during the rush hour. He had long worshipped her from afar, but nothing
more intimate than a 'Good morning, Miss Jeanne', had escaped him,
till one day during a slack spell he came upon her in the little
passage leading to the kitchen, her face hidden in her apron, her back
jerking with sobs.
Business is business. Paul had a message to deliver to the cook
respecting 'two fried, coffee, and one stale'. He delivered it and
returned. Jeanne was still sobbing.
'Ah, Miss Jeanne,' cried Paul, stricken, 'what is the matter? What is
it? Why do you weep?'
'The _patron_,' sobbed Jeanne. 'He - '
'My angel,' said Paul, 'he is a pig.'
This was perfectly true. No conscientious judge of character could have
denied that Paul had hit the bull's eye. Bredin was a pig. He looked
like a pig; he ate like a pig; he grunted like a pig. He had the lavish
embonpoint of a pig. Also a porcine soul. If you had tied a bit of blue
ribbon round his neck you could have won prizes with him at a show.
Paul's eyes flashed with fury. 'I will slap him in the eye,' he roared.
'He called me a tortoise.'
'And kick him in the stomach,' added Paul.
Jeanne's sobs were running on second speed now. The anguish was
diminishing. Paul took advantage of the improved conditions to slide an
arm part of the way round her waist. In two minutes he had said as much
as the ordinary man could have worked off in ten. All good stuff, too.
No padding.
Jeanne's face rose from her apron like a full moon. She was too
astounded to be angry.
Paul continued to babble. Jeanne looked at him with growing wrath. That
she, who received daily the affectionate badinage of gentlemen in
bowler hats and check suits, who had once been invited to the White
City by a solicitor's clerk, should be addressed in this way by a
waiter! It was too much. She threw off his hand.
'Wretched little man!' she cried, stamping angrily.
'My angel!' protested Paul.
Jeanne uttered a scornful laugh.
'You!' she said.
There are few more withering remarks than 'You!' spoken in a certain
way. Jeanne spoke it in just that way.
Paul wilted.
'On eighteen shillings a week,' went on Jeanne, satirically, 'you would
support a wife, yes? Why - '
Paul recovered himself. He had an opening now, and proceeded to use it.
'Listen,' he said. 'At present, yes, it is true, I earn but eighteen
shillings a week, but it will not always be so, no. I am not only a
waiter. I am also an artist. I have painted a great picture. For a
whole year I have worked, and now it is ready. I will sell it, and
then, my angel - ?'
Jeanne's face had lost some of its scorn. She was listening with some
respect. 'A picture?' she said, thoughtfully. 'There is money in
pictures.'
For the first time Paul was glad that his arm was no longer round her
waist. To do justice to the great work he needed both hands for
purposes of gesticulation.
'There is money in this picture,' he said. 'Oh, it is beautiful. I call
it "The Awakening". It is a woodland scene. I come back from my work
here, hot and tired, and a mere glance at that wood refreshes me. It is
so cool, so green. The sun filters in golden splashes through the
foliage. On a mossy bank, between two trees, lies a beautiful girl
asleep. Above her, bending fondly over her, just about to kiss that
flower-like face, is a young man in the dress of a shepherd. At the
last moment he has looked over his shoulder to make sure that there is
nobody near to see. He is wearing an expression so happy, so proud,
that one's heart goes out to him.'
'Yes, there might be money in that,' cried Jeanne.
'There is, there is!' cried Paul. 'I shall sell it for many francs to a
wealthy connoisseur. And then, my angel - '
'You are a good little man,' said the angel, patronizingly. 'Perhaps.
We will see.'
Paul caught her hand and kissed it. She smiled indulgently. 'Yes,' she
said. 'There might be money. These English pay much money for pictures.'
* * * * *
It is pretty generally admitted that Geoffrey Chaucer, the eminent poet
of the fourteenth century, though obsessed with an almost Rooseveltian
passion for the new spelling, was there with the goods when it came to
profundity of thought. It was Chaucer who wrote the lines:
The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne,
Th' assay so hard, so sharpe the conquering.
Which means, broadly, that it is difficult to paint a picture, but a
great deal more difficult to sell it.
Across the centuries Paul Boielle shook hands with Geoffrey Chaucer.
'So sharpe the conquering' put his case in a nutshell.
The full story of his wanderings with the masterpiece would read like
an Odyssey and be about as long. It shall be condensed.
