Of Time and the River (118 page)

Starwick’s reply to this was to pick up the seltzer bottle on the table and, without for a moment altering his air of cold impassivity, to squirt the siphon straight in the little Frenchman’s yellow face.

In a moment, the place was a seething maelstrom of excitement. People all over sprang up from their tables, the dancers stopped dancing, the orchestra stopped with a crash, and the proprietor and the waiter came towards them on the run.

They were at once surrounded by an excited group of gesticulating, chattering people, all trying to talk at once. Starwick was standing up now, facing his antagonist, cold and impassive save for a deeper flush of excitement on his ruddy face. As for the little Frenchman, the look of murderous hatred on his face was horrible. Without stopping to dry his dripping face with the napkin which an excited and persuasive waiter was offering him, he thrust aside the manager, who was trying to restrain him, and coming close to Starwick, snarled:

“Your name, monsieur? I demand to know your name. My representatives will call upon you in the morning.”

“Good,” said Starwick coldly. “I shall wait for them. Monsieur shall have whatever satisfaction he desires.”

And taking a card from his purse, he wrote the studio address below his name and gave it to the man.

“Ah, good!” the Frenchman cried harshly, glancing at it. “Until tomorrow!”

And calling for his bill, and silent to all the apologies and cajoleries of the proprietor, he departed.

“But Frank, darling!” Elinor cried, when they had seated themselves again. “What do you intend to do? Surely you’re not going to—” She did sot finish, but stared at him with a troubled and astonished face.

“Yes,” said Starwick coldly and quietly. “He has asked me to fight a duel, and if he wants it, I shall meet him.”

“Oh, but don’t be absurd!” cried Elinor with an impatient laugh. “What on earth do you know about fighting duels? My poor child, how can you be so ridiculous! This is the twentieth century, darling. Don’t you know that people don’t act that way any longer?”

“Quite!” said Starwick, with a stony calm. “Nevertheless, I shall meet him if he wants me to.” He looked at her with quiet eyes for a moment, and then said gravely: “I’ve GOT to do that. I really have, you know.”

“Got to!” Elinor cried impatiently. “Why, the child is MAD!” Her tone immediately became crisp, incisive, authoritative: she began to speak to him quietly, kindly, but in a peremptory tone, as one might speak to a child:

“Francis,” she said quietly. “Listen to me! Don’t be an idiot! What does it matter about that wretched little man? It’s all over now! A duel! Good heavens! Don’t be such a child! Whoever heard of such a thing?”

His face reddened a little from her ridicule, but he answered, in a cold impassive tone:

“Quite! Nevertheless, I shall meet him if he wants it!”

“Meet him!” Elinor cried again. “Oh, Francis, how can you be so stupid! Meet him with what?”

“With whatever weapon he wants to use,” Starwick replied. “Pistols or swords—it doesn’t matter!”

“Pistols or swords!” Elinor shrieked faintly, and began to laugh. “Why, you idiot, what do you know about pistols or swords? You’ve never had a sword in your hand in your life—and as for pistols, you wouldn’t even know how to point the thing and press the trigger!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said in a very quiet and fatal way. “I shall fire into the air.”

In spite of the ridiculous and melodramatic quality of these foolish words, no one laughed. They saw suddenly what fatal consequences this farcical situation might have, and having felt the desperation of his soul—that terrible despair which now seemed to be driving him on to seek ruin everywhere—they knew he would do exactly as he said, if given the opportunity.

Elinor started to go: she beckoned to a waiter and called for the bill, and said persuasively:

“Come on! Let’s get out of this place! You’ve had too much to drink! I think your head needs clearing—a little fresh air will do you good. You’ll feel different about all this tomorrow!”

“But not at all!” he said patiently, and then, as she started to get up: “Will you please sit down. We’re not going yet.”

“But why, darling? Aren’t you ready? Haven’t you raised enough hell for one evening—or do you want to fight a duel with someone else? Besides, I do think you might think of Ann. I know she’s wanted to go for some time.”

“But WHY?” he said, turning to Ann with an air of fine surprise. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself? It’s a VERY good place, and the music is awfully good—it really is, you know.”

“Oh, charming, charming!” she muttered sarcastically. She had been staring at the table-cloth sullenly, with a flaming face, ever since the quarrel had begun, and now looking up suddenly, with a short and angry laugh, she said:

“God! I don’t know whether to walk out of here or CRAWL! I feel all—UNDRESSED!”

