The Street of Seven Stars

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  CHAPTER III

  The coffee-house was warm and bright. Round its small tables weregathered miscellaneous groups, here and there a woman, but mostlymen--uniformed officers, who made of the neighborhood coffee-house asort of club, where under their breath they criticized the Governmentand retailed small regimental gossip; professors from the university,still wearing under the beards of middle life the fine horizontal scarsof student days; elderly doctors from the general hospital across thestreet; even a Hofrath or two, drinking beer and reading the "FliegendeBlaetter" and "Simplicissimus"; and in an alcove round a billiard tablea group of noisy Korps students. Over all a permeating odor of coffee,strong black coffee, made with a fig or two to give it color. It roseeven above the blue tobacco haze and dominated the atmosphere withits spicy and stimulating richness. A bustle of waiters, a hum ofconversation, the rattle of newspapers and the click of billiardballs--this was the coffee-house.

  Harmony had never been inside one before. The little music colony hadbeen a tight-closed corporation, retaining its American integrity, inspite of the salon of Maria Theresa and three expensive lessons a weekin German. Harmony knew the art galleries and the churches, which werefree, and the opera, thanks to no butter at supper. But of that backboneof Austrian life, the coffee-house, she was profoundly ignorant.

  Her companion found her a seat in a corner near a heater and disappearedfor an instant on the search for the Paris edition of the "Herald." Thegirl followed him with her eyes. Seen under the bright electric lights,he was not handsome, hardly good-looking. His mouth was wide, his noseirregular, his hair a nondescript brown,--but the mouth had humor, thenose character, and, thank Heaven, there was plenty of hair. Not thatHarmony saw all this at once. As he tacked to and fro round the tables,with a nod here and a word there, she got a sort of ensemble effect--atall man, possibly thirty, broadshouldered, somewhat stooped, as tallmen are apt to be. And shabby, undeniably shabby!

  The shabbiness was a shock. A much-braided officer, trim from the pointsof his mustache to the points of his shoes, rose to speak to him. Theshabbiness was accentuated by the contrast. Possibly the revelationwas an easement to the girl's nervousness. This smiling and unpressedindividual, blithely waving aloft the Paris edition of the "Herald" andequally blithely ignoring the maledictions of the student from whomhe had taken it--even Scatchy could not have called him a vulture orthreatened him with the police.

  He placed the paper before her and sat down at her side, not tointerfere with her outlook over the room.

  "Warmer?" he asked.

  "Very much."

  "Coffee is coming. And cinnamon cakes with plenty of sugar. They know mehere and they know where I live. They save the sugariest cakes for me.Don't let me bother you; go on and read. See which of the smart set isgetting a divorce--or is it always the same one? And who's Presidentback home."

  "I'd rather look round. It's curious, isn't it?"

  "Curious? It's heavenly! It's the one thing I am going to take backto America with me--one coffee-house, one dozen military men for localcolor, one dozen students ditto, and one proprietor's wife to sit in thecage and shortchange the unsuspecting. I'll grow wealthy."

  "But what about the medical practice?"

  He leaned over toward her; his dark-gray eyes fulfilled the humorouspromise of his mouth.

  "Why, it will work out perfectly," he said whimsically. "The greatAmerican public will eat cinnamon cakes and drink coffee until thefeeble American nervous system will be shattered. I shall have an officeacross the street!"

  After that, having seen how tired she looked, he forbade conversationuntil she had had her coffee. She ate the cakes, too, and he watched herwith comfortable satisfaction.

  "Nod your head but don't speak," he said. "Remember, I am prescribing,and there's to be no conversation until the coffee is down. Shall I orshall I not open the cheese?"

  But Harmony did not wish the cheese, and so signified. Somethinginherently delicate in the unknown kept him from more than an occasionalswift glance at her. He read aloud, as she ate, bits of news from thepaper, pausing to sip his own coffee and to cast an eye over the crowdedroom. Here and there an officer, gazing with too open admiration onHarmony's lovely face, found himself fixed by a pair of steel-gray eyesthat were anything but humorous at that instant, and thought best toshift his gaze.

  The coffee finished, the girl began to gather up her wraps. But theunknown protested.

  "The function of a coffee-house," he explained gravely, "is twofold.Coffee is only the first half. The second half is conversation."

  "I converse very badly."

  "So do I. Suppose we talk about ourselves. We are sure to do that well.Shall I commence?"

  Harmony was in no mood to protest. Having swallowed coffee, why chokeover conversation? Besides, she was very comfortable. It was warmthere, with the heater at her back; better than the little room with thesagging bed and the doors covered with wall paper. Her feet had stoppedaching, too, She could have sat there for hours. And--why evade it?--shewas interested. This whimsical and respectful young man with his absurdtalk and his shabby clothes had roused her curiosity.

  "Please," she assented.

  "Then, first of all, my name. I'm getting that over early, because itisn't much, as names go. Peter Byrne it is. Don't shudder."

  "Certainly I'm not shuddering."

