CHAPTER XIX
They dined with a full measure of satisfaction; for with his invitationto a feast, your Parisian accepts an obligation to bring forth his bestin gayety, in conversation, in good-will; and it might well havehappened that Blake, spending ten times as much money upon guests of hisown world, might have lacked the glow, the sense of success, that filledhim in the giving of this dinner to an unknown musician and a littleblonde-haired _Montmartroise_.
They dined; and then, because the winds were still wintry and coffeecould not yet be sipped outside _cafe_ doors, they betook themselves tothe little theatre of the 'Trianon Lyrique' on the BoulevardRochechouart, where for an infinitesimal sum the _bourgeoisie_ may sitin the stalls and hear light opera conscientiously sung.
As it was a gala evening, Blake reserved a box, and the littleJacqueline sat in the place of honor, neat and dainty to the point ofperfection, with a small black jacket fitting closely to her figure, anda bunch of violets, costing ten centimes, pinned coquettishly into herlace _jabot_. They sat through the performance in a happy mood oftoleration, applauding whenever applause might be bestowed, generouslysilent when anything tempted adverse criticism; and between the actsthey smoked and drank liqueurs in company with the good Montmartreshopkeepers--the soldiers--the young clerks and the young girls whoformed the crowd in the lounge.
But all things end; the curtain fell on the last act of _Les Cloches deCorneville_, and not without a pleasant, passing sigh, the four left thetheatre.
The boulevard teemed with life as they made their way into the open; acertain intoxication seemed blown along the thoroughfare on the lightspring wind; a restless energy tingled in the blood.
On the steps of the little theatre, Blake looked back at his party.
'The night was young! What would they say to supper?'
Jacqueline's eyes sparkled, but she looked at M. Cartel, and regretfullyM. Cartel shook his head.
'Alas! He was expecting a friend--a composer, to call upon him beforemidnight.'
Jacqueline betrayed no disappointment; with a charming air she echoedthe regret, the shake of the head, and slipped a confiding hand throughM. Cartel's arm.
Then followed the leave-taking--the thanks and disclaimers--the promisesof future meetings--and at last the lovers moved out into the crowd--M.Cartel, cheery and brisk, humming the tunes of '_Les Cloches_,' thelittle Jacqueline clinging to his arm, smiling up into his ugly face.
Max watched them for a moment with a deep intentness, then wheeled roundswiftly and caught Blake's arm.
"Ned! Take me somewhere! I would forget myself!"
"What troubles you, boy? Not the thought of the picture?"
"No! A something of no consequence. Do not question me. Be kind to me,and take me where I can see life and forget myself."
"Where will I take you?"
"To some place of gayety--where no one thinks."
"Very well! We'll go over and have supper at the Rat Mort. You won't beover-troubled with thought there. We can sit in a corner and observe,and I give you my word there will be no encounters with old friends thistime! I'll be blind and deaf and dumb if anything is washed up from thepast!"
Guiding the boy across the crowded roadway, he passed through the narrowdoor and up the steep stair that ends so abruptly into the long, lowsupper-room of the Rat Mort.
Max felt the abruptness of this entry, as so many climbers of theladder-like stairs have felt it before him; and a dazed sensation seizedupon him as the wild _Ztigane_ music of the stringed orchestra beatsuddenly upon his ears and the intense white light struck upon hissight.
He felt it as others have felt it--the excitement, the consciousness ofan emotional atmosphere--as he followed Blake down the dazzingly brightroom. It was in the air, as it had been at the Bal Tabarin.
As they seated themselves, the barbaric music ceased; the orchestrabroke forth afresh with a light Parisian waltz, and down between thelines of tables came a negro and a negress--properties of the place, aswere the glasses and the table linen--waltzing with the pliantsuppleness, the conscious sensuality of their race, and close behindthem followed a second couple--a Spaniard, restless and lithe, small ofstature and pallid of face, and a young Spanish girl of splendidphysique.
Max sat silent, attentive to this dance, while Blake ordered supper; butwhen the wine was brought, he lifted his glass and drank, as if somestrong sensation had dried his throat.
Blake turned and looked at him.
"Well? Is it amusing?"
"It is--and it is not. Those black creatures are extraordinary. They arerepulsive--like figures in a nightmare."
"Oh! Repulsive, are they? And what about a certain picture we oncelooked at--when I was swept off the face of the earth for using thatsame word? I believe, you know, that points of view are changing! Ibelieve I'm coming to part two of my little book! These niggers aren't abit more disgusting than the monkey sucking the fruit."
Max glanced at him, laughed a trifle self-consciously and drank somemore wine. "Let us forget monkeys and little books and all suchstupidities. There is a pretty woman over there! Make me a storyconcerning her." He nodded toward a table in the middle of the room.
