Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 49

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Behind him a sudden, sharp question.

Narcisse, pale with anger, had made an inquiry directed at Contrecourt. The swordsman faced him deliberately.

“I remarked, monsieur, that it is a man’s privilege to pick his friends, but that all privileges are susceptible of abuse.”

In that moment Bowie knew that Contrecourt was dangerously bent on picking a quarrel. Narcisse was aware of it too, but in spite of the duelist’s deadly reputation, he did not take his gaze from the other’s hard stare.

“Monsieur chooses to speak with ambiguity,” he said.

“I will be happy to clarify my meaning,” replied Contrecourt.

“Messieurs—let us have no unseemliness in this house,” said St. Sylvain.

Narcisse said, “Monsieur St. Sylvain is right. You will step with me into the garden, Contrecourt?”

So simply was the challenge given and accepted, before Bowie could speak, much less try to stop it. He knew he was too late, but he was wildly angry. Narcisse had taken this uneven meeting on himself because of Bowie. He could not match Contrecourt with the sword, any more than he could match Malot, a truth as evident to him as to anyone.

From across the room, Malot hurried. “What is this?” he asked.

“A difference.” Narcisse still was pale with anger. “You will accompany us?”

Malot sternly surveyed the duelist. “You must be drunk, Contrecourt. This does not become you. He is an amateur.”

“I am ready at any time, to demonstrate to anyone, what does and what does not become me,” replied the other coldly.

Before Malot could speak, Bowie was confronting Contrecourt. “You mentioned clarifying your remark to Monsieur de Bornay,” he said. “Suppose you do so that all may understand clearly.”

Contrecourt turned on him, his cunningly intelligent eyes lit with some triumph, as if he were about to achieve an end he had planned.

“Gladly.” Most offensively, the duelist addressed, not Bowie, but the others about him. “I say that they fight as they game. A large parade—then, pouf!”

Bowie’s gray glare bored into him. “Who fights so, monsieur?”

Contrecourt could smile his contempt now. “All Américains.”

“Any particular Américain?”

“If the sleeves fit, suppose Monsieur draws them on!”

“I do so. And I say here, to all, that this Contrecourt is a hired bravo, selling his sword to the highest bidder, no better than any whore who sells her body!”

An insulte majeure. Yet Contrecourt was not angry, so much as pleased “For that,” he said, “you shall answer.”

“At once!”

Narcisse stepped between them. “Not until this man answers first to me!

“No, Narcisse!” Bowie said in his ear. “Don’t you see—he wants me. You happen only to have come between us——”

Narcisse shook Bowie’s hand from his arm. “Do me the goodness to let me fight my own quarrels. Malot, will you second me? And you, Jim?”

As quickly, Contrecourt chose his seconds: two men from the Rue des Expositions, whom Bowie did not know. Cabanal and Lebain looked on from the background.

Malot held up his hand. “Someone must be appointed referee.” His glance traveled the crowded circle and fell on the dark-faced man with the scar. “Captain Dominique You! Will you act?”

Bowie stared. Was this the famous captain of Lafitte’s pirates? “Gladly,” the man said in a full, rich voice.

The crowd opened. Their party of seven passed out. Courtesy kept the others from pushing after them, though many went to the windows. The code was respected by every man in St. Sylvain’s.