There was an artist who dined at intervals at Bredin's Parisian Cafe,
and, as the artistic temperament was too impatient to be suited by
Jeanne's leisurely methods, it had fallen to Paul to wait upon him. It
was to this expert that Paul, emboldened by the geniality of the
artist's manner, went for information. How did monsieur sell his
pictures? Monsieur said he didn't, except once in a blue moon. But when
he did? Oh, he took the thing to the dealers. Paul thanked him. A
friend of him, he explained, had painted a picture and wished to sell
it.
'Poor devil!' was the artist's comment.
Next day, it happening to be a Thursday, Paul started on his travels.
He started buoyantly, but by evening he was as a punctured balloon.
Every dealer had the same remark to make - to wit, no room.
'Have you yet sold the picture?' inquired Jeanne, when they met. 'Not
yet,' said Paul. 'But they are delicate matters, these negotiations. I
use finesse. I proceed with caution.'
He approached the artist again.
'With the dealers,' he said, 'my friend has been a little unfortunate.
They say they have no room.'
'_I_ know,' said the artist, nodding.
'Is there, perhaps, another way?'
'What sort of a picture is it?' inquired the artist.
Paul became enthusiastic.
'Ah! monsieur, it is beautiful. It is a woodland scene. A beautiful
girl - '
'Oh! Then he had better try the magazines. They might use it for a
cover.'
Paul thanked him effusively. On the following Thursday he visited
divers art editors. The art editors seemed to be in the same unhappy
condition as the dealers. 'Overstocked!' was their cry.
'The picture?' said Jeanne, on the Friday morning. 'Is it sold?'
'Not yet,' said Paul, 'but - '
'Always but!'
'My angel!'
'Bah!' said Jeanne, with a toss of her large but shapely head.
By the end of the month Paul was fighting in the last ditch, wandering
disconsolately among those who dwell in outer darkness and have grimy
thumbs. Seven of these in all he visited on that black Thursday, and
each of the seven rubbed the surface of the painting with a grimy
thumb, snorted, and dismissed him. Sick and beaten, Paul took the
masterpiece back to his skylight room.
All that night he lay awake, thinking. It was a weary bundle of nerves
that came to the Parisian Cafe next morning. He was late in arriving,
which was good in that it delayed the inevitable question as to the
fate of the picture, but bad in every other respect. M. Bredin,
squatting behind the cash-desk, grunted fiercely at him; and, worse,
Jeanne, who, owing to his absence, had had to be busier than suited her
disposition, was distant and haughty. A murky gloom settled upon Paul.
Now it so happened that M. Bredin, when things went well with him, was
wont to be filled with a ponderous amiability. It was not often that
this took a practical form, though it is on record that in an exuberant
moment he once gave a small boy a halfpenny. More frequently it merely
led him to soften the porcine austerity of his demeanour. Today,
business having been uncommonly good, he felt pleased with the world.
He had left his cash-desk and was assailing a bowl of soup at one of
the side-tables. Except for a belated luncher at the end of the room
the place was empty. It was one of the hours when there was a lull in
the proceedings at the Parisian Cafe. Paul was leaning, wrapped in the
gloom, against the wall. Jeanne was waiting on the proprietor.
M. Bredin finished his meal and rose. He felt content. All was well
with the world. As he lumbered to his desk he passed Jeanne. He
stopped. He wheezed a compliment. Then another. Paul, from his place by
the wall, watched with jealous fury.
M. Bredin chucked Jeanne under the chin.
As he did so, the belated luncher called 'Waiter!' but Paul was
otherwise engaged. His entire nervous system seemed to have been
stirred up with a pole. With a hoarse cry he dashed forward. He would
destroy this pig who chucked his Jeanne under the chin.
The first intimation M. Bredin had of the declaration of war was the
impact of a French roll on his ear. It was one of those nobbly, chunky
rolls with sharp corners, almost as deadly as a piece of shrapnel. M.
Bredin was incapable of jumping, but he uttered a howl and his vast
body quivered like a stricken jelly. A second roll, whizzing by,
slapped against the wall. A moment later a cream-bun burst in sticky
ruin on the proprietor's left eye.
The belated luncher had been anxious to pay his bill and go, but he
came swiftly to the conclusion that this was worth stopping on for. He
leaned back in his chair and watched. M. Bredin had entrenched himself
behind the cash-desk, peering nervously at Paul through the cream, and
Paul, pouring forth abuse in his native tongue, was brandishing a
chocolate eclair. The situation looked good to the spectator.
It was spoiled by Jeanne, who seized Paul by the arm and shook him,
adding her own voice to the babel. It was enough. The eclair fell to
the floor. Paul's voice died away. His face took on again its crushed,
hunted expression. The voice of M. Bredin, freed from competition, rose
shrill and wrathful.
