Norman Leslie a tale of the present times |
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| 6. | CHAPTER VI. |
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 | CHAPTER VI. Norman Leslie |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
A ludicrous Incident, which, as ludicrous incidents often do,
grows more serious towards the close.
“He is a devil in a private brawl: souls and bodies hath he
divorced three.”
—Twelfth Night.
When Leslie reached the B. Hotel, which was
about one minute's walk from Mrs. Temple's, he
was ushered by a man in waiting to “No. 39, up
stairs;” where he found Morton, with his hands
thrust into his pantaloons pocket, pacing, with long
strides, to and fro across the floor, half beside himself
with passion.
“Thank you, thank you, Leslie,” he cried, grasping
his hand with strong emotion—“thank you, my
dear fellow. I declare! you are a brave man and
a true friend.”
“You have not called me, I trust, to the B. Hotel,
room No. 39, up stairs,' merely to tell me that?”
said Leslie, smiling.
“No, my dear boy; that puppy—that coward—
hat insolent—impudent—impertinent—”
Tears of rage spoke what simple adjectives could
not express.
“Who?”
“Why, that d—d French count.”
“What, Clairmont?”
“You know the scoundrel makes love to all the
women in town, without reference to age, size, or
situation. For the last week he has taken my
sister—”
“Well.”
“She is already crazy about him, and puts on
airs as if she were a countess. We did think he
was going to marry her quite, but—(by heavens!
if I had him here—)”
“Well, well, my good fellow, go on.”
“This night his lordship (I'll lordship him!) has
paid such marked attention to Flora Temple, that,
as a brother, I was compelled to resent it.” He
raised his chin a little in the air, and, lowering his
voice, added, “Besides other very particular reasons
concerning Flora herself.”
“Other reasons! why, what is Miss Temple to
you?”
“That,” very emphatic, “you will know presently.”
“And how did you resent it?”
“In the first place,” said Morton, “I gave him
a look—you should have seen me—such a look!
Even that alone, if he has the soul of a hare, he
must notice. Besides—”
“But he has not the soul of a hare. He is a
very brave man. He is a lion. He is a perfect
devil,” said Norman.
“I'll have satisfaction, notwithstanding,” cried
Morton.
“Satisfaction!” echoed Leslie; “I do not know
what you call satisfaction; but are you aware that
he is a dead shot?”
“You don't say so!” said Morton, turning slightly
pale, and his boisterous fury undergoing a sensible
abatement.
“He can snuff a candle ten times in succession,”
said Norman, dryly.
“You don't say so!”
“He can shoot a bullet out of one pistol into the
muzzle of another.”
“Good God! Now, Leslie, you are joking; you
are, I declare.”
“Not joking in the least,” replied Norman; “did
you never hear of the French general whom he
killed one morning before breakfast, for looking
under the veil of a Veronese lady he was in love
with?”
“Never, as I am alive, I do declare.”
“But you are not alive—you are a dead man—
you might as well leap into the crater of a volcano
as go a step farther in this business. Then there's
the duel at the South—have you forgotten that?”
“He shot his man there, too, didn't he?”
“Directly through the heart,” said Norman. “I
trust in heaven, Morton, you have not done any
thing worse than look at him.”
“Yes, but I have, though,” answered Morton,
now actually frightened at the recollection of his
own audacity; “I brushed against him particularly
as I came out, in the presence of Flora.”
“You are a dead man,” said Norman.
“Well, now, I declare, that is exceedingly disagreeable.”
“You will receive a challenge before morning.”
“And here it comes,” cried the astounded young
man, again turning pale as a servant entered and
handed him a note.
“Take it, Leslie.”
“What!” exclaimed Leslie; “he is elegant in
Frederick Morton—B Hotel, room No. 39.' Why,
this is a female hand; and, if I could credit my own
eyes I should pronounce it—”
“It is no challenge,” said the relieved lover,
blushing and brightening up. “Give it me. A
challenge, indeed! I should like to catch him at it.
I knew it was not. It is from Flora.”
“Flora, again! Flora Temple—and to you!”
“Why, certainly, Mr. Norman Leslie. Is there
any thing so very extraordinary in that? We men,
you know! Hey, my boy? Now mum, and you
shall hear. There is more in this world than is
dreamed of in your philosophy.”
“There is, indeed,” said Norman, lifting his eyes
in astonishment.
“Be mute, then,” rejoined Morton, “and be instructed.”
“Is it possible!” thought Norman, musing, while
Morton threw his eyes over the letter. “What,
Flora—Flora Temple! the high, the accomplished,
the gifted! Who shall read woman!”
“Fire and thunder!” cried Morton. “Death and
fury! Leslie, a flirt, by heavens! You yourself
saw—” and the agitated and enraged youth crushed
the letter in his hand, stamped his foot, and leaned
his forehead upon his clinched fist.
