CHAPTER II.

THE FENCING SCHOOL.

Among other things in Boston at that period there was a fencing school and pistol gallery, kept by an old soldier of the First Empire, Monsieur Hypolite Bagasse. The way to it was up a long, narrow boarded alley which led out of Washington street, ran straight for about twenty steps, and then with the natural disposition of every street, avenue, alley, lane or court in Boston, made an effort to achieve the line of beauty and of grace by slanting off to the left, in which bent it was followed by the blind, brick walls, covered in one spot with a patch of theatre posters on the left hand side of it, and by a large dingy old brick building, preternaturally full of windows, on the right hand side of it. In this building was the fencing school.

A large, long, dim, unfinished interior, lighted on one side only by a row of windows looking on the alley, clap-boarded all around on the other sides, and with rafters overhead. Cool and dry, with a faint acrid smell of powder-smoke pervading its musty atmosphere. One section of the oblong space, to the left of the door, unwindowed, and lying in complete shadow. Three or four square wooden posts, down the long centre, supporting the raftered ceiling. On the left hand, under the windows, the pistol gallery—a fenced lane, with a target at one end, and a bench, with arms and ammunition on it, at the other. Near this a wooden settee with a tin can of cheap claret wine upon it. Opposite, hanging on the boarded wall in the rear of the pistol bench, and in the range of two or three of the windows, rows of foils and yellow buckskin fencing-gloves, black wire masks for the face, leathern plastrons for the breast, and a few single-sticks and blunt broadswords. No other furniture, save three or four old chairs, scattered here and there about the room.

It was about half-past seven o’clock in the morning of the twenty-fifth of May, and Monsieur Bagasse was waiting for pupils to arrive. John Todd, a young fellow about fifteen or sixteen years of age, was at the bench, absorbed in cleaning pistols. Monsieur Bagasse himself, slowly shuffling up and down in front of the fencing implements, with a halt in his step, occasioned by one leg being shorter than the other, was absently smoking a short pipe, which he held to his mouth by the base of the bowl. He was a figure fit for the pencil of Callot or Gavarni. Sixty years old, but not looking more than a weather-beaten forty; of middling stature, brawny, round-shouldered, slightly bow-legged, with large splay feet, cased in shambling shoes, with an old cap on the back of his head, and his coarse, black hair, dashed with grey, showing under the crescent-shaped visor above his low, broad, corrugated forehead; with a dilapidated, old-fashioned stock around his neck, a slate-colored worsted jacket buttoned with horn buttons up to his throat, the sleeves of a red flannel shirt showing at his wrists, and coarse, dark, baggy trowsers on his lower limbs. His visage swarthy, ferruginous, picturesquely ugly, but suave and kindly, with a constant expression of curious interrogation upon it—an expression to which the ever upturned jaw contributed—to which the mouth, shaded by a rusty black moustache, and always inquiringly open, contributed—to which the eyes, one bleared and the other bright as a darkly-glowing coal, and both surmounted by shaggy eyebrows, contributed—and which had its contribution from the horn-rimmed goggles worn half way down on the bold aquiline nose, above which the eyes looked from the upturned face as though they were sighting at a mark along a cannon. Wrinkles, of course—wrinkles, and seams and crowsfeet in profusion; two noticeable fissures sloping deeply down the cheeks from the big nostrils; and on the right cheek a dim red scar—the record of a Frenchman’s last service to his Emperor at Waterloo. Add to all a general association of tobacco, snuff, and garlic, and you have the idea of Monsieur Bagasse.

A step on the stairs announcing the approach of a visitor, Monsieur Bagasse halted, took his pipe from his mouth, and stood in a habitual attitude, his arms hung stiffly, his palms turned outward, his big feet also turned outward and visible from heel to toe, and his face sighting with curious inquiry at the door. The door opening presently, in came a young man of seven or eight and twenty, rather boyish-looking for his years, modishly, though tastefully, attired, whose name was Fernando Witherlee.

“Good morning, Monsieur Bagasse. How de do,” he said, touching his moleskin hat with a kid-gloved finger, as, smiling constrainedly, and cringing into a super-elegant bow, he came forward. “Whew! how you smell of powder in here.”

“Ah! good morning, good morning, Miss’r Witterlee,” rejoined the old Frenchman, politely, with a quick salute of the hand.