'The marksman is getting sacked,' mused the onlooker, diagnosing the
situation.
He was right. The next moment Paul, limp and depressed, had retired to
the kitchen passage, discharged. It was here, after a few minutes, that
Jeanne found him.
'Fool! Idiot! Imbecile!' said Jeanne.
Paul stared at her without speaking.
'To throw rolls at the _patron_. Imbecile!'
'He - ' began Paul.
'Bah! And what if he did? Must you then attack him like a mad dog? What
is it to you?'
Paul was conscious of a dull longing for sympathy, a monstrous sense
of oppression. Everything was going wrong. Surely Jeanne must be
touched by his heroism? But no. She was scolding furiously. Suppose
Andromeda had turned and scolded Perseus after he had slain the
sea-monster! Paul mopped his forehead with his napkin. The bottom had
dropped out of his world.
'Jeanne!'
'Bah! Do not talk to me, idiot of a little man. Almost you lost me my
place also. The _patron_ was in two minds. But I coaxed him. A
fine thing that would have been, to lose my good place through your
foolishness. To throw rolls. My goodness!'
She swept back into the room again, leaving Paul still standing by the
kitchen door. Something seemed to have snapped inside him. How long he
stood there he did not know, but presently from the dining-room came
calls of 'Waiter!' and automatically he fell once more into his work,
as an actor takes up his part. A stranger would have noticed nothing
remarkable in him. He bustled to and fro with undiminished energy.
At the end of the day M. Bredin paid him his eighteen shillings with a
grunt, and Paul walked out of the restaurant a masterless man.
He went to his attic and sat down on the bed. Propped up against the
wall was the picture. He looked at it with unseeing eyes. He stared
dully before him.
Then thoughts came to him with a rush, leaping and dancing in his mind
like imps in Hades. He had a curious sense of detachment. He seemed to
be watching himself from a great distance.
This was the end. The little imps danced and leaped; and then one
separated itself from the crowd, to grow bigger than, the rest, to
pirouette more energetically. He rose. His mind was made up. He would
kill himself.
He went downstairs and out into the street. He thought hard as he
walked. He would kill himself, but how?
His preoccupation was so great that an automobile, rounding a corner,
missed him by inches as he crossed the road. The chauffeur shouted
angrily at him as he leapt back.
Paul shook his fist at the retreating lights.
'Pig!' he shouted. 'Assassin! Scoundrel! Villain! Would you kill me? I
will take your number, rascal. I will inform the police. Villain!'
A policeman had strolled up and was eyeing him curiously. Paul turned
to him, full of his wrongs.
'Officer,' he cried, 'I have a complaint. These pigs of chauffeurs!
They are reckless. They drive so recklessly. Hence the great number of
accidents.'
'Awful!' said the policeman. 'Pass along, sonny.'
Paul walked on, fuming. It was abominable that these chauffeurs - And
then an idea came to him. He had found a way.
* * * * *
It was quiet in the Park. He had chosen the Park because it was dark
and there would be none to see and interfere. He waited long in the
shadow by the roadside. Presently from the darkness there came the
distant drone of powerful engines. Lights appeared, like the blazing
eyes of a dragon swooping down to devour its prey.
He ran out into the road with a shout.
It was an error, that shout. He had intended it for an inarticulate
farewell to his picture, to Jeanne, to life. It was excusable to the
driver of the motor that he misinterpreted it. It seemed to him a cry
of warning. There was a great jarring of brakes, a scuttering of locked
wheels on the dry road, and the car came to a standstill a full yard
from where he stood.
'What the deuce - ' said a cool voice from behind the lights.
Paul struck his chest and folded his arms.
'I am here,' he cried. 'Destroy me!'
'Let George do it,' said the voice, in a marked American accent. 'I
never murder on a Friday; it's unlucky. If it's not a rude question,
which asylum are you from? Halloa!'
The exclamation was one of surprise, for Paul's nerves had finally
given way, and he was now in a heap on the road, sobbing.
The man climbed down and came into the light. He was a tall young man
with a pleasant, clean-cut face. He stopped and shook Paul.
'Quit that,' he said. 'Maybe it's not true. And if it is, there's
always hope. Cut it out. What's the matter? All in?'
Paul sat up, gulping convulsively. He was thoroughly unstrung. The
cold, desperate mood had passed. In its place came the old feeling of
desolation. He was a child, aching for sympathy. He wanted to tell his
troubles. Punctuating his narrative with many gestures and an
occasional gulp, he proceeded to do so. The American listened
attentively.
