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 at an expensive hotel. He was a connoisseur, for he had said that the picture was a cracker-jack.
"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."
"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 Café 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 Parson's 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 employé whom I yesterday sacked, to-day 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 café to lunch, and this man here would expel me."
"He is an employé 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 cigaratte, my good girl?"
The Man Who Disliked Cats
It was Harold who first made us acquainted, when I was dining one night at the Café Britannique, in Soho. It is a peculiarity of the Café 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 gaspipe 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 sympathise. 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.