Privately, Monsieur Bagasse had a supreme contempt for his visitor. Nobody could have guessed it, however, who saw the bland suavity on his grotesque visage, as he curiously scanned the face before him. A plump, smooth, colorless, bilious face, handsome in its general effect, subtle, morbid, fastidious, supercilious, reticent; but with all its traits masked in a cool assumption of impassibility. With thick, brown hair gracefully arranged; handsome, expressive brown eyebrows; brown eyes, with a restless glitter on them when they were in motion, and a perfect opaqueness in them when they were still; lips which were rigid in their contour, usually slightly parted, and which moved but little in their speech. Primarily, the face of an epicurean and a dilettante; a face, too, that bespoke cynicism, conceit, arrogance, and indescribable capacity of aggravation and insult. Such was the face which Monsieur Bagasse smilingly and suavely interrogated.

“Where are our friends this fine morning?” Witherlee asked, carelessly, with an affected elegance of utterance, which was a cross between mincing and drawling. “Not arrived yet? The lazy fellows! Perfect sloths, both of them.”

“Lazee? Oh no! It is vair early yet,” returned Monsieur Bagasse. “Miss’r Harrin’ton an’ Miss’r Wentwort’ are not lazee yet, Miss’r Witterly.”

“Oh, they’re up early enough, I know,” replied the other, “for I met them an hour ago, idling along Temple street with some ladies.”

“Maybe zose ladee was zere sweetheart. Ah, Miss’r Witterly, pardon me, it is not lazee for ze young men to promenade wis zere sweetheart—_sacre bleu_, no!”

Witherlee laughed—a chuckling laugh, as though his throat was full of turtle.

“I was struck with the contrast,” he remarked. “Wentworth was dressed in his dandy artist rig—spruce as Beau Brummel, and Harrington wore those superannuated old clothes, looking for all the world as if he had just been let out of the watchhouse. Splendid girls they were with too. Wentworth beside one of them was like a bizarre creature, of some sort or other, walking with a princess, and Harrington like a strapping young rag-picker along side of a queen.”

“Ah, zey is vair fine young zhentilmen,” tranquilly replied Monsieur Bagasse. “Vair fine.”

Witherlee made no reply, but slightly elevated his handsome eyebrows in expressive disparagement.

“You know zose ladee, Miss’r Witterly?” inquired the old Frenchman.

“Oh yes, very well. I walked along with them this morning. One is a Miss Eastman—she lives in Temple street with her mother. Quite rich. The other is a Miss Ames, who is visiting the Eastmans. Her family are all rich. They live at Cambridge.”

“Vair fine ladee? Wis beautee—wis dollair, eh?”

“Oh yes, indeed. Very much sought after too, both of them. With crowds of admirers, I assure you.”

“Ah, Miss’r Witterly, I am so glad for zat. It please me vair mush that Miss’r Harrington and Miss’r Wentwort’ sall marry zose vair fine ladee.”

“Hoity, toity, my dear Monsieur Bagasse, what in the world are you thinking of? Your pupils are not so lucky as that yet. Wentworth might have a chance, for his father’s rich, and in good standing, though I judge from the way things go on lately that Miss Ames cares precious little for him. But Harrington—why he’s as poor as a church mouse, and doesn’t move in good society at all. How Miss Eastman tolerates his visits, _I_ can’t imagine. I suppose it’s her kindness though. Seems to me Harrington must have a great deal of assurance to visit her at all. As for marrying her, why it’s perfectly absurd! She’d as soon marry a man out of the poor-house. Good gracious! look at the old coat the fellow wears! Why the lady belongs to our first society—a su-pairb person—perfectly dis-t-a-nguay.”

Monsieur Bagasse grinned broadly, possibly with rage, possibly at the affected drawl with which Witherlee had pronounced the French word _distingué_, and then growing grotesquely serious, burst forth in orotund, hoarse, fluent tones, very politely, but with great earnestness.

“Pardon me, Miss’r Witterly,” he said, “but why is zat so odd zat ze vair fine _distingué_ ladee sall lof Miss’r Harrin’ton? Ah, Miss’r Witterly, you make one vair big mistake. You zink ze pretty girl all so fond of ze dollair—ze rank—ze grand posetion, eh? Bah—no! I tell you, no. Ze duch-ess—ze count-ess—ze great vair fine ladee—zey lof so offen ze wit, ze brave heart, ze gallantree, ze goodness wis ze old coat over him. _Ouf!_ Look now. Attend. Was I great vair fine ladee, what sall I do wis myself? I tell you. I see Miss’r Harrington lof me, I make vair sure. Zen I say—here, you brave, good man, so kind, so handsome, so gallant, so like ze superb chevalier of ze old time—look—I lof you! I lof you wis you old coat! I lof you old coat, too, for it covair you so long. Come—I marry you—you take my fine house—my dollair—you take me—all, for evair and evair. _Sacrebleu_, Miss’r Witterly, zat is what I say to Miss’r Harrin’ton was I vair fine ladee.”