At these words, his face really did flush crimson with embarrassment. He looked at her for a moment, and then said sharply, with a note of stern reproof and anger in his voice:

“Ann! It’s VERY bad and VERY wrong—and—and—very MEAN of you to talk like that.”

“That’s how I feel,” she muttered.

“Then,” he said quietly but with two deep and angry spots of colour flaming in his cheeks, “I’m THOROUGHLY ashamed of you. It’s QUITE unworthy of you. At a time like this, a person of your quality has got to show more—” he paused, choosing the word carefully, “more FIBRE. You really must, you know!”

“Oh, fibre my eye!” she flared up, looking at him with flushed, lovely and angry eyes. “You don’t lack fibre simply because you don’t want to be made a fool of! Frank, you make me tired, the way you talk! Everywhere we go now someone’s always showing ‘fibre’— and everyone is having a rotten, awful time. For God’s sake, let’s not talk so much about showing fibre and let’s try to enjoy ourselves and get some pleasure and some happiness from life, and act like decent, natural people for a change. I had looked forward so much to coming on this trip with Elinor—and now—” Tears of anger and disappointment glittered in her eyes, she looked down at the table sullenly in an effort to conceal them, and then muttered: “Playing the fool and making scenes and starting rows everywhere we go! Getting into trouble everywhere, making people hate us, never having any fun! Squirting siphons at some wretched little man—” she made a sudden impulsive gesture of disgust and turned away. “God! It makes me sick!”

“I’m sorry to know you feel that way,” he said quietly. “I’ll try to see it doesn’t happen again—but, after all, Ann—the reason it did happen is because I like you so VERY much, and have so much respect for you and won’t stand for anyone insulting you!”

“Ah-h! Insulting me!” she said angrily. “Good heavens, Francis, do you think I need protection from a wretched little man like that? When I’ve been a nurse, and had to go alone to every rotten slum in Boston, and learned to handle people twice his size! Protect me!” she said bitterly. “Thank you for nothing! I didn’t come over here to be protected—I don’t need it. I can take care of myself. Just try to act and feel like a decent human being— let’s try to be friends together and to show some consideration for each other—and don’t worry about protecting me!”

LXXXI

He slept little that night. The quarrel in the night-club and its consequences seemed fantastic, incredible, like a nightmare. At daybreak he got up and went to the window and stared out at the grey light just breaking on the roofs and chimney-pots of Paris. The old buildings emerged haggard, pale, lemony, with all the wonderful, homely practicality of dawn and morning, and looking at them, Montmartre, the blaze of lights, the music and the drunken voices, and the quarrel with the Frenchman—the whole strange and evil chemistry of night—seemed farther away, more unreal and dream-like than ever. Could it have happened? Had Starwick really been challenged to a duel? Was he going through with it?

He got up and dressed, and with dry lips and a strange, numb lightness in his limbs, descended to the street and hailed a passing taxi in the Rue Bonaparte. The sounds of morning, shutters being rolled up, scrubwomen and maids down on their knees at entrances, shops being opened—all this made the night before seem more unreal than ever.

When he got to the studio he found everybody up. Ann was already at work making coffee, scrambling eggs for breakfast. Elinor was just combing up her hair, Starwick was in the balcony and had not yet come down. Elinor kept talking as she arranged her hair, and from the balcony Starwick answered her.

“But Frank!” she was saying, “you know you wouldn’t be fool enough to do such a thing! Surely you don’t mean you intend to go through with it?”

“Ace,” he said coldly from above, “I do mean to. Quite!”

“But—oh! Don’t be an ass!” she cried impatiently. Turning to Ann, with a little, frowning smile, she bit her lips, and shaking her head slightly, cried in an astounded tone:

“Isn’t it INCREDIBLE! Did you ever hear of such an INSANE thing in all your life?”

But in the set of her jaw, the faint smile around the corner of her mouth, there was the look of grim decision they had all seen before.

As Eugene entered, Ann turned from the stove, and, spoon in hand, stood looking at him sullenly for a moment. Suddenly she laughed her short and angry laugh and turned away toward Elinor, saying:

“God! Here’s the second! Don’t they make a pair!”