'So you can't sell your picture, and you've lost your job, and your
girl has shaken you?' he said. 'Pretty bad, but still you've no call to
go mingling with automobile wheels. You come along with me to my hotel,
and tomorrow we'll see if we can't fix up something.'
* * * * *
There was breakfast at the hotel next morning, a breakfast to put heart
into a man. During the meal a messenger dispatched in a cab to Paul's
lodgings returned with the canvas. A deferential waiter informed the
American that it had been taken with every possible care to his suite.
'Good,' said the young man. 'If you're through, we'll go and have a
look at it.'
They went upstairs. There was the picture resting against a chair.
'Why, I call that fine,' said the young man. 'It's a cracker jack.'
Paul's heart gave a sudden leap. Could it be that here was the wealthy
connoisseur? He was wealthy, for he drove an automobile and lived in an
expensive hotel. He was a connoisseur, for he had said that the picture
was a crackerjack.
'Monsieur is kind,' murmured Paul.
'It's a bear-cat,' said the young man, admiringly.
'Monsieur is flattering,' said Paul, dimly perceiving a compliment.
'I've been looking for a picture like that,' said the young man, 'for
months.'
Paul's eyes rolled heavenwards.
'If you'll make a few alterations, I'll buy it and ask for more.'
'Alterations, monsieur?'
'One or two small ones.' He pointed to the stooping figure of the
shepherd. 'Now, you see this prominent citizen. What's he doing!'
'He is stooping,' said Paul, fervently, 'to bestow upon his loved one a
kiss. And she, sleeping, all unconscious, dreaming of him - '
'Never mind about her. Fix your mind on him. Willie is the "star" in
this show. You have summed him up accurately. He is stooping. Stooping
good. Now, if that fellow was wearing braces and stooped like that,
you'd say he'd burst those braces, wouldn't you?'
With a somewhat dazed air Paul said that he thought he would. Till now
he had not looked at the figure from just that view-point.
'You'd say he'd bust them?'
'Assuredly, monsieur.'
'No!' said the young man, solemnly, tapping him earnestly on the chest.
'That's where you're wrong. Not if they were Galloway's Tried and
Proven. Galloway's Tried and Proven will stand any old strain you care
to put on them. See small bills. Wear Galloway's Tried and Proven, and
fate cannot touch you. You can take it from me. I'm the company's
general manager.'
'Indeed, monsieur!'
'And I'll make a proposition to you. Cut out that mossy bank, and make
the girl lying in a hammock. Put Willie in shirt-sleeves instead of a
bath-robe, and fix him up with a pair of the Tried and Proven, and I'll
give you three thousand dollars for that picture and a retaining fee of
four thousand a year to work for us and nobody else for any number of
years you care to mention. You've got the goods. You've got just the
touch. That happy look on Willie's face, for instance. You can see in a
minute why he's so happy. It's because he's wearing the Tried and
Proven, and he knows that however far he stoops they won't break. Is
that a deal?'
Paul's reply left no room for doubt. Seizing the young man firmly round
the waist, he kissed him with extreme fervour on both cheeks.
'Here, break away!' cried the astonished general manager. 'That's no
way to sign a business contract.'
* * * * *
It was at about five minutes after one that afternoon that Constable
Thomas Parsons, patrolling his beat, was aware of a man motioning to
him from the doorway of Bredin's Parisian Cafe and Restaurant. The man
looked like a pig. He grunted like a pig. He had the lavish
_embonpoint_ of a pig. Constable Parsons suspected that he had a
porcine soul. Indeed, the thought flitted across Constable Parsons'
mind that, if he were to tie a bit of blue ribbon round his neck, he
could win prizes with him at a show.
'What's all this?' he inquired, halting.
The stout man talked volubly in French. Constable Parsons shook his
head.
'Talk sense,' he advised.
'In dere,' cried the stout man, pointing behind him into the
restaurant, 'a man, a - how you say? - yes, sacked. An employe whom I
yesterday sacked, today he returns. I say to him, "Cochon, va!"'
'What's that?'
'I say, "Peeg, go!" How you say? Yes, "pop off!" I say, "Peeg, pop
off!" But he - no, no; he sits and will not go. Come in, officer, and
expel him.'
With massive dignity the policeman entered the restaurant. At one of
the tables sat Paul, calm and distrait. From across the room Jeanne
stared freezingly.
'What's all this?' inquired Constable Parsons. Paul looked up.
'I too,' he admitted, 'I cannot understand. Figure to yourself,
monsieur. I enter this cafe to lunch, and this man here would expel
me.'
'He is an employe whom I - I myself - have but yesterday dismissed,'
vociferated M. Bredin. 'He has no money to lunch at my restaurant.'
