Volume I Part 10 (2/2)

”What's that?” said Lord Spunyarn stolidly.

”My friend, _nous autres_, we do not box like you, but we use the _savate_. Behold, then, what is the _savate_.” And here M. Barb.i.+.c.he suddenly threw himself into the att.i.tude of an enraged and aggressive monkey. ”A ruffian, he strike me, P-r-r-r-r-r,” and here M. Barb.i.+.c.he sprang suddenly high in air, and with one adroit and well-directed kick knocked off the hat of the astonished Spunyarn.

In the tohu bohu at Papayani's this singular action of M. Barb.i.+.c.he excited not the slightest surprise; he simply received a vociferous round of applause from the bystanders in his immediate neighbourhood.

Excited by the success of his achievement, Barb.i.+.c.he for the moment forgot the Emba.s.sy, the Duc de la Houspignolle, and the proprieties; he had been wound up by Papayani's music, and by more than one gla.s.s of Papayani's champagne. The Frenchman became for the moment once more Le pet.i.t Furibon, the darling of the Closerie de Lilas, the champion of the Quartier Latin, the Elisha upon whose worthy shoulders had descended the mantle of the prophet, the vanished Caouchouc.

At this moment the strains of Arditi's immortal waltz, ”Il Bacio,”

resounded through the place. The head of M. Barb.i.+.c.he kept time to the music, and he regarded the dancers with a scrutinizing gaze; his eye evidently sought Haggard and the mysterious shepherdess. As the ring of maskers which surrounded the s.p.a.ce set apart for the dancers thinned, as numerous couples joined in the waltz, the watchful Frenchman was rewarded. ”_La voila, mon ami_,” he said, for Barb.i.+.c.he, when excited, forgot the English of which he was so proud.

Directly opposite Lord Spunyarn and his French friend stood Haggard and his shepherdess. She nestled at his side, clinging to his arm and gazing up into his eyes. The hood of the pale blue silk domino was now thrown back, disclosing a magnificent head of powdered hair; the complexion of the lady's neck and shoulders was dazzling, and evidently natural; her rounded arms had more of the Venus than the Juno about them; her figure, as she gazed up into Haggard's face, was seen to be perfection.

The little foot beat time to the music of the waltz. But a black silk mask with a heavy fall of lace hid every feature, save a rounded chin and a pair of magnificent eyes, which seemed to be pleading to Haggard, and the sh.e.l.l-like ears in which blazed the diamond solitaires which had attracted the attention of the British ”'Arry” in the street.

Haggard's face was suddenly lit up with pleasure, his arm slipped round the little waist, the left hand of the shepherdess was confidingly placed on the shoulder of her champion; they started and joined the numerous pairs whirling round to the music of ”Il Bacio.” Soon the couple excited attention, of which both seemed to be wholly unaware.

Haggard, though he was a married man, was still a good dancer, and even here in a foreign ball-room, where, as a rule, the dancing Englishman is an object of ridicule, he distinguished himself. For Haggard, unlike most of the dancers present (at all events those of the male s.e.x), was perfectly sober; not that the proverbially moderate Italians had exceeded in the use of their light but notoriously nasty wines, but an Italian easily becomes intoxicated, exalted, exhilarated, beside himself under the combined influences of a Carnival ball, the lights, the perfumes, the music, the dancing, and above all the eyes of his _inamorata_. Can we blame Petrarch for being cheerful when Laura smiles?

But no Italian present was in so exalted a state as M. Barb.i.+.c.he of the French Emba.s.sy, once so well known as Le pet.i.t Furibon, of the Latin Quarter.

As the pairs gradually dropped out, Haggard and his partner became the cynosure of every eye. In vain did Pasquino whirl his Contadina with the ruddled cheeks, varying his saltatory gymnastics with an occasional scream; in vain did young Mr. Simon E. Brown, that very rough diamond from New York city, who had come to Europe for polish, and was undergoing the process (in the costume of one of the Wise Men of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl) at the hands of the Signorina Esperanza, of the Scala, or any of the motley crew, attempt to attract the public gaze: every eye was riveted with admiration on the shepherdess, that is to say, every male eye; the female organs of vision turned from her in disgust, to admire or criticize her partner, and in the end to feel dissatisfied with their own peculiar victims. For if the masked shepherdess turned the heads of most of those present, Haggard was undeniably the best-looking man in the vast arena. But even the strength of a muscular English dancing man must give way at length to the power of an Italian waltz played fast at past midnight. As for his partner, I believe she could have gone on for ever, but she had perceived that they were attracting attention; she discreetly drew the hood of her pale blue silk domino over her head and hid herself in the recesses of that mysterious garment. As ill luck would have it, the pair pulled up close to the excited Furibon.