“What is it, Morton? what is it, my good fellow?”
asked Norman, really pitying his dilemma,.
but with the greatest difficulty repressing a smile;
for, however severe the pang inflicted, a rejected
lover has but a slender chance of sympathy.
“Leslie,” said Morton, apparently swallowing,
or rather gulping down his disappointment, with a
ludicrous effort, and one or two bitter contortions
of countenance—“Leslie, my dear fellow, it is a—
that is—in short—it is nothing—a mere joke;” he
he set his teeth, “I know it all comes from that
d—d French count—”
“Don't swear,” said a third voice.
“Halloo! who the devil's that?” cried Morton.
“The d—d French count, at your service, Mr.
Frederick Morton,” said Clairmont, who had entered
unperceived, and now stood, his arms folded,
a cool sneer on his lip, and his eyes sternly fixed
upon Morton.
“Well, sir,” demanded Morton, starting up, and
assuming a blustering air and attitude, “by what
authority, sir, do you intrude yourself into my
room, sir?—this is my room, sir, while I am in it.
I command you to leave it, sir—this instant, sir!”
He made a motion of his head to Norman, as if calling
upon his attestation to a courage, which, in
fact, seemed not a little to surprise himself.
“I will leave the room, Master Morton,” replied
the count, coldly, “when I have accomplished the
purpose which brought me into it.” At the same
moment he discovered a riding-whip, which he
held in his hand. “You owe your life to Miss
Temple.”
“Leave the room, sir!”
“She observed your rudeness to me as you
came out, and laid me under an obligation not to
pursue it, as I should deem myself bound to do
were you a gentleman.”
“Leave the room, I tell you!” roared Morton,
stamping his foot furiously.
“I do not, however, pass your insult altogether
without notice. You are an impertinent rascal—”
“Leave the room, sir! or I will call the watch.”
“You are an insignificant scoundrel and coward—”
“If you don't leave the room this very instant,
placing himself, with many pugilistic flourishes, in
an attitude sometimes of attack and sometimes of
defence.
“And I shall inflict upon you,” continued Clairmont,
with the most perfect composure, “the chastisement
which your vulgarity deserves.” He raised
his whip, and followed the retreating Morton to the
farthest corner of the room.
“Ask my pardon instantly, sir, or I flog you like
a dog.”
“I shall not ask your pardon, sir,” bawled Morton,
in a tone between the threat of a bully and the
whine of a whipped schoolboy. “If you touch
me, sir, I'll have the satisfaction of a gentleman.
I shall ask nobody's pardon. D—n, sir! Leave the
room—don't strike me, sir—don't strike—Leslie,
take off this bloodhound—waiter!—waiter!—here
—watch!—watch!—Leslie, for God's sake!—you
are a d—d scoundrel, sir!”
“If Mr. Leslie interferes,” said the count, calmly
proceeding in his design, and raising the whip,
“Mr. Leslie will share your fate.”
“Count Clairmont,” said Leslie, who had already
walked to his side, and in a voice so deep that the
count turned and remained motionless to hear his
words. “Count Clairmont, however reluctant I
may be to interfere in the quarrel of another, I shall
not be backward in assuming my own. Your remark
is a personal insult. I have already remained
too long inactive by the side of my friend.
Permit me to inform you that this apartment is
private.”
“Mr. Leslie,” replied the count, “your sneers
and your threats are equally below my regard.
This person I shall punish by the whip. Your
claims upon my attention, sir, will be answered in
to have a lady for a protector.” Again he turned
to Morton, and raised the whip.
“Count Clairmont,” cried Leslie, “if you indeed
be a count, hear me. I think you a scoundrel.”
A blow of the whip was the only reply, and in
an instant the young nobleman lay at his length
upon the floor.
“Norman Leslie,” cried he, rising, his face white
as death, yet speaking with a low and altered voice,
and regarding him with the fiendish fixedness of a
serpent about to dart his death-fang—“Norman
Leslie, you have disgraced me, and I will have
your heart's blood!”
“As you please, sir,” replied Norman, sternly;
“but now begone!” and, flashing back glance for
glance, he stepped two strides towards his foe.
The discomfited noble paused a moment upon
the threshold, and looked once more into Leslie's
face, with a gaze which, in spite of himself, chilled
even the boiling blood in the youth's veins. It was
the black scowl of a demon. His features then
relaxed slowly into a sBODl smile—if possible, yet
more malignant and inhuman.
“Remember, Norman Leslie,” he said, “I will
have your heart's blood!” I am a Catholic. Here
is a cross. Look—I swear it!”
He pressed the jewelled relic convulsively to his
lips, and disappeared.
| CHAPTER VI. Norman Leslie | |