University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
MONSIEUR PANTOUFLE'S “OLD INSTINCT.”

On the morning after the scenes we have just related,
Doctor Courtlandt was sitting in the breakfast-room before
breakfast, perusing a letter which had just been brought
to him from the post-office, when Monsieur Pantoufle made
his appearance, shaking from his slippers and shoe-buckles,
the snow which those ornamental rather than useful articles
of dress had gathered, in their passage from the
owner's horse to the mansion.

At Monsieur Pantoufle's entrance, Doctor Courtlandt
felt an undefinable sensation, such as men usually experience
when persons come to pay something more than a
mere friendly or formal visit. This may perhaps be explained
on the ground of the Doctor's almost instinctive
comprehension of every thing which in the remotest degree
related to his son. Max had returned on the previous
evening gloomy and silent, and had retired earlier than
was his wont, overcome it seemed by some afflicting emotion.
Doctor Courtlandt had taxed his brain to account
for this gloom of the young man's; had run over in his
mind the events of the day before—Max's visit, his meeting
with Mr. Robert Emberton, for the sleigh ride had
been arranged some days before, and he knew Mr. Emberton
was to be of the party, his delight on setting out in
the morning, his gloom on returning at night. The Doctor
had been completely puzzled; but now a sudden light
seemed to flash upon him; the very moment Monsieur
Pantoufle, after making his customary bow, asked in a
ceremonious tone for Max, he began to understand.

“He has not come down,” said the Doctor, “take a
seat, Monsieur Pantoufle.”

“I thank you, Monsieur,” replied Monsieur Pantoufle,
politely.

“Do you wish especially to see my son, Monsisur Pantoufle?”
asked the Doctor.

“Particularly.”

“Will I not answer your purpose?”

“I have much sorrow in saying no, Monsieur.”

“And why?”

“'Tis a private matter.”

The Doctor rose and approached the music-master.

“I see a note there in your waistcoat pocket, Monsieur
Pantoufle,” he said, “pray is that for Max? I know it is.”

Monsieur Pantoufle looked somewhat confused.

“You say rightly,” he replied.

“What does it mean?”

“I feel not at liberty to indicate, Monsieur Max.”

The Doctor frowned.

“I represent my son, Monsieur Pantoufle,” he said,
“speak!”

“Impossible!” said the music-master, with a deprecating
wave of his hand, “impossible, Monsieur!”

“Monsieur Pantoufle, that is a challenge!” cried the
Doctor, suddenly.

The dancing-master shrugged his shoulders, taking out
the note.

“You have reason, sir,” he said smiling, and handing
it to the Doctor, “since you have guess it, why there
result no harm in giving it to you.”

“A challenge from whom, pray, in God's name!” cried
the Doctor, much moved and grasping the note tightly.

“From young Monsieur Emberton.”

“Robert Emberton!”

“Himself, Monsieur,” said Monsieur Pantoufle, laconically.

The Doctor looked at the music-master angrily.

“And you are his second?”

“I have that honor.”

“Permit me to say, Monsieur Pantoufle,” the Doctor
replied, with a scornful curl of the lip, “that it is no
honor!”

“You speak harsh words, Monsieur Max.”

“Not at all, sir. I have no intention of exposing myself
to a similar compliment from you, Monsieur Pantoufle—you
are so excellent a hand at the short sword.”

But seeing on Monsieur Pantoufle's wan old face a hurt
expression at these sneering words, the Doctor added:

“I do not wish to wound your feelings, sir, but you
must permit me to say, that I think you are too old a
man to lend yourself thus to the silly freaks of a hotheaded
youth. In Heaven's name, why should Mr. Robert
Emberton take it into his head to send a defiance to my
son of all the persons in the world!”

“He says that insult pass.”

“Folly!”

“He must have satisfaction, he says,” continued Monsieur
Pantoufle, shrugging his shoulders.

“Satisfaction!” repeated the Doctor, “it really is astonishing
how hot these foolish heads of young men continue
to be. A defiance, by heaven, to the son of one who will
soon—but that is not your affair, nor Mr. Robert Emberton's.”

“Eh?” said Monsieur Pantoufle, interrogatively.

“Nothing,” said the Doctor, stiffly, “let us come back
to your message. You are Mr. Emberton's second.”

“As I was yours, Monsieur Max,” said Monsieur Pantoufle,
with a sly laugh.

“Do not bring up the follies of my youth as an apology
for those of other persons, Monsieur,” said the Doctor. “If
I was foolish enough to challenge Mr. Lyttelton and his
friend, or his enemy, it is no excuse for you.”

“You hurt me, Monsieur Max,” said the old man, feelingly.

“I have no such intention, my old friend. But this
duel I tell you, Monsieur Pantoufle, can never take place.
You will go back nevertheless, and tell Mr. Emberton
that your message was delivered—the rest is my affair.”

“Willingly, Monsieur Max,” replied the old man, “I
meddle in this affaire against my wishes; but the old
instinct, the old instinct, you know, Monsieur Max!”

And shaking his head, the old man slowly took his departure,
alleging that he had already breakfasted.

The Doctor remained alone looking at the note. Max
entered ten minutes after Monsieur Pantoufle's departure;
his father had already formed his resolution.