To this outburst, which was delivered with great vivacity and many shrugs, grimaces, and odd gesticulations, Witherlee listened with opaque eyes and parted lips, and an expression of perfect immobility on his colorless, plump, morbid countenance. At the end, he lifted his expressive eyebrows, slightly curled a contumelious nose, and curved a supercilious lip, with an insolence at once so delicate and so intense, that Monsieur Bagasse, with the most suave smile again on his uncouth visage, felt a strong desire to deal him a thumping French kick under the chin.

“I have no doubt, my dear Monsieur Bagasse,” was the rejoinder after a pause, “that you would do as you say if you were the lady in question. But you’re not, you know, which makes the difference. However, I won’t discuss the point with you. Harrington is not quite so great a fool, I hope, as to expect any such good fortune. As for Wentworth, if you could have seen his face this morning when Emily—that is Miss Ames—gave Harrington a bunch of violets, you would have thought that his hopes, like his prospects, were rather down.”

“Eh, what was zat?” inquired the old Frenchman, curiously.

“Why you see,” replied Witherlee, with a spirting chuckle at the remembrance, “after the walk we were in the parlor, and Miss Ames went into the conservatory and came back with a little bunch of violets. She was at a table in the further end of the room, dividing the violets into two nosegays, and, just for a joke, I went over to her and whispered that Wentworth would be delighted to receive a true-love posy from her. I don’t know what made her color, but she did, and instantly tied up all the flowers in one nosegay, with a piqued air, and went over to the two fellows. You should have seen Wentworth’s mortified air when she sailed past him, and gave them to Harrington. He walked across the room, trying to look indifferent, but it was no go. Miss Eastman went out and came back with another bunch of violets which she gave him with her most gracious manner, but I guess she couldn’t console him for that rebuff. He made his adieux to Miss Ames stiffly enough, though he was extra cordial to Miss Eastman, at which Miss Ames looked colder than ever. Altogether, for a little matter, it played the deuce with Wentworth everyway.”

“Pardon me, Miss’r Witterly—ex-cuse me, sir, please,” interposed Monsieur Bagasse, with immense civility of manner, and deprecating grimaces: “Zat was not well—_sacrebleu_, no. You make zat mischeef—ex-cuse me—you vex zat ladee and you wound Miss’r Wentwort’ wis you littel gay talk. Ah, you was not right—no indeed. You make maybe littel miff wis zose young peeples—it grow, grow, grow evair so big maybe, and zey nevair, nevair, come back togezzer. You duty sall be to make ze amende honorable—ex-plain—yes indeed, Miss’r Witterly. You tell Miss’r Wentwort’ what you say—zen he know, zen it is again right.”

“Not at all,” replied the mischief-maker. “I don’t think so. I only made a playful remark. If Miss Ames chose to act as she did, that is not my affair. I said all I could to console Wentworth. I told him I was truly sorry that Miss Ames had treated him so rudely—very sorry indeed.”

“_Mille tonnerre!_” exclaimed the Frenchman, grinning and grimacing desperately: “you say zat to Miss’r Wentwort’!”

“Of course I said it,” coolly replied Witherlee. “What less could I say? It didn’t console him much, though. He tried to look indifferent, thanked me coolly enough, and remarked that it was of no consequence.”

Monsieur Bagasse gave a sort of snort, still grinning and grimacing. The whole proceeding was quite in Fernando Witherlee’s style. A piece of boyish malice, perpetrated with mischievously subtle talent—with an expressiveness of manner which had injected the words and action with a wicked meaning not purely their own; afterwards foolishly tattled of, and defended with pig-headed perversity.

“I am very sorry the thing happened,” resumed Witherlee, in a cool, sympathizing, soliloquizing tone, looking, meanwhile, at the wall with his opaquest gaze. “And I’m still more sorry to notice that Wentworth and Miss Ames are not so intimate as they were a short time ago. It really seems as if they were becoming estranged. It’s odd to see how attentive Wentworth is lately to Miss Eastman, though I’m sure he only cares for her as a friend. Then Miss Ames, on the other hand, is very agreeable to Harrington, which galls Wentworth, I know. ’Pon my word, I believe he is getting jealous of Harrington, and I shouldn’t wonder if those two fellows had a falling out presently. It’s dreadfully absurd of Wentworth, for I’m sure that if Harrington cares for either of them, it’s Miss Eastman.”