The policeman eyed Paul sternly.
'Eh?' he said. 'That so? You'd better come along.'
Paul's eyebrows rose.
Before the round eyes of M. Bredin he began to produce from his pockets
and to lay upon the table bank-notes and sovereigns. The cloth was
covered with them.
He picked up a half-sovereign.
'If monsieur,' he said to the policeman, 'would accept this as a slight
consolation for the inconvenience which this foolish person here has
caused him - '
'Not half,' said Mr Parsons, affably. 'Look here' - he turned to the
gaping proprietor - 'if you go on like this you'll be getting yourself
into trouble. See? You take care another time.'
Paul called for the bill of fare.
It was the inferior person who had succeeded to his place as waiter who
attended to his needs during the meal; but when he had lunched it was
Jeanne who brought his coffee.
She bent over the table.
'You sold your picture, Paul - yes?' she whispered. 'For much money? How
glad I am, dear Paul. Now we will - '
Paul met her glance coolly.
'Will you be so kind,' he said, 'as to bring me also a cigarette, my
good girl?'
THE MAN WHO DISLIKED CATS
It was Harold who first made us acquainted, when I was dining one night
at the Cafe Britannique, in Soho. It is a peculiarity of the Cafe
Britannique that you will always find flies there, even in winter. Snow
was falling that night as I turned in at the door, but, glancing about
me, I noticed several of the old faces. My old acquaintance, Percy the
bluebottle, looking wonderfully fit despite his years, was doing deep
breathing exercises on a mutton cutlet, and was too busy to do more
than pause for a moment to nod at me; but his cousin, Harold, always
active, sighted me and bustled up to do the honours.
He had finished his game of touch-last with my right ear, and was
circling slowly in the air while he thought out other ways of
entertaining me, when there was a rush of air, a swish of napkin, and
no more Harold.
I turned to thank my preserver, whose table adjoined mine. He was a
Frenchman, a melancholy-looking man. He had the appearance of one who
has searched for the leak in life's gas-pipe with a lighted candle; of
one whom the clenched fist of Fate has smitten beneath the
temperamental third waistcoat-button.
He waved my thanks aside. 'It was a bagatelle,' he said. We became
friendly. He moved to my table, and we fraternized over our coffee.
Suddenly he became agitated. He kicked at something on the floor. His
eyes gleamed angrily.
'Ps-s-st!' he hissed. 'Va-t'en!'
I looked round the corner of the table, and perceived the restaurant
cat in dignified retreat.
'You do not like cats?' I said.
'I 'ate all animals, monsieur. Cats especially.' He frowned. He seemed
to hesitate.
'I will tell you my story,' he said. 'You will sympathize. You have a
sympathetic face. It is the story of a man's tragedy. It is the story
of a blighted life. It is the story of a woman who would not forgive.
It is the story - '
'I've got an appointment at eleven,' I said.
He nodded absently, drew at his cigarette, and began:
* * * * *
I have conceived my 'atred of animals, monsieur, many years ago in
Paris. Animals are to me a symbol for the lost dreams of youth, for
ambitions foiled, for artistic impulses cruelly stifled. You are
astonished. You ask why I say these things. I shall tell you.
I am in Paris, young, ardent, artistic. I wish to paint pictures. I
'ave the genius, the ent'usiasm. I wish to be disciple of the great
Bouguereau. But no. I am dependent for support upon an uncle. He is
rich. He is proprietor of the great Hotel Jules Priaulx. My name is
also Priaulx. He is not sympathetic. I say, 'Uncle, I 'ave the genius,
the ent'usiasm. Permit me to paint.' He shakes his head. He say, 'I
will give you position in my hotel, and you shall earn your living.'
What choice? I weep, but I kill my dreams, and I become cashier at my
uncle's hotel at a salary of thirty-five francs a week. I, the artist,
become a machine for the changing of money at dam bad salary. What
would you? What choice? I am dependent. I go to the hotel, and there I
learn to 'ate all animals. Cats especially.
I will tell you the reason. My uncle's hotel is fashionable hotel. Rich
Americans, rich Maharajahs, rich people of every nation come to my
uncle's hotel. They come, and with them they have brought their pets.
Monsieur, it was the existence of a nightmare. Wherever I have looked
there are animals. Listen. There is an Indian prince. He has with him
two dromedaries. There is also one other Indian prince. With him is a
giraffe. The giraffe drink every day one dozen best champagne to keep
his coat good. I, the artist, have my bock, and my coat is not good.
There is a guest with a young lion. There is a guest with an alligator.
