“Honour before everything!” answered Pantaleone, and he sank into an arm-chair, without waiting for Sanin to ask him to sit down. “If that _ferroflucto spitchebubbio_,” he said, passing from French into Italian, “if that counter-jumper Klüberio could not appreciate his obvious duty or was afraid, so much the worse for him!… A cheap soul, and that’s all about it!… As for the conditions of the duel, I am your second, and your interests are sacred to me!… When I lived in Padua there was a regiment of the white dragoons stationed there, and I was very intimate with many of the officers!… I was quite familiar with their whole code. And I used often to converse on these subjects with your principe Tarbuski too…. Is this second to come soon?” “I am expecting him every minute—and here he comes,” added Sanin, looking into the street. Pantaleone got up, looked at his watch, straightened his topknot of hair, and hurriedly stuffed into his shoe an end of tape which was sticking out below his trouser-leg, and the young sub-lieutenant came in, as red and embarrassed as ever. Sanin presented the seconds to each other. “M. Richter, sous-lieutenant, M. Cippatola, artiste!” The sub-lieutenant was slightly disconcerted by the old man’s appearance … Oh, what would he have said had any one whispered to him at that instant that the “artist” presented to him was also employed in the culinary art! But Pantaleone assumed an air as though taking part in the preliminaries of duels was for him the most everyday affair: probably he was assisted at this juncture by the recollections of his theatrical career, and he played the part of second simply as a part. Both he and the sub-lieutenant were silent for a little. “Well? Let us come to business!” Pantaleone spoke first, playing with his cornelian seal. “By all means,” responded the sub-lieutenant, “but … the presence of one of the principals …” “I will leave you at once, gentlemen,” cried Sanin, and with a bow he went away into the bedroom and closed the door after him.