“I’m not so easily frightened, if that’s what you mean.
What of that?” he picked up the newspaper on the chair at his side and tossed it across the table.
Bernstein glanced at it and nodded.
“Of course,” he agreed, “it is admirable, wonderful.
All the same, you were a fool. You should not have allowed him to choose.
This fellow Lamon is dangerous.”
To this Pierre replied with a contemptuous snap of the fingers.
The other continued: “No, but he is.
You understand, my friend, it is only for your own good I tell you this.
I had it from someone at Lampourde’s, I don’t remember whom. This Lamon is dangerous.”
There was something in the tone that caused Pierre’s hand to tremble as he extended it toward his glass.
“You know,” Bernstein went on, “he came here but a month ago from Munich. This play was written there. He was stationed there as an officer in a German regiment.
And his reputation in affairs similar to yours was such that they called him ‘Lamon, le diable.’ That is why I say you have made a mistake. For with the rapier you might get a scratch—no more.”
Pierre, during this recital, was doing his best to appear unconcerned. But the pallor of his face was painfully evident and his voice was husky as he said:
“Who told you this?”
“I have forgotten.
But, after all, what does it signify?
A little practice today and tomorrow, a little luck—and you will be the most talked-of man in Paris.
I tell you, you are to be envied; always provided—I speak frankly, my friend—always provided that Lamon misses.”
Pierre shuddered.
He began to hate Bernstein.
What did he mean by this horrible calmness, this brutality?
It was certainly a lie, this story about Lamon.
Assuredly it was impossible; otherwise, he would have heard it before.
Thus, with his brain whirling madly, he sat and pretended to listen to Bernstein, who rattled on endlessly about Lamon, the gossip of the boulevards, the latest news of the profession. Pierre heard not a word; and a half-hour later, when Bernstein was called away by an appointment, he breathed a sigh of relief and quickly made his way to the street.
Someone has said, somewhere, that there are times when it is braver to run than to fight.
Let us hope, for Pierre’s sake, that the present instance was a case in point; for he had decided to run.
He admitted this at once—to himself—without reservation or shame, standing in front of the Sigognac, staring with unseeing eyes at the passing throng of vehicles.
Bernstein’s story of Lamon’s prowess had finished him utterly and instantly.
The question was: would it be possible to do the thing gracefully?
For Pierre loved his skin only just a little better than his reputation, and he ardently desired to save both of them.
His brow contracted in a worried frown; he shrugged his shoulders; he sighed.
That devil of a Lamon!
But now that he had finally decided in favor of his skin, Pierre felt much easier; and soon he devoted his mind entirely to devising a means of escape.
An apology was clearly out of the question; he would be laughed at from one end of Paris to the other; and what was more to the point, that demon Lamon would most probably not accept it.
A hundred schemes presented themselves and were in turn rejected, and Pierre was ready to give way to despair.
There seemed to be nothing for it but ignominious flight.
Then suddenly his eyes flashed with joy—an idea!
He considered—it was perfect!
He turned and started off down the street at a pace calculated to land him in the Seine within five minutes.
Then, recollecting himself, he halted and waved his arms wildly at the driver of a cab across the street. A minute later he was rolling rapidly along in the direction of the Montparnasse Quarter.
It was in front of a shabby, dilapidated building in the Rue de Rennes that the cab finally stopped.
Pierre instructed the driver to wait, glanced doubtfully around, looked again at the number over the door, and finally ventured within.
At the end of a hall on the first floor he found a door bearing the inscription: ALBERT PHILLIPS
Professeur d’Escrime Methode Americaine
Pierre, entering in response to the “Come in,” which greeted his knock, found himself in a long, low, bare apartment, only less dingy than the hall which led to it.
On a chair near the door lay some fencing foils, two or three pairs of boxing gloves, and a dilapidated mesh mask.
The only other chair in the room, placed in front of a table over near the single window, was occupied by a shabby-looking individual who turned his head at a slight angle as his visitor entered.
Pierre, whose eyes were still unaccustomed to the dim light, stood blinking uncertainly.
The man at the table turned slowly around and faced him.