But especially there is a cat. He is fat. His name is Alexander. He
belongs to an American woman. She is fat. She exhibits him to me. He is
wrapped in a silk and fur creation like an opera cloak. Every day she
exhibits him. It is 'Alexander this' and 'Alexander that', till I 'ate
Alexander very much. I 'ate all the animals, but especially Alexander.
And so, monsieur, it goes on, day by day, in this hotel that is a
Zoological Garden. And every day I 'ate the animals the more. But
especially Alexander.
We artists, monsieur, we are martyrs to our nerves. It became
insupportable, this thing. Each day it became more insupportable. At
night I dream of all the animals, one by one - the giraffe, the two
dromedaries, the young lion, the alligator, and Alexander. Especially
Alexander. You have 'eard of men who cannot endure the society of a
cat - how they cry out and jump in the air if a cat is among those
present. _Hein_? Your Lord Roberts? Precisely, monsieur. I have
read so much. Listen, then. I am become by degrees almost like 'im. I
do not cry out and jump in the air when I see the cat Alexander, but I
grind my teeth and I 'ate 'im.
Yes, I am the sleeping volcano, and one morning, monsieur, I have
suffered the eruption. It is like this. I shall tell you.
Not only at that time am I the martyr to nerves, but also to toothache.
That morning I 'ave 'ad the toothache very bad. I 'ave been in pain the
most terrible. I groan as I add up the figures in my book.
As I groan I 'ear a voice.
'Say good morning to M. Priaulx, Alexander.' Conceive my emotions,
monsieur, when this fat, beastly cat is placed before me upon my desk!
It put the cover upon it. No, that is not the phrase. The lid. It put
the lid upon it. All my smothered 'atred of the animal burst forth. I
could no longer conceal my 'atred.
I rose. I was terrible. I seized 'im by the tail. I flung him - I did
not know where. I did not care. Not then. Afterwards, yes, but not
then.
Your Longfellow has a poem. 'I shot an arrow into the air. It fell to
earth, I know not where.' And then he has found it. The arrow in the
'eart of a friend. Am I right? Also was that the tragedy with me. I
flung the cat Alexander. My uncle, on whom I am dependent, is passing
at the moment. He has received the cat in the middle of his face.
My companion, with the artist's instinct for the 'curtain', paused. He
looked round the brightly-lit restaurant. From every side arose the
clatter of knife and fork, and the clear, sharp note of those who drank
soup. In a distant corner a small waiter with a large voice was calling
the cook names through the speaking-tube. It was a cheerful scene, but
it brought no cheer to my companion. He sighed heavily and resumed:
* * * * *
I 'urry over that painful scene. There is blooming row. My uncle is
'ot-tempered man. The cat is 'eavy cat. I 'ave thrown 'im very hard,
for my nerves and my toothache and my 'atred 'ave given me the giant's
strength. Alone is this enough to enrage my 'ot-tempered uncle. I am
there in his hotel, you will understand, as cashier, not as
cat-thrower. And now, besides all this, I have insulted valuable
patron. She 'ave left the hotel that day.
There are no doubts in my mind as to the outcome. With certainty I
await my _conge_. And after painful scene I get it. I am to go. At
once. He 'ave assured the angry American woman that I go at once.
He has called me into his private office. 'Jean,' he has said to me, at
the end of other things, 'you are a fool, dolt, no-good imbecile. I
give you good place in my hotel, and you spend your time flinging cats.
I will 'ave no more of you. But even now I cannot forget that you are
my dear brother's child. I will now give you one thousand francs and
never see you again.'
I have thanked him, for to me it is wealth. Not before have I ever had
one thousand francs of my own.
I go out of the hotel. I go to a _cafe_ and order a bock. I smoke
a cigarette. It is necessary that I think out plans. Shall I with my
one thousand francs rent a studio in the Quarter and commence my life
as artist? No. I have still the genius, the ent'usiasm, but I have not
the training. To train myself to paint pictures I must study long, and
even one thousand francs will not last for ever. Then what shall I do?
I do not know. I order one other bock, and smoke more cigarettes, but
still I do not know.
And then I say to myself, 'I will go back to my uncle, and plead with
him. I will seize favourable opportunity. I will approach him after
dinner when he is in good temper. But for that I must be close at hand.
I must be - what's your expression? - "Johnny-on-the-spot".'
My mind is made up. I have my plan.
I have gone back to my uncle's hotel, and I have engaged not too
expensive bedroom. My uncle does not know. He still is in his private
office. I secure my room.
I dine cheaply that night, but I go to theatre and also to supper after
the theatre, for have I not my thousand francs? It is late when I reach
my bedroom.
I go to bed. I go to sleep.
But I do not sleep long. I am awakened by a voice.
It is a voice that says, 'Move and I shoot! Move and I shoot!' I lie
still. I do not move. I am courageous, but I am unarmed.
And the voice says again, 'Move and I shoot!' Is it robbers? Is it some
marauder who has made his way to my room to plunder me?
I do not know. Per'aps I think yes.
'Who are you?' I have asked.
There is no answer.
I take my courage in my 'ands. I leap from my bed. I dash for the door.
No pistol has been fire. I have reached the passage, and have shouted
for assistance.
Hotel officials run up. Doors open. 'What is it?' voices cry.
'There is in my room an armed robber,' I assure them.
And then I have found - no, I am mistaken. My door, you will understand,
is open. And as I have said these words, a large green parrot comes
'opping out. My assassin is nothing but a green parrot.
'Move and I shoot!' it has said to those gathered in the corridor. It
then has bitten me in the 'and and passed on.
I am chagrined, monsieur. But only for a moment. Then I forget my
chagrin. For a voice from a door that 'as opened says with joy, 'It is
my Polly, which I 'ave this evening lost I'
I turn. I gasp for admiration. It is a beautiful lady in a pink
dressing-gown which 'ave spoken these words.
She has looked at me. I 'ave looked at her. I forget everything but
that she is adorable. I forget those who stand by. I forget that the
parrot has bitten me in the 'and. I forget even that I am standing
there in pyjamas, with on my feet nothing. I can only gaze at her and
worship.
I have found words.
'Mademoiselle,' I have said, 'I am rejoiced that I have been the means
of restoring to you your bird.'
She has thanked me with her eyes, and then with words also. I am
bewitched. She is divine. I care not that my feet are cold. I could
wish to stand there talking all night.
She has given a cry of dismay.
'Your 'and! It is wounded!'
I look at my 'and. Yes, it is bleeding, where the bird 'ave bitten it.
'Tchut, mademoiselle,' I have said. 'It is a bagatelle.'
But no. She is distressed. She is what your poet Scott 'ave said, a
ministering angel thou. She 'ave torn her 'andkerchief and is binding
up my wound. I am enchanted. Such beauty! Such kindness! 'Ardly can I
resist to fall on my knees before 'er and declare my passion.
We are twin souls. She has thanked me again. She has scolded the
parrot. She has smiled upon me as she retires to her room. It is
enough. Nothing is said, but I am a man of sensibility and discernment,
and I understand that she will not be offended if I seek to renew our
friendship on a more suitable occasion.
The doors shut. The guests have returned to bed, the hotel servants to
their duties. And I go back to my room. But not to sleep. It is very
late, but I do not sleep. I lie awake and think of 'er.
You will conceive, Monsieur, with what mixed feelings I descend next
morning. On the one 'and, I must keep the sharp look-out for my uncle,
for 'im I must avoid till he shall have - what do you say in your
idiom? Yes, I have it - simmered down and tucked in his shirt. On the
other 'and, I must watch for my lady of the parrot. I count the minutes
till we shall meet again.
I avoid my uncle with success, and I see 'er about the hour of
_dejeuner_. She is talking to old gentleman. I have bowed. She
have smiled and motioned me to approach.
'Father,' she has said, 'this is the gentleman who caught Polly.'
We have shaken hands. He is indulgent papa. He has smiled and thanked
me also. We have confided to each other our names. He is English. He
owns much land in England. He has been staying in Paris. He is rich.
His name is 'Enderson. He addresses his daughter, and call her Marion.
In my 'eart I also call her Marion. You will perceive that I am, as you
say, pretty far gone.
The hour of _dejeuner_ has arrived. I entreat them to be my
guests. I can run to it, you understand, for there are still in my
pockets plenty of my uncle's francs. They consent. I am in 'eaven.
All is well. Our friendship has progressed with marvellous speed. The
old gentleman and I are swiftly the dear old pals. I 'ave confided to
'im my dreams of artistic fame, and he has told me 'ow much he dislikes
your Lloyd George. He has mentioned that he and Miss Marion depart for
London that day. I am desolate. My face tumbles. He has observed my
despair. He has invited me to visit them in London.
Imagine my chagrin. To visit them in London is the one thing I desire
to do. But how? I accept gratefully, but I ask myself how it is to be
done? I am poor blighter with no profession and nine 'undred francs. He
'as taken it for granted that I am wealthy.
What shall I do? I spend the afternoon trying to form a plan. And then
I am resolved. I will go to my uncle and say: 'Uncle, I have the
magnificent chance to marry the daughter of wealthy English landowner.
