The relations between these four people had now been strained to the breaking-point. That month of debauch had exacted a stern tribute from them. Their exhausted bodies and frayed nerves cried out for rest, a period of curative repose when the well of their drained energy could be filled up again. But like creatures hopelessly addicted to a drug, they could not break the bonds of this tyranny of pleasure which held them. Starwick seemed to be completely enslaved by this senseless and furious quest, this frantic seeking after new sensations, this hopeless pursuit of a happiness, a fulfilment, that they never found. He seemed unable or unwilling to break the evil spell. Rather, as if a poisonous hunger was feeding on his vitals — a hunger that grew constantly from the food it fed upon, and that could not be assuaged by any means — the evil inertia of his will, the ugly impassivity of his resignation became every day more marked.
Of all of them, he alone preserved the appearance of calm. And that cold, impassive calm was maddening: he met the storms of anger, protests, reproaches, and persuasions of the others with an air of sad humility, a kind of sorrowful acceptance, a quiet agreement to every accusation or indictment, a grand manner of sweet, sorrowful contrition that was more hateful than any deliberate insult could have been. For behind this impenetrable armour of humility, this air of mysterious fatality, there was evident a hateful arrogance which said that words were useless because no words could express the fatal wisdom of his soul, and which, with a stubborn and abominable perversity, seemed deliberately resolved on ruin.
His conduct became daily more absurd, extravagant, ridiculous. He was acting like a melodramatic fool, but it was impossible to laugh at his folly because of the desperate fatality that attended it. He did unbelievable things, contrived unbelievable situations that seemed fitting only in a world of opera but were shamefully unreal and unnecessary in the real one. What was really shameful and unworthy in his conduct was this — his fatality served no purpose, his reckless and deliberate pursuit of danger did no good except to dignify the melodramatic unreality of a comic opera situation with the realities of blood and death.
He was constantly and deliberately involving himself and others in these ridiculous but perilous situations. One night, in one of the Montmartre resorts, he had a quarrel with a man that would have been farcical save for the ugly consequences it produced, the painful and shameful memory it would later evoke. The man, an unpleasant, wizened-looking little Frenchman, a creature of the night, with obscene eyes, a yellowed skin, and a pointed beard half covering the features of a rodent, had not been able to keep his ugly eyes off Ann, had measured the noble proportions of her beauty with a kind of foul leering appraisal that had in it something almost as palpable and sensual as a naked touch, and now, as the orchestra struck up another tune, he approached the table, bowed, and asked her, courteously enough, for a dance.
Ann reddened furiously in the face, looked down sullenly at the tablecloth and, before she was able to think of a reply, Starwick said:
“Mademoiselle does not care to dance. Please go away.”
The cold arrogance of Starwick’s tone, and his curt dismissal, enraged the Frenchman. When he replied, his lips were bared in an ugly smile that showed unpleasant fangs of yellowed teeth; he said:
“Is the lady not allowed to speak for herself? Is Monsieur perhaps her guardian?”
“Will you please go away now?” Starwick said again, with a cold and weary impassivity. “You are boring us.”
“But, it’s marvellous!” The little Frenchman cast back his yellowed face and bared his fangs in a laugh of envenomed mockery. “It’s Monsieur D’Artagnan come to life again, and a lady so shy and modest that she can’t speak for herself! But, it’s superb!” he cried again, and with an ironic bow, concluded: “Monsieur, with all my heart I thank you for this wonderful diversion! You are very droll!”
Starwick’s reply to this was to pick up the seltzer bottle on the table and, without for a moment altering his air of cold impassivity, to squirt the siphon straight in the little Frenchman’s yellow face.
In a moment, the place was a seething maelstrom of excitement. People all over sprang up from their tables, the dancers stopped dancing, the orchestra stopped with a crash, and the proprietor and the waiter came towards them on the run.
They were at once surrounded by an excited group of gesticulating, chattering people, all trying to talk at once. Starwick was standing up now, facing his antagonist, cold and impassive save for a deeper flush of excitement on his ruddy face. As for the little Frenchman, the look of murderous hatred on his face was horrible. Without stopping to dry his dripping face with the napkin which an excited and persuasive waiter was offering him, he thrust aside the manager, who was trying to restrain him, and coming close to Starwick, snarled:
“Your name, monsieur? I demand to know your name. My representatives will call upon you in the morning.”
“Good,” said Starwick coldly. “I shall wait for them. Monsieur shall have whatever satisfaction he desires.”
And taking a card from his purse, he wrote the studio address below his name and gave it to the man.
“Ah, good!” the Frenchman cried harshly, glancing at it. “Until tomorrow!”
And calling for his bill, and silent to all the apologies and cajoleries of the proprietor, he departed.
“But Frank, darling!” Elinor cried, when they had seated themselves again. “What do you intend to do? Surely you’re not going to —” She did sot finish, but stared at him with a troubled and astonished face.
“Yes,” said Starwick coldly and quietly. “He has asked me to fight a duel, and if he wants it, I shall meet him.”
“Oh, but don’t be absurd!” cried Elinor with an impatient laugh. “What on earth do you know about fighting duels? My poo............