  "I have another name, put in by my Irish father to conciliate a Germanuncle of my mother's. Augustus! It's rather a mess. What shall I put onmy professional brassplate? If I put P. Augustus Byrne nobody's fooled.They know my wretched first name is Peter."

  "Or Patrick."

  "I rather like Patrick--if I thought it might pass as Patrick! Patrickhas possibilities. The diminutive is Pat, and that's not bad. ButPeter!"

  "Do you know," Harmony confessed half shyly, "I like Peter as a name."

  "Peter it shall be, then. I go down to posterity and fame as PeterByrne. The rest doesn't amount to much, but I want you to know it, sinceyou have been good enough to accept me on faith. I'm here alone, froma little town in eastern Ohio; worked my way through a coeducationalcollege in the West and escaped unmarried; did two years in a drygoodsstore until, by saving and working in my vacations, I got throughmedical college and tried general practice. Didn't like it--alwayswanted to do surgery. A little legacy from the German uncle, trying toatone for the 'Augustus,' gave me enough money to come here. I've got achance with the Days--surgeons, you know--when I go back, if I can hangon long enough. That's all. Here's a traveler's check with my name onit, to vouch for the truth of this thrilling narrative. Gaze on it withawe; there are only a few of them left!"

  Harmony was as delicately strung, as vibratingly responsive as thestrings of her own violin, and under the even lightness of his tone shefelt many things that met a response in her--loneliness and struggle,and the ever-present anxiety about money, grim determination, hope andfear, and even occasional despair. He was still young, but there werelines in his face and a hint of gray in his hair. Even had he been lessfrank, she would have known soon enough--the dingy little pension, theshabby clothes--

  She held out her hand.

  "Thank you for telling me," she said simply. "I think I understand verywell because--it's music with me: violin. And my friends have gone, so Iam alone, too."

  He leaned his elbows on the table and looked out over the crowd withoutseeing it.

  "It's curious, isn't it?" he said. "Here we are, you and I, meetingin the center of Europe, both lonely as the mischief, both working ourheads off for an idea that may never pan out! Why aren't you at hometo-night, eating a civilized beefsteak and running upstairs to get readyfor a nice young man to bring you a box of chocolates? Why am I notmeasuring out calico in Shipley & West's? Instead, we are going toFrau Schwarz', to listen to cold ham and scorched compote eaten in sixdifferent languages."

  Harmony made no immediate reply. He seemed to expect none. She wasdrawing on her gloves, her eyes, like his, roving over the crowd.

&nbs
p; Far back among the tables a young man rose and yawned. Then,seeing Byrne, he waved a greeting to him. Byrne's eyes, from beingintrospective, became watchful.

  The young man was handsome in a florid, red-checked way, with black hairand blue eyes. Unlike Byrne, he was foppishly neat. He was not alone. Aslim little Austrian girl, exceedingly chic, rose when he did and threwaway the end of a cigarette.

  "Why do we go so soon?" she demanded fretfully in German. "It is earlystill."

  He replied in English. It was a curious way they had, and eminentlysatisfactory, each understanding better than he spoke the other'slanguage.

  "Because, my beloved," he said lightly, "you are smoking a great manypoisonous and highly expensive cigarettes. Also I wish to speak toPeter."

  The girl followed his eyes and stiffened jealously.

  "Who is that with Peter?"

  "We are going over to find out, little one. Old Peter with a woman atlast!"

  The little Austrian walked delicately, swaying her slim body with a slowand sensuous grace. She touched an officer as she passed him, and pausedto apologize, to the officer's delight and her escort's irritation. AndPeter Byrne watched and waited, a line of annoyance between his brows.The girl was ahead; that complicated things.

  When she was within a dozen feet of the table he rose hastily, with aword of apology, and met the couple. It was adroitly done. He had takenthe little Austrian's arm and led her by the table while he was stillgreeting her. He held her in conversation in his absurd German untilthey had reached the swinging doors, while her companion followedhelplessly. And he bowed her out, protesting his undying admiration forher eyes, while the florid youth alternately raged behind him and staredback at Harmony, interested and unconscious behind her table.

  The little Austrian was on the pavement when Byrne turned, unsmiling, tothe other man.

  "That won't do, you know, Stewart," he said, grave but not unfriendly.

  "The Kid wouldn't bite her."

  "We'll not argue about it."

  After a second's awkward pause Stewart smiled.

  "Certainly not," he agreed cheerfully. "That is up to you, of course. Ididn't know. We're looking for you to-night."

  A sudden repulsion for the evening's engagement rose in Byrne, but thesituation following his ungraciousness was delicate.

  "I'll be round," he said. "I have a lecture and I may be late, but I'llcome."

  The "Kid" was not stupid. She moved off into the night, chin in air,angrily flushed.

  "You saw!" she choked, when Stewart had overtaken her and slipped a handthrough her arm. "He protects her from me! It is because of you. BeforeI knew you--"

  "Before you knew me, little one," he said cheerfully, "you were exactlywhat you are now."

  She paused on the curb and raised her voice.

  "So! And what is that?"

  "Beautiful as the stars, only--not so remote."