“But my DEAR!” cried Elinor with a light, gay malice. “Where is the top-hat? Where are the striped trousers and the morning coat? Where is the duelling case with the revolvers? . . . All right, Monsieur D’Artagnan,” she called up towards the balcony ironically. “Your friend Monsieur Porthos has arrived . . . and breakfast is ready, darling! What’s that they say about an army?” she innocently inquired, “—that it ought not to fight on an empty stomach? . . . Ahem!” she cleared her throat. “Will Monsieur D’Artagnan condescend to have the company of two frail women for breakfast on the morning of the great affair . . . or does Monsieur prefer to be left alone with his devoted second to discuss—ahem! ahem! . . . the final arrangements?”

Starwick made no reply, until he had come down the steps.

“You can stay, if you want to,” he said indifferently. “I shall have nothing to say to them, anyway.” Turning to Eugene, he said with magnificent, bored weariness: “Find out what they want. Let me know what they want to do.”

“B—but, what do you want me to say to them, Frank? What shall I tell them?”

“Anything,” said Starwick indifferently. “Anything you like. Say that I will meet him anywhere—on any terms—whatever they like. Let them settle it their own way.”

He picked up a spoon and started to eat his orange.

“Oh, Frank, you idiot!” cried Elinor, seizing him by the hair and shaking his head. “Don’t be stupid! You know you’re not going on with this farce!”

He lifted quiet, wearily patient eyes and looked at her.

“Sorry!” he said. “But I’ve GOT to. If that’s what he wants, I really must, I owe the man that much—I really do, you know!”

Breakfast then proceeded in a painful and uneasy silence, broken only by Elinor’s malicious thrusts, and maintained by Starwick’s weary and impassive calm.

At ten o’clock there were steps along the alley-way outside, someone mounted the veranda, and the studio bell jangled. The two women exchanged uneasy looks, Starwick got up quietly and turned away, and in a moment Elinor called out sharply: “Entrez.”

The door opened and a man entered the room. He wore striped trousers that were in need of pressing, a frayed and worn-looking frock-coat, and he carried a brief-case under his arm. He was bald, sallow, about forty-five years old, and had a little moustache and furtive eyes. He looked at each person in the room quickly, sharply, and then said inquiringly:

“Monsieur Star-WEEK?”

“Ace,” said Starwick quietly, and turned.

“Ah, bon!” the little Frenchman said briskly, and smiled, showing yellow fangs of teeth. He had been bent slightly forward, holding his brief-case with thin, eager fingers, as he waited. Now he came forward swiftly, took a card out of his wallet, and presenting it to Starwick with something of a flourish, said:

“Monsieur, permettez-moi. Ma carte.”

Starwick glanced at the card indifferently, and was about to put it down upon the table when the little Frenchman interrupted him. Stretching out his thin and rather grimy hand, he said courteously yet eagerly:

“S’il vous plaît, monsieur!”—took the card again, and put it back into his wallet.

Starwick indicated a chair and said:

“Won’t you sit down?”

From that time on, the conversation proceeded in mutilated French and English. The little Frenchman sat down, hitched up his striped trousers carefully and with his arched fingers poised upon his bony knees, bent forward and, with another ingratiating and somewhat repulsive smile, said:

“Monsieur Star-week ees Américain, n’est-ce pas?”

“Ace,” said Starwick.

“And was at Le Rat Mort last night?”

“Ace,” said Starwick again.

“Et Monsieur?” He nodded enquiringly toward Eugene, “vas also zere?”

“Ace,” Starwick answered.

“Et Mademoiselle . . . et Mademoiselle,” he turned with courteous inquiry towards the two young women—“zey vere also zere?”

“Ace,” said Starwick as before.

“Ah, bon!” the little Frenchman cried, nodding his head vigorously, and with an air of complete satisfaction. Then, rubbing his bony, little hands together dryly and briskly, he took up his thin and battered old brief-case, which he had been holding firmly between his knees, swiftly unfastened the straps and unlatched it, and took out a few sheets of flaming, yellow paper covered with notations in a fine, minute hand:

“Monsieur—” he began, clearing his throat, and rattling the flimsy sheets impressively—“Monsieur, I s’ink”—he looked up at Starwick ingratiatingly, but with an air of sly insinuation, “—Monsieur, I s’ink, perhaps, vas”—he shrugged his shoulders slightly, with an air of deprecation—“Monsieur vas—drink-ING?”

Starwick made no answer for a moment: his face reddened, he inclined his head, and said coldly, but unconcedingly: