The Masqueraders

He went leisurely to White’s, and found there a sprinkling of people, early in the day though it was. He sat down with a journal by the empty fireplace. Various people came and went, amongst them Mr Merriot, with whom Sir Anthony exchanged a pleasant word or two. He said nothing about the prospective duel, but hoped Mr Merriot would dine with him on the following evening. Prudence accepted, placid enough to all outward appearances, but she bore a sinking heart in her breast. The night had brought no good counsel, and with the morning had come the Honourable Charles, who seemed to her of a sudden, a cheerful young brute. She had small hope of keeping her appointment with Sir Anthony, but it would not do to let the large gentleman suspect that. She showed a faint desire to escape from him, and went out presently with Mr Devereux, who desired her advice in the choosing of a flowered waistcoat.

Sir Anthony returned to his paper, and did not look up again until a laughing voice said: ‘Oh, he’s gone off to take a lesson from Galliano! Belfort held out for swords, and of course Rensley wanted pistols.’

The heavy eyes lifted. It was Sir Raymond Orton who had spoken. He made one of a small group standing at the other side of the fireplace. Mr Molyneux was there, and Mr Troubridge, and young Lord Kestrel.

Mr Troubridge took snuff. ‘It is not one’s business,’ he remarked, ‘but one wonders that Rensley could find no one nearer his own age.’

My lord looked perplexed. ‘What’s that? Merriot said something about Rensley’s manners, you know.’

‘You are perfectly right, Troubridge,’ said Mr Molyneux, preserving his air of disapproval. ‘Rensley’s sore – small blame to him – over all this pother of the claim, and he was out to pick a quarrel with someone by way of venting his spleen. Well, I’m glad young Merriot stood for the small sword: Rensley’s killed his man with the pistols.’

Sir Anthony put away his journal, and went to join the group. ‘He would not appear to have too great a faith in his skill with the small sword,’ he remarked.

Orton looked scornful. ‘He’s skilled enough to account for young Merriot, I should have supposed. Only Devereux spread it about that Merriot was deadly with the weapon, and has some Italian tricks up his sleeve. So off goes our friend for an hour’s practice with Galliano.’

‘It smacks to me of some qualms,’ said Lord Kestrel, with a look of distaste. ‘Now Merriot’s gone off to look at waistcoats, as cool as you please.’

‘Rensley will be in a devilish rage when he finds the secret’s out, and the whole world knows he went off to get Galliano to show him a cunning pass or two!’ grinned Orton. He nodded to Sir Anthony. ‘Farraday went to wait upon him, and his man let it out. He deserves to be well roasted for playing such a shabby trick.’

‘Well’ – Sir Anthony smiled pleasantly on the group – ‘I’m bound for Galliano’s myself to arrange for some practice. I may stumble upon the gentleman. Give me your company, Molyneux.’

‘What, are you purposing to fight a duel?’ said Troubridge, laughing.

‘No, my dear Troubridge, no, but I like to keep my wrist in practice. Come and have a bout with me.’

There was some raillery, for Sir Anthony was known to be a peaceable man. In high good humour, and in the expectation of entertainment to be gained from confronting Rensley at the fencing master’s, not only the two invited, but Orton also, and my Lord Kestrel decided to accompany Sir Anthony. They would bait Mr Rensley a little, and take a turn with the foils. It would be an agreeable way of spending the morning.

The little Italian had a room over the shop owned by a purveyor of rappee, in the Haymarket. The small party was soon arrived there, and climbed the stairs to the first floor. There was some laughter and a deal of light talk. Signor Galliano’s servant came to the head of the stairs, drawn by the sudden noise, and requested the gentlemen to have the goodness to wait only a moment in the chamber behind the fencing-room. There was a gentleman with the good signor.

‘Oh, we know all about that, Tino!’ said my Lord Kestrel jovially, and pushed by to the door of the front room.

Tino expostulated feebly, but it seemed there was no gainsaying these merry gentlemen.

My lord opened the door, and affected a start of surprise. ‘Good gad, Rensley! You here?’

Mr Rensley was putting on his coat, and looked up with a very genuine start.

In the middle of the floor the little Italian instructor stood leaning on his foil, and beaming with pleasure upon these new visitors. He descried the large form of Sir Anthony Fanshawe, and flourished the foil joyously. ‘Aha, saire! Aha! You come to me to learn the newest passes, eh? I have one for you, and you may call it Le Baiser de la Morte. I teach it to you, for you have very nearly the soul to appreciate it.’ His foil darted out to touch my Lord Kestrel lightly over the heart. ‘For you, milor, no! Ah, no! It is for ze vey few – you may say for zose initiate in ze art of ze duello. You I teach a better management of ze feet.’ He frowned fiercely upon Sir Raymond, but his little eyes twinkled. ‘I instruct zis bad Saire Raymond not to be ze bull at ze gate, hein?’

‘Oh, come now, Gally, it’s not so bad as that, surely!’ protested Orton blinking.

‘It is worse, my frien’. It is of a vileness! For Mistaire Troubridge, I take him sedately, aha? Mr Molyneux not come to play wiz Galliano. He favours ze English school, which is just nozing at all. Mistaire Rensley he wastes my time too. Sapristi, but it is again ze bull at ze gate! I kill him a sousand times. Ten sousand times!’

Galliano was a privileged person, and his strictures and familiarities were received with mirth, and mock contrition. My Lord Kestrel went over to the window seat, and flung himself down upon it, demanding to be shown the Baiser de la Morte. Sir Anthony looked with great interest through his glass at Mr Rensley. ‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘And have you been acquiring the Kiss, Rensley?’

‘Bacchus! You accuse me of a sacrilege ze mos’ infamous!’ cried Galliano. ‘I teach him only to keep ze head cool on ze shoulders. I sink he go to fight a duello. I sank ze gods I have not to see it. It would wring ze heart! Me, I am an artis’.’

My lord said with a wicked look in his eye: ‘I’d no notion you were taking lessons of old Galliano, Rensley.’

‘I have now and then an hour with him,’ Rensley answered, and seemed in some anxiety to be gone.

But Sir Raymond Orton leaned casually against the door. ‘Now and then being when there’s a fight brewing, eh, Rensley my buck?’

‘Really, Orton! Is it a jest belike?’

‘The most famous one, Rensley, and spreading all over the town.’

Sir Anthony spoke to Galliano. ‘We’d a mind to have the foils out, Gally, but I suppose you have Mr Merriot coming to you?’