  In their curious bi-lingual talk there was little room for subtlety. The"beautiful" calmed her, but the second part of the sentence roused hersuspicion.

  "Remote? What is that?"

  "I was thinking of Worthington."

  The name was a signal for war. Stewart repented, but too late.

  In the cold evening air, to the amusement of a passing detail ofsoldiers trundling a breadwagon by a rope, Stewart stood on the pavementand dodged verbal brickbats of Viennese idioms and German epithets. Hedrew his chin into the up-turned collar of his overcoat and waited, anabsurdly patient figure, until the hail of consonants had subsidedinto a rain of tears. Then he took the girl's elbow again and led her,childishly weeping, into a narrow side street beyond the prying ears andeyes of the Alserstrasse.

  Byrne went back to Harmony. The incident of Stewart and the girl wasclosed and he dismissed it instantly. That situation was not his, orof his making. But here in the coffee-house, lovely, alluring, ratherpuzzled at this moment, was also a situation. For there was a situation.He had suspected it that morning, listening to the delicatessen-seller'snarrative of Rosa's account of the disrupted colony across in the oldlodge; he had been certain of it that evening, finding Harmony in thedark entrance to his own rather sordid pension. Now, in the brightlight of the coffee-house, surmising her poverty, seeing her beauty, theemotional coming and going of her color, her frank loneliness, and Godsave the mark!--her trust in him, he accepted the situation and adoptedit: his responsibility, if you please.

  He straightened under it. He knew the old city fairly well--enough tolove it and to loathe it in one breath. He had seen its tragedies andpassed them by, or had, in his haphazard way, thrown a greeting to them,or even a glass of native wine. And he knew the musical temperament;the all or nothing of its insistent demands; its heights that are higherthan others, its wretchednesses that are hell. Once in the HofstadtTheater, where he had bought standing room, he had seen a girl he hadknown in Berlin, where he was taking clinics and where she was cookingher own meals. She had been studying singing. In the Hofstadt Theatershe had worn a sable coat and had avoided his eyes.

  Perhaps the old coffee-house had seen nothing more absurd, in its yearsof coffee and billiards and Munchener beer, than Peter's new resolutionthat night: this poverty adopting poverty, this youth adopting youth,with the altruistic purpose of saving it from itself.

  And this, mind you, before Peter Byrne had heard Harmony's story or knewher name, Rosa having called her "The Beautiful One" in her narrative,and the delicatessen-seller being literal in his repetition.

  Back to "The Beautiful One" went Peter Byrne, and, true to his new partof protector and guardian, squared his shoulders and tried to look mucholder than he really was, and responsible. The result was a grimnessthat alarmed Harmony back to the forgotten proprieties.

  "I think I must go," she said hurriedly, after a glance at hisdeterminedly altruistic profile. "I must finish packing my things. ThePortier has promised--"

  "Go! Why, you haven't even told me your name!"

  "Frau Schwarz will present you to-night," primly and rising.

  Peter Byrne rose, too.

  "I am going back with you. You should not go through that lonely yardalone after dark."

  "Yard! How do you know that?"

  Byrne was picking up the cheese, which he had thoughtlessly set on theheater, and which proved to be in an alarming state of dissolution. Ittook a moment to rewrap, and incidentally furnished an inspiration. Heindicated it airily.

  "Saw you this morning coming out--delicatessen shop across the street,"he said glibly. And then, in an outburst of honesty which the girl'seyes seemed somehow to compel: "That's true, but it's not all the truth.I was on the bus last night, and when you got off alone I--I saw youwere an American, and that's not a good neighborhood. I took the libertyof following you to your gate!"

  He need not have been alarmed. Harmony was only grateful, and said so.And in her gratitude she made no objection to his suggestion that he seeher safely to the old lodge and help her carry her hand-luggage and herviolin to the pension. He paid the trifling score, and followed by manyeyes in the room they went out into the crisp night together.

  At the lodge the doors stood wide, and a vigorous sound of scrubbingshowed that the Portier's wife was preparing for the inspection ofpossible new tenants. She was cleaning down the stairs by the light ofa candle, and the steam of the hot water on the cold marble invested herlike an aura. She stood aside to let them pass, and then went cumbrouslydown the stairs to where, a fork in one hand and a pipe in the other,the Portier was frying chops for the evening meal.

  "What have I said?" she demanded from the doorway. "Your angel is here."

  "So!"

  "She with whom you sing, old cracked voice! Whose money you refuse,because she reminds you of your opera singer! She is again here, andwith a man!"

  "It is the way of the young and beautiful--there is always a man," saidthe Portier, turning a chop.

  His wife wiped her steaming hands on her apron and turned away,exasperated.

  "It is t
he same man whom I last night saw at the gate," she threw backover her shoulder. "I knew it from the first; but you, great booby, cansee nothing but red lips. Bah!"

  Upstairs in the salon of Maria Theresa, lighted by one candle andfreezing cold, in a stiff chair under the great chandelier Peter Byrnesat and waited and blew on his fingers. Down below, in the Street ofSeven Stars, the arc lights swung in the wind.