The Wages of Virtue Part 26

A minute later Rupert entered the _chambree_.

"He's not in the lavabo," he announced.

"No, it's all right. I found him here. He has just gone down to Carmelita's.... Let's go over to the Canteen, I want to meet the gentle Luigi Rivoli there."

On the stairs they encountered the Bucking Bronco, who was told that Feodor had been found and informed.

"Our Loojey's in the road-house," he announced, "layin' off ter Madam.... I wish she'd deliver the goods ef she's gwine ter. Then we could git next our Loojey without raisin' h.e.l.l with Carmelita."

"Is the Canteen fairly full?" asked John Bull.

"Some!" replied the Bucking Bronco.

"Then I'm going over to seek sorrow," said the other.

"Yure not goin' ter git fresh, an' slug the piker any, air yew, John?"

enquired the American anxiously.

"No, Buck," was the reply. "I'm only going to make an interestin'

announcement," and, turning to Rupert, he advised him not to identify himself with any proceedings which might ensue.

"You are hardly complimentary, Bull," commented Rupert resentfully....

As the three entered the Canteen, which was rapidly filling up, they caught sight of Rivoli lolling against the bar in his accustomed corner, and whispering confidentially to Madame, during her intervals of leisure. Pushing his way through the throng John Bull, closely followed by his two friends, approached the Neapolitan. His back was towards them. The American, whose face wore an ugly look, touched Rivoli with his foot.

"Makin' yure sweet self agreeable as usual, Loojey, my dear?" he enquired, and proceeded with the difficult task of making himself both sarcastic and intelligible in the French language. The Italian wheeled round with a scowl at the sound of the voice he hated.

John Bull stepped forward.

"I have come for your answer, Rivoli," he said quietly. "I wish to know when and with what weapons you would prefer to fight me. Personally, I don't care in the least what they are, so long as they're fatal."

A ring of interested listeners gathered round. The Neapolitan laughed contemptuously.

"Weapons!" he growled. "A _fico_ for weapons. I'll twist your neck and break your back, if you trouble me again."

"Very good," replied the Englishman. "Now listen, bully. We have had a little more than enough of you. You take advantage of your strength to terrorise men who are not street acrobats, and professional weight-lifters. Now _I_ am going to take advantage of this, to terrorise _you_," and he produced a small revolver from his pocket.

"Now choose. Try your blackguard-rush games and get a bullet through your skull, or fight me like a man with any weapon you prefer."

An approving cheer broke from the quickly increasing audience. The Italian moistened his lips and glared round.

"Mais oui," observed Madame with cool impartiality, "but that is a fair offer."

As though stung by her remark, the Italian threw himself into wrestling att.i.tude and extended his arms. John Bull moved only to extend his pistol-arm, and Luigi Rivoli recoiled. Strangling men who could not wrestle was one thing, being shot was quite another. The thrice-accursed English dog had got him nicely cornered. To raise a hand to him was to die--better to face his enemy, himself armed than unarmed. Better still to catch him unarmed and stamp the life out of him. He must temporise.

"Ho-ho, Brave Little Man with a Pistol," he sneered. "Behold the English hero who fears the bare hands of no man--while he has a revolver in his own."

"You miss the point, Rivoli," was the reply. "I want nothing to do with you bare-handed. I want you to choose any weapon you like to name," and turning to the deeply interested crowd he raised his voice a little:

"Gentlemen of the Legion," he said, "I challenge le Legionnaire Luigi Rivoli of the Seventh Company of the First Battalion of La Legion Etrangere to fight me with whatever weapon he prefers. We can use our rifles; he can have the choice of the revolvers belonging to me and my friend le Legionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau; we can use our sword-bayonets; we can get sabres from the Spahis; or it can be a rifle-and-bayonet fight. He can choose time, place, and weapon--and, if he will not fight, let him be known as _Rivoli the Coward_ as long as he pollutes our glorious Regiment."

Ringing and repeated cheers greeted the longest public speech that Sir Montague Merline had ever made.

A bitter sneer was frozen on Rivoli's white face.

"_Galamatias!_" he laughed contemptuously, but the laugh rang a little uncertain.

Madame la Cantiniere was charmed. She felt she was falling in love with ce brave Jean Boule _au grand galop_. This was a far finer man, and a far more suitable husband for a hard-working Cantiniere than that lump of a Rivoli, with his pockets always _pleine de vide_ and his mouth always full of _langue vert_. A trifle on the elderly side perhaps, but aristocrat _au bout des ongles_. Yes, decidedly grey as to the hair, but then, how nice to be an old man's darling!--and Madame simpered, bridled and tried to blush.

"Speak up thou, Rivoli," she cried sharply. "Do not stand there like a _blanc bec_ before a Sergeant-Major. Speak, _beca.s.se_--or speak not again to me."