The case was pretty much as Witherlee had stated it, but the explanation was, that he had been lifting his eyebrows and modulating his tones and dropping his intangible innuendoes to Miss Ames with regard to Wentworth, and the result was, that she had become filled with indeterminate suspicion and distrust of her lover, and had almost alienated him from her by her manner toward him.

“Miss’r Witterly, you are ze friend of zose young men,” placidly observed Monsieur Bagasse. “See, now, suppose you tell Miss’r Wentwort’ zat he sall not be jalous of Miss’r Harrin’ton—zat Miss’r Harrin’ton haf not lof Mees Ame nevair. Zen you make zem fine young zhentilmen still good friend of ze ozzer. You say zat now to Miss’r Wentwort’.”

“Dear me, no; that wouldn’t do at all,” was the reply. “It’s not my business, you know, and I might only make trouble. Better let them alone. It’ll all come right, I guess. Wentworth’s in no danger from our negro-worshipping friend, and I guess the best policy in this case, like the national policy in regard to Kossuth, will be non-intervention.”

“Neeger-worship friend? Who is zat you mean?” inquired Monsieur Bagasse, with grotesque perplexity.

Witherlee laughed his turtle-husky chuckle.

“I was only joking,” he returned; “I meant Harrington. You know he’s a furious Abolitionist.”

“Ah, Miss’r Witterly,” said the old Frenchman, with a deprecating shrug and grimace, “zat is not good fon. Miss’r Harrin’ton is vair fine young zhentilman. If he worsheep ze neeger, _pardieu_, Hypolite Bagasse worsheep ze neeger wis him. Zat is only what you call ze attachment zoo libertee. Ah, Miss’r Witterly, zat Miss’r Harrington, so kind, so strong, so good, he is friend of ze neeger, of ze Iris’man, of ze Frenchman, of ze poor fellow, of ze littel child, of ze small fly on ze window, of ze vair old devail himself, of evairybody. See, now. Attend. I was seek—vair seek wis fever in ze winter. Nobody come to me—of my pupeel not one. Zat Miss’r Harrin’ton he come. He find John Todd, and inquire where I live, and he come. He breeng ze doctor—he breeng Miss’r Wentwort’, he breeng ze littel jellee, ze grape, all zem littel ting zat he say ze vair fine ladee give him for ze poor old vair seek Bagasse. _Sacrebleu_, he nurse me; he sit up wis me in ze night when my wife tire herself out wis me, and go sleep; he get me well, and zen he go zoo ze pupeel and make ze subscripsheon for zere old fencing-mastair. Feefty dollair—dam! it is sub-lime! Ze wolf he cut off from ze door of Bagasse so queek as his dam leg will trot! Zen Miss’r Harrin’ton he advise Madame Bagasse zoo keep ze boarding-house. Ah! it is grand. She accept—ze boardair come—ze French, ze Italian, ze German man zey board wis me. Hah! zat Miss’r Harrin’ton he set me up on my leg, wis my heart big wis gratitude. You make mock of zat old coat, Miss’r Witterly. Bah! He wear zat old coat zat so many poor devail sall wear any coat at all. _Sacrebleu!_ was I ze great Nap-oleon, I sall put ze grand cross of ze Legion—ze Legion d’Honneur—on ze breast of zat old coat for evair.”

There was such emotion in the deep, hoarse rolling tones—such a dark glow on the grotesque, brown, wrinkled visage—such fire in the one eye under its shaggy eyebrow—such martial energy in the uncouth, shabby figure, that Witherlee felt the danger of pursuing any further his detraction of Harrington. At the same time, he felt an envious itching to continue it. To hear anybody or anything praised, and not be roused to oppositiveness, was not in the organization of Fernando Witherlee. A peculiarly aggravating rejoinder was in his mind, and the temptation to utter it was prodigious. While he hesitated between the temptation and the imminent prospect of having a quarrel on his hands with Monsieur Bagasse, steps and loud talking on the stairs, announcing the approach of pupils, at once decided and relieved him, and he sauntered away to a chair, sinking into which and tilting it back against the wall, he proceeded to select, light and smoke a cigar.