And he laughed and hummed as she used to: “O my lieutenant! Dance with me, little dove!” “But I must act, though, I mustn’t waste time,” he cried aloud—jumped up and saw Pantaleone facing him with a note in his hand. “I knocked several times, but you did not answer; I thought you weren’t at home,” said the old man, as he gave him the note. “From Signorina Gemma.” Sanin took the note, mechanically, as they say, tore it open, and read it. Gemma wrote to him that she was very anxious—about he knew what—and would be very glad to see him at once. “The Signorina is anxious,” began Pantaleone, who obviously knew what was in the note, “she told me to see what you are doing and to bring you to her.” Sanin glanced at the old Italian, and pondered. A sudden idea flashed upon his brain. For the first instant it struck him as too absurd to be possible. “After all … why not?” he asked himself. “M. Pantaleone!” he said aloud. The old man started, tucked his chin into his cravat and stared at Sanin. “Do you know,” pursued Sanin, “what happened yesterday?” Pantaleone chewed his lips and shook his immense top-knot of hair. “Yes.” (Emil had told him all about it directly he got home.) “Oh, you know! Well, an officer has just this minute left me. That scoundrel challenges me to a duel. I have accepted his challenge. But I have no second. Will _you_ be my second?” Pantaleone started and raised his eyebrows so high that they were lost under his overhanging hair. “You are absolutely obliged to fight?” he said at last in Italian; till that instant he had made use of French. “Absolutely. I can’t do otherwise—it would mean disgracing myself for ever.” “H’m. If I don’t consent to be your second you will find some one else.” “Yes … undoubtedly.” Pantaleone looked down. “But allow me to ask you, Signor de Tsanin, will not your duel throw a slur on the reputation of a certain lady?” “I don’t suppose so; but in any case, there’s no help for it.” “H’m!” Pantaleone retired altogether into his cravat. “Hey, but that _ferroflucto Klüberio_—what’s he about?” he cried all of a sudden, looking up again. “He? Nothing.” “_Che_!” Pantaleone shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “I have, in any case, to thank you,” he articulated at last in an unsteady voice “that even in my present humble condition you recognise that I am a gentleman—_un galant’uomo_! In that way you have shown yourself to be a real _galant’uomo_. But I must consider your proposal.” “There’s no time to lose, dear Signor Ci … cippa …” “Tola,” the old man chimed in. “I ask only for one hour for reflection…. The daughter of my benefactor is involved in this…. And, therefore, I ought, I am bound, to reflect!… In an hour, in three-quarters of an hour, you shall know my decision.” “Very well; I will wait.” “And now … what answer am I to give to Signorina Gemma?”