightest hurry about anything?”
“Again, I repeat, Monsieur, that I will not be provoked into anger, and I invite you to take the course which is due to the young person you have injured.”
“I have injured nobody, and you are a fool, Alphonse.”
“We shall see, presently, M. Adair.”
“As you please; but I warn you that I was reading something much more pleasant than your conversation, and I may easily be fatigued by a repetition of your absurdities. Have some absinthe, and go away and become tolerable.”
“I may have the misfortune to fatigue you without much conversation, M. Adair. But I prefer to act in the first place with consideration. You deprived Mademoiselle Matilde of a paper.”
“What, again?”
“You will, at once, deposit that paper in my hands, first placing it in this envelope.” And he produced one from his pocket.
“This envelope,” said Adair, affecting to smell it, and then tossing it at Silvain, “is so infernally scented with bad millefleurs that I must protest against touching it again.”
M. Silvain’s eyes sparkled with rage.
“I produce the envelope, Monsieur, because, although I shall return the paper in question to Mademoiselle, I refuse to be thought to have seen the writing upon it, or to have become acquainted with her least secret.”
“Chivalrous Alphonse, worthy to have been christened after Spanish royalty! But your scruples are in excess. There was but one word on the piece of paper, but I half suspect that Mademoiselle’s curious French has made you think there was some allusion to yourself or your calling. Tranquillise your mind. The word was not couper, but coupon.”
“Monsieur, you are a dastard.”
“You should not say that, when I have been bold enough to permit you to shave me. I have had wounds from your awkwardness that testify to my bravery.”
“You may have others, ere long, Monsieur.”
“That is, I think, the third time that you have darkly hinted at some scheme of personal vengeance, my dear Alphonse. You force me also into the bad and dull habit of repetition, and constrain me again to say that you are a fool.”
“Enough, and more than enough, M. Adair.”
“The interview is at an end, then. The fates are merciful.”
“Perhaps not,” said the Frenchman, suddenly rising, and leaving the room, and as hastily returning with a long wooden box, which he placed on the table.
“Ah, now you interest me,” said Adair. “The dialogue was really flagging. Now we have novelty. And what is that box? You have some new invention, after all, only you meditated an amiable surprise for your friend. Come, no more mystification. Is it a monster bottle of home-made Eau de Cologne?”
The Frenchman quietly unlocked the box, took out two small swords, and threw off his coat.
“Eh!” said Ernest Adair, affecting pleasure.