The Neapolitan darted a glance of hatred at her.

"Peace, fat sow," he hissed, and added unwisely--"You wag your beard too much."

In that moment vanished for ever all possibility of Madame's trying an Italian husband. "Sow" may be a term of endearment, but no gentleman alludes to beards in the presence of a lady whose chin does not betray her s.e.x.

Turning to his enemy, Rivoli struck an att.i.tude and pointed to the door.

"Go, dig your grave _ci-devant_," he said portentously, "and I will kill you beside it, within the week."

"Thanks," replied the Englishman, and invited his friends to join him in a litre....

The barracks of the First Battalion of the Foreign Legion hummed and buzzed that night, from end to end, in a ferment of excitement over the two tremendous items of most thrilling and exciting news, to wit, that there was among them a sheep in wolf's clothing--a girl in uniform--and, secondly, that there was a duel toward, a duel in which no less a person than the great Luigi Rivoli was involved.

_Cherchez la femme_ was the game of the evening; and the catch-word of the wits on encountering any bearded and grisled _ancien_ in corridor _chambree_, canteen, or staircase, was--

"Art _thou_ the girl, pet.i.te?"

The wrinkled old grey-beard, Tant-de-Soif, was christened Bebe Fifinette, provided with a skirt improvised from a blanket, and subjected to indignities.

CHAPTER VIII

THE TEMPTATION OF SIR MONTAGUE MERLINE

Il Signor Luigi Rivoli strode forth from the Canteen in an unpleasant frame of mind.

"Curse the Englishman!" he growled. "Curse that hag behind the bar.

Curse that Russian _ragazza_. Curse that thrice-d.a.m.ned American...."

In fact--curse everybody and everything. And among them, Il Signor Luigi Rivoli cursed Carmelita for not making a bigger financial success of her Cafe venture, and saving a Neapolitan gentlemen from the undignified and humiliating position of having to lay siege to a cursed fat French _b.i.t.c.he_, to get a decent living.... What a fool he'd been that evening! He had lost ground badly with Madame, and he had lost prestige badly with the Legionaries. He must regain both as quickly as possible.... That accursed English devil must meet with an accident within the week. It would not be the first time by hundreds that a Legionnaire had been stabbed in the back for his sash and bayonet in the _Village Negre_ and alleys of the Ghetto.... A little job for Edouard Malvin, or Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat. Yes, a knife in the back would settle the Englishman's hash quite effectually, and it would be the simplest thing in the world to leave his body in one of those places to which Legionaries are forbidden to go--for the very reason that they are likely to remain in them for ever.... Curse that old cow of the Canteen! Had he offended her beyond hope of reconciliation? The Holy Saints forbid, for the woman was positively wealthy. Well, he must bring the whole battery of his blandishments to bear and make one mighty effort to win her fortune, hand and heart--in fact, he would give her an ultimatum and settle things, one way or the other, for Carmelita was beginning to show distinct signs of restiveness. Curse Carmelita! He was getting very weary of her airs and jealousies--a franc a day did not pay for it all. As soon as things were happily settled with Madame he would be able to sell his rights and goodwill in Carmelita and her Cafe.

But one must not be precipitate. There must be no untimely killing of geese that laid golden eggs. Carmelita must be kept quiet until Madame's affair was settled. 'Twas but a clumsy fool that would lose both the substance and the shadow--both the Canteen and the Cafe. If Madame returned an emphatic and final No, to his ultimatum, the Cafe must suffice until something better turned up. Luigi Rivoli and an unaugmented halfpenny a day would be ill partners, and agree but indifferently....

Revolving these things in his heart, the gentle Luigi became conscious of a less exalted organ, and bethought him of dinner, Chianti, and his cigar. He turned in the direction of the Cafe de la Legion, his usual excellent appet.i.te perhaps a trifle dulled and blunted by uncomfortable thoughts as to what might happen should this grey English dog survive the week, in spite of the attentions of Messieurs Malvin, Tou-tou, et Cie. The choice between facing the rifle or revolver of the Company marksman, or of being branded for ever as _Rivoli the Coward_ was an unpleasant one.... Should he choose steel and have a dagger-fight with sword-bayonets? No, he absolutely hated cold steel, and his mighty strength would be almost as useless to him as in a shooting-duel.

Suppose he selected sword-bayonets, to be used as daggers--held his in his left hand, seized his enemy's right wrist, broke his arm, and then made a wrestle of it after all? He could strangle him or break his back with ease. And suppose he missed his s.n.a.t.c.h at the Englishman's wrist?

The devil's bayonet would be through his throat in a second! ... But why these vain and discomforting imaginings? Ten francs would buy a hundred bravos in the _Village Negre_ and slums, if Malvin failed him....