”_Ah, mon vieux_,” cried the Frenchman, advancing with extended hands, ”you have rejoiced our eyes. _Ah, gredin_,” whispered Furibon, as he indiscreetly poked his friend in the ribs.

”Ta ta, old man, I must be off,” replied Haggard with a frown, as the shepherdess clung in evident trepidation to his arm. ”For G.o.d's sake, s.h.i.+rtings, take him away, or there'll be a row,” muttered Haggard to his friend below his breath, his white teeth showing beneath his black moustache in a menacing manner.

The crowd of revellers was thick around them. Barb.i.+.c.he was, as we know, a gentleman, but our ideas of courtesy are not a Frenchman's, and, as has been said before, he had ceased to be Mr. Barb.i.+.c.he the _viveur_, for the moment he was Furibon, the daring Furibon of former days.

”_Saperlotte_,” he hissed, and his out-stretched hand touched the pale blue domino on the shoulder.

The domino shrank as to avoid him.

Cras.h.!.+

With one cruel but well-aimed blow Haggard smote the Frenchman in the mouth, and down he went among the feet of the crowd of indignant maskers.

”Look to him, Spunyarn,” cried Haggard, as he hustled his way through the crowd, and in an instant disappeared, bearing in his arms the fainting form of the shepherdess.

_Vae victis_, alas for poor Furibon, where was his boasted skill as a kicker? Why had he not sprung high in air and delivered his unexpected a.s.sault? We must say of the _savate_ respectfully, as our Gallic neighbours said of the Balaclava charge, _c'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre_. Seated on the floor, the unfortunate Frenchman presented a piteous appearance, as he shed mingled tears of pain and rage, tore his hair, and wiped his cut lip. ”_Insolente birbone!_”

”_Bestia!_” ”_Cane!_” Such were the cries of the dancers on seeing the blow struck, but they were levelled not so much at the a.s.sailant as at his victim. In the eyes of the bystanders, Haggard was evidently looked upon as the protector of beauty in distress. But as Valour bore off fainting Beauty, and made his suddenly triumphant exit, everybody's attention was directed to the unhappy Furibon. A gentleman tearing his hair, in the eyes of Italians, is a common, interesting, and dignified object. The cause of this performance is usually romantic, time and place generally appropriate, but Italians do not tear their hair at masked b.a.l.l.s. As everywhere else, a foreigner in distress in Rome is looked upon as a grotesque object, and poor Barb.i.+.c.he was no exception to the rule. At first he sat and wept, now he sat and swore, but all the time he tore hard at his hair. Haggard had disappeared with the celerity of a harlequin who jumps through a trap.

Lord Spunyarn was somewhat bewildered; he, as a boxer, as an amateur though unsuccessful athlete, knew what a good knock-down blow was; he had seen them delivered, with varying degrees of energy, force, and viciousness, but never in all his lords.h.i.+p's experience till now had he seen a master-stroke which combined all the above qualities in the superlative degree. At last he got poor Furibon upon his legs. The Frenchman carefully felt his front teeth, doubtful if they were still there, then he ceased to swear and to mutter in his own tongue; he ceased to be Furibon, he became once more the correct M. Barb.i.+.c.he of the French Emba.s.sy.

”Milor, you have seen the insult. Monsieur Haggard takes advantage of his physique, of his brutal boxing skill, to maim me, perhaps, _Mon Dieu_, for life, and to render me an object of contempt and ridicule to these grimacing apes,” here he glowered at the laughing crowd.

”But, my dear boy, it was your own fault, you know; what did you want to lay hands on the domino for?”

”In that there is nothing, Lord Spunyarn. Black dominoes, pink dominoes, blue dominoes. Bah! they are but public property, milor, but I shall teach this Don Quixote a lesson, this chivalrous protector of dominoes.

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