Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 18

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Henri Pinchon, owner of the Rouge et Noir tavern, sat in his usual place at his desk which stood behind the bar. On the wall above his head hung a row of large bells, each with a bullet-shaped tongue which, when pulled, continued to vibrate for some minutes after ringing, thus showing to which room above it belonged. Pinchon was short and round, the almost type-perfect host, since he loved his joint and bottle as well as any of his guests, and prided himself on his ability to estimate character at first sight.

For the moment, however, his usual complacency was gone. He had been filled with surprising inner doubts as to his judgment on one customer at least: this Monsieur Bowie. The previous day when he had come to the tavern, Henri ticketed him as a greenhorn who knew not good from bad. The appearance of the scar-faced little Cajun with him confirmed that opinion. The two, therefore, had been assigned the smallest room in the inn, high under the eaves overlooking a dirty courtyard, where they shared a very lumpy bed. Now the good Henri wondered ...

He rose quickly to his feet. The very pair had entered the public room, accompanied by a man in purplish drab who looked shabby as a beggar, and followed by a Negro in a field hand’s ragged linsey. How was a tavernkeeper to conduct himself toward these people?

“Monsieur Bowie——” he said in a low voice. He leaned confidentially over the bar, and Bowie had a whiff of garlic from his breath. “Two gentlemen are here, desiring to see you.”

“Who?”

“They are—of the élite.” Henri rolled his eyes toward the chimney corner and his voice was tinged with respect. The quality of these visitors was sufficiently impressive to give a guest standing merely because such personages saw fit to call upon him.

Bowie turned. Two young men rose and bowed to him together. One he recognized: the long, petulant lip and thin mustache were not easily forgotten. Friends of that fire-eating Creole, Narcisse de Bornay, and their business was not difficult to guess.

He walked across the room, and spoke in French. “You wish to see me?”

He of the mustache answered. “There was hardly time for a formal exchange of names at our first meeting, Monsieur Bowie. Allow me, therefore, to introduce my friend and myself. This gentleman is Monsieur Armand Lebain. I am Philippe Cabanal.”

“Your servant, messieurs,” murmured Bowie, bowing. Lebain appeared to be an ineffectual young man, round-chinned, soft-lipped and proud.

“May we speak in private?” Cabanal asked. “I have taken the liberty of arranging with Pinchon for the small sitting room——”

“If you wish. My friends?”

“Certainement.”

Sam, the slave, effaced himself in a corner. With Audubon and Nez Coupé, Bowie followed the visitors to a small room off the main hall, where they turned to him politely.

“We are here on behalf on Monsieur de Bornay,” Cabanal said.

Bowie nodded.

“He has empowered us to arrange terms—in the matter of which you know—according to your satisfaction, since you are the challenged party,” continued the Creole stiffly.

Another nod from Bowie.

A moment’s awkward pause. Then, as if it were distasteful, “Our principal, monsieur, desires us to inquire in what manner you wish his apology to be delivered.”

It caught Bowie so by surprise that he wondered if he had heard rightly. “Apology?” he echoed, somewhat stupidly.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“I—I believe I do not understand——”

Cabanal drew himself up. “Monsieur de Bornay is a gentleman whose courage has never been questioned. Let that be understood at once. He also has a—let us say an unusual sense of honor—which sometimes induces him to act in an extraordinary manner, or so some of us feel.” He paused, as if to convey to Bowie that he, for one, did not approve of what was to follow. “In this instance, he requested us to inform you that realizing he was—ah—somewhat intoxicated this noon, and considering his actions, he feels it your due—and his own also as a gentleman—that he offer his apologies.”

This was so utterly contrary to any experience that Bowie could not bring his bewildered mind to frame a reply.

“You are willing to accept the apology?” asked Cabanal, after a moment.

“Why—I suppose so——”

“In that case,” the Creole said, “we are to ask if you require that it be put in writing, or made to you verbally, in person.”

Bowie could have laughed. But the chill formality of the two before him caused him to pick his words carefully. “As to that,” he said, “for myself I require no apology at all. If Monsieur de Bornay wishes to retract his words, let him do so to Monsieur Audubon.”

“He will do so. Is that all?”

“Yes.”

The Creoles stepped to one side and conferred for a moment in low voices. Then they were back, stiff and formal, Cabanal the spokesman as before.

“Permit us to say, monsieur, that we consider this magnanimous of you, especially since it was the purpose of Monsieur de Bornay, who esteems Monsieur Audubon, to make such retraction in his own instance.”

He and Lebain bowed. “Now, since so much is agreed between us, shall we proceed to the next part of the business?”

Once more Bowie was baffled. “What other part is there?”

“But surely it is for you now to name to us your seconds, so that the place of meeting and also the weapons can be determined?”

Bowie simply stared. Were these young fools insane?

“Let me understand,” he said. “Did I not hear you say that Monsieur de Bornay offers his apologies?”

“Vraiment.”

“Then—would that not appear to be an end to the quarrel?”

“Monsieur does our principal less than justice,” said Cabanal loftily. “He would never dream of depriving you of the right of upholding your honor against him at the full risk of his own body.”

Astonishing, these Creoles, certainly. Bowie was between admiration and exasperation at a man who could think up a dilemma so outrageously contradictory. And the more he considered it, the more reluctant he found himself to fight a duel with an opponent so remarkably inclined, so he said, “Please to inform your principal that my honor is not affronted: and for my part there need be no meeting at all.”

Once more they bowed. “We trust this is not merely further magnanimity. He is very ready——”

Bowie exploded at last with laughter. “If he must fight, I’ll name you the time and weapons! The time: when next it snows in New Orleans——”

“But it never snows in New Orleans——”

“I’m aware of that. The weapons: snowballs——”

“Monsieur——”

“Meantime, present my compliments to Monsieur de Bornay, and tell him that I would esteem it a privilege to shake his hand and so close the entire affair—which I’m very ready to say he has conducted in a manner that does him an infinite amount of credit.”

The Creoles were unsmiling. In the American’s manner was a suspicious levity. His message, moreover, seemed hardly couched in the proper terms. Yet there was something so clifflike in this fair-haired young giant that further arguments did not occur to them.

After a moment they bowed stiffly and withdrew.