Blake, looking, saw a slim woman in white, whose large hat threw abecoming shadow on auburn hair and red-brown eyes.
"Ah, now," he said, thoughtfully, "you've given me too much to do! At afirst glance I'd say she's just the ordinary better-class _cocotte_; butat a second glance it seems to me I'd pause. There's something about theeyes--there's something about the mouth that puzzles me. You'll have towait, my boy, and let fate tell you your fairy tale!"
Trained in the consciousness of regard, the woman they discussed lookedacross at them as Blake ceased, and the flicker of a smile touched herlips--a smile of interest in which there lurked no hint of invitation.
"Ah, wasn't I right! She discriminates--our auburn lady! We'll seesomething interesting before the night is out, mark my words!"
They half forgot her and her possible story in the hour that followed,though Max noted that the woman who wanders from party to party at theRat Mort, distributing roses, paused twice by her table and spoke toher, each time departing without unburdening herself of her wares; also,he noted that the pallid little Spaniard, who had been scattering hisattentions among the ladies unprovided with companions, came and bowedbefore her, and that, contrary to her impression of aloofness, she roseand danced a waltz with him.
At this episode of the dance, Blake's eyes as well as the boy's wereattracted; and, as she glided up and down between the tables, cool,unmoved, seemingly indifferent to the world about her, his interestreawakened, and he cast a sidelong glance at Max.
"Wait!" he said. "When you see that guarded look in a woman's eyes, youmay always know she's expecting something."
Even as he spoke, she returned to her solitary table, dismissing theSpaniard with an inclination of the head and, as she seated herself,both observers saw a change pass over her face--saw her gaze narrow andturn toward the door--saw a faint flush touch her cheeks and recede,leaving them paler than before.
It was a controlled emotion, almost imperceptible--differing in essencefrom either the latent violence of the woman Lize or the artlessimpulsiveness of the little Jacqueline; but with certain intuition itsent Max's glance winging to the door of the supper-room, assured thatsome issue in the subtle war of sex was about to be fought out.
A new party was entering the room--a small dark _Parisienne_, bringingin her wake two Englishmen--one brown--the other fair, with the acceptedSaxon fairness.
Down the long room the little lady came, ushered by obsequious waiters,the recipient of many glances, admiring or envious; close behind herfollowed the brown-haired Englishman and, a little in the rear, hersecond cavalier--reserved of demeanor, distinguished of carriage,obviously upholding the tradition of _sang-froid_ that clings to hiscountrymen.
Max's instinct was fully awake now; and when, in passing her table, thefair man inclined his head to the au
burn-haired lady, the matter merelyfitted with his expectations.
What brief emotional past lay in the mists of the unknown, linking thiswoman to this man? Nothing was to be read from her face--no expressionof pleasure, none of chagrin; but in her half-veiled eyes a certainbrilliance was observable and her long, white fingers began softly todrum upon the table in time to the music.
No explanation was demanded; in a clear, disconcerting flash, thesituation was laid bare. Here was woman desiring the love of man; womandetermined to reap her spoil. It was one issue in the deathless,relentless struggle--the struggle wherein the little Jacqueline clung toher M. Cartel, tenacious as the frail fern to the ungainly rock--whereinMadame Salas had fought sickness and neglect to protect a fading life.It was a truth--arresting as truth must ever be; and stricken with atingling fear, the boy drove it from him, and turned his eyes from thefateful, shadowed face and the light, drumming fingers.
A new dance had begun: the grinning negro had seized upon the Spanishgirl and was whirling her down the room to the laughter of the company,while her countryman looked round the tables in indifferent search for apartner.
His glance skimmed the white figure at the lonely table, the eyes of thewoman were lifted for an instant, revealing a flash of their new light,and in a moment the two were dancing again, moving up and down theroom, in and out between the tables with their original easy grace; butthis time the woman's lips were parted and her eyelids drooped in aclever simulation of enjoyment.
Up and down they glided, passing and repassing the table where thelittle dark lady supped with her two cavaliers, but never once did thewoman raise her eyes to the Englishman's or seem aware of the cold,close glance that followed her movements; but once, as the music fadedto silence, and her white skirt swept past his table for the last time,she murmured something softly in Spanish to her partner, and allowed onelevel, effective glance to fall on his pallid face.
That was all; the waltz stopped, she disengaged herself gently, andwalked back alone to her table.
This waltz was followed by another and yet another, and again she fellto her old attitude of lowered eyes and drumming fingers.
The Englishman at his table made pretence to eat his supper, pouredhimself out a fresh glass of champagne, drank it, and with a suddenlyachieved decision, gave a cool laugh of excuse, rose and walked straighttoward the solitary figure.
Max, momentarily _clairvoyant_, felt the violent heartbeat, the caughtbreath, that told the woman of his presence--felt to a nicety thecontrol of her expression, the rigidity of her body, as she slowlyraised her head and met his eyes; then he saw the man bow, making somesuggestion, and he leaned back in his seat with a little sigh ofsatisfaction as the woman smiled and rose and the two began to dance.
Both tall above the ordinary, they were a well-suited couple, and acertain pleasure filled the beholder's mind as they moved decorously upand down the long aisle formed by the double row of tables--the manentirely indifferent to his surroundings, dancing in this Parisiansupper-place precisely as he would have danced in a London ball-room;the woman following his every movement with a passivity--a oneness--thatgave no hint of the definite purpose at work within her brain.
The dance over, he led her back to her table, drew her chair forwardwith elaborate politeness, bowed and, with a murmured word, strolledback to his own table.
So sure had been her triumph, so abrupt its collapse, that Max--smokinghis cigarette, sipping his coffee--turned, with a little exclamation, toBlake.
"Have you observed, _mon ami_? Oh, why was that?"
Blake was carefully lighting a cigar.
"'Twould be hard to say," he answered, meditatively. "In a matter ofemotion, an Englishman has a way of getting frightened of himself. Thisparticular specimen has come over to Paris to play--and he doesn't fancyfire for a toy!"
"And what will happen? What will be the end?" Max had laid his cigaretteaside; his fingers were interlaced, sure sign that his emotions wererunning high; and his eyes, when he fixed them on Blake's, held a touchof their rare sombre fire.
"How will it end, you say? Guess, my child!"
Max shook his head.
"Well, boy, Eve will be Eve to the end of time--and Adam will be Adam!"
"You mean--? Oh, but look!"
This last was called forth by the rising from table of the trio--thequiet passing from the room of the fair man in the train of his friendand the little dark lady.
It seemed so final, so sharp an answer to his question, that Max couldfeel--as things personal and close--the sick sinking of the heart, theaccompanying whiteness of cheek that must fall upon the woman sittingimmovable and alone.
"I am sorry!" he cried. "Oh, but I am sorry!"
Blake looked thoughtfully at the tip of his cigar.
"Wait!"
Even as he said it, the fair man reappeared alone. "What did I say? Evewill be Eve--Adam will be Adam!"
But Max was not listening. Excited, lifted beyond himself, he waswatching the Englishman thread a way between the tables--watching thewoman thrill to his approach without lifting an eyelid, moving a muscle.Rigid as a statue she sat, until he was quite close; then, curiously, asif nature demanded some symbol of the fires within, her lips opened andshe began to hum the tune the orchestra was playing.
It was a strange form of self-expression, and as she yielded to it hercheeks burned suddenly and her eyes shone between their narrowed lids.
She did not speak when the man seated himself at her table, she did noteven look up; she went on humming in a strange ecstatic reverie, but shesmiled--a very slow, a very subtle smile.
A waiter came, and wine was brought; she drank, laid down her glass andcontinued her strange song. The seller of flowers hovered about thetable, smiling at the Englishman, and laid a sheaf of pink roses on thewhite cloth; still the humming continued, though mechanically thewoman's long, white fingers gathered up the flowers and held themagainst her face. At last, unexpectedly, she raised her head, looked atthe man whose eyes were now fixed in fascination upon her, looked awaybeyond him, and, lifting her voice from its murmuring note, began tosing aloud.
It was a scene curious beyond description--the hot, white room, the manypainted faces, the many jewelled hands, the grotesque black forms ofthe negro dancers, and in the midst a woman hypnotized by her owntriumph into absolute oblivion.
She sat with the roses in her hands, her eyes looking into space, whileher voice, pure and singularly true, gathered strength until graduallythe chattering of voices and the clinking of glasses lessened, and themusicians lowered their music to a deliberate accompaniment.
Nowhere but in Paris could such a scene take place; but here, althoughthe faces turned toward the singer's were flushed with wine, they weretouched with comprehension. The gathered roses--the high, sweetvoice--the rapt face composed a picture, and even when his eyes areglazed, your Parisian is a connoisseur.
The last note quivered into silence; a little ripple of applausefollowed; and with the same concentrated, hypnotized gaze, the woman'seyes turned from space and rested again upon the man.
It was the glance ancient as tradition--significant as fate. At hisdistant table, Max rose and laid a trembling hand upon Blake's arm.
"Ned! May we go?"
"Oh, why? The night is young!"
"Please!"
"But why?"
"I desire it."
Blake looked more closely, and his expression changed.
"Why, you're ill, boy!" he said. "You're as white as a sheet!"
Max tried to laugh. "It is the heat--nothing more."
"Of course it is! The place is like a hot-house! You want a breath ofair!"
Again Max tried to laugh, but it was a laugh oddly broken.
"That is it!" he said. "I want the air."
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