Already I 'ave her gratitude. Soon - for I am young, 'andsome,
debonair - I shall 'ave her love. Give me one more chance, uncle. Be
decent old buck, and put up the money for this affair.'
These words I have resolved to say to my uncle.
I go back to the hotel. I enter his private office. I reveal no secret
when I say that he is not cordial.
'Ten thousand devils!' he has cried. 'What do you here?'
I 'asten to tell him all, and plead with him to be decent old buck. He
does not believe.
Who is he? he asks. This English landowner? How did I meet him? And
where?
I tell him. He is amazed.
'You 'ad the infernal impudence to take room in my hotel?' he has
cried.
I am crafty. I am diplomat.
'Where else, dear uncle?' I say. 'In all Paris there is no such 'ome
from 'ome. The cuisine - marvellous! The beds - of rose-leaves! The
attendance - superb! If only for one night, I have said to myself, I
must stay in this of all hotels.'
I 'ave - what do you say? - touched the spot.
'In what you say,' he has said, more calmly, 'there is certainly
something. It is a good hotel, this of mine!'
The only hotel, I have assured him. The Meurice? _Chut!_ I snap my
fingers. The Ritz? Bah! Once again I snap my fingers. 'In all Paris
there is no hotel like this.'
He 'as simmered down. His shirt is tucked in. 'Tell me again this plan
of yours, Jean.'
When I leave 'im we have come to an understanding. It is agreed between
us that I am to 'ave one last chance. He will not spoil this promising
ship for the 'a'porth of tar. He will give me money for my purpose. But
he has said, as we part, if I fail, his 'ands shall be washed of me. He
cannot now forget that I am his dear brother's child; but if I fail to
accomplish the conquest of the divine Miss Marion, he thinks he will be
able to.
It is well. A week later I follow the 'Endersons to London.
For the next few days, monsieur, I am in Paradise. My 'ost has much
nice 'ouse in Eaton Square. He is rich, popular. There is much society.
And I - I have the _succes fou_. I am young, 'andsome, debonair. I
cannot speak the English very well - not so well as I now speak 'im - but
I manage. I get along. I am intelligent, amiable. Everyone loves me.
No, not everyone. Captain Bassett, he does not love me. And why?
Because he loves the charming Miss Marion, and observes that already I
am succeeding with her like a 'ouse on fire. He is _ami de
famille_. He is captain in your Garde Ecossais, and my 'ost told me
'e has distinguished himself as soldier pretty much. It may be so. As
soldier, per'aps. But at conversation he is not so good. He is quite
nice fellow, you understand - 'andsome, yes; distinguished, yes. But he
does not sparkle. He has not my _verve_, my _elan_. I - how do
you say? - I make the rings round him.
But, _Chut_! At that moment I would have made the rings round the
'ole British Army. Yes, and also the Corps Diplomatique. For I am
inspired. Love 'as inspired me. I am conqueror.
But I will not weary you, monsieur, with the details of my wooing. You
are sympathetic, but I must not weary you. Let us say that I 'ave in
four days or five made progress the most remarkable, and proceed to the
tragic end.
Almost could I tell it in four words. In them one would say that it is
set forth. There was in London at that time popular a song, a comic,
vulgar song of the 'Alls, 'The Cat Came Back'. You 'ave 'eard it? Yes?
I 'eard it myself, and without emotion. It had no sinister warning for
me. It did not strike me as omen. Yet, in those four words, monsieur,
is my tragedy.
How? I shall tell you. Every word is a sword twisted in my 'eart, but I
shall tell you.
One afternoon we are at tea. All is well. I am vivacious, gay; Miss
Marion, charming, gracious. There is present also an aunt, Mr
'Enderson's sister; but 'er I do not much notice. It is to Marion I
speak - both with my lips and also with my eyes.
As we sit, Captain Bassett is announced.
He has entered. We have greeted each other politely but coldly, for we
are rivals. There is in his manner also a something which I do not much
like - a species of suppressed triumph, of elation.
I am uneasy - but only yet vaguely, you will understand. I have not the
foreboding that he is about to speak my death-sentence.
He addresses Miss Marion. There is joy in his voice. 'Miss 'Enderson,'
he has said, 'I have for you the bally good news. You will remember,
isn't it, the cat belonging to the American woman in the hotel at
Paris, of which you have spoken to me? Last night at dinner I have been
seated beside her. At first I am not certain is it she. Then I say that
there cannot be two Mrs Balderstone Rockmettlers in Europe, so I
mention to her the cat. And, to cut the long story short, I have