“Whisky,” he said to the sleepy waiter, holding up one finger.
“Whisky,” the waiter repeated sadly, and hobbled away behind the counter, shuffling his red carpet slippers on the stone floor. A martyr to his feet. Too bad, too bad. At the word “whisky” the girl lifted her coffee-glass from the counter and turned around. Dark excited eyes, very large, very dark. Very pretty indeed, and quite young. French, of course. Why so excited? Was she drunk? No, no. You never could tell with these French, they always looked so excited even when sober. Besides, she was drinking coffee. She tilted her glass and drank, eyeing him over the rim. My goodness—that was a dangerous look; the kind of look that wrecks empires. Ah! she had turned away again. Perhaps she had seen that he had no necktie. Confound. Slip-slap—slip-slap—came the old sleepy waiter, hobbling in his carpet slippers, with trouser-legs, much too long, lying in laps on his insteps. Advancing with a series of painful jerks, his activity seemed tremendous; but his progress was slow.
“Whisky,” he said, putting down the glass, and almost at the same moment the girl at the counter turned and spoke.
“Un café, garçon,” she said.
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
Those dark eyes again! Too marvelous! And looking with such—with such—demoralizing good humor—into his own! He raised his glass toward her and smiled. She smiled in answer; and then, when he beckoned, she slid down from her stool and came toward him with slow steps. Black satin slippers with silver buckles. A broad scarlet sash, from which a streamer fell at one side. He rose, put out his hand, bowed elegantly, and was on the point of saying “Bon jour” (which hardly seemed appropriate) when she, smiling delightfully (and a little shyly) exclaimed—
“Hello, American!”
Well, now! What was one to say to that?
“You knew I was American? You speak English?”
She shrugged her shoulders extravangantly and sat down. She looked at him with her dark good-natured eyes, she looked down at the table, from which she picked up a dead match, and then again looked humorously at him, this time obliquely.
“Not much,” she said. “A little. I can read.”
She clasped her slender hands under her chin.
“You will permit me to pay for your coffee, mademoiselle?”
“If you like.”
“Would you care for a glass of wine? or an Amer Picon?”
“No—I do not drink. Coffee only. Merci.”
“Coffee is bad for you. How can you sleep?”
“Sleep! I sleep all day. Till two—three—in afternoon!”
“No!”
“Oui oui!”
Slip-slap the waiter again, bearing coffee, and Henry paid for it. The waiter beamed upon them and murmured his thanks. How nice of him not to be surprised. How very nice of him, and how nice everything was—sitting in Paris, in this Apache place, with such a charming girl, and all so innocent too! It was delightful, an experience to remember all one’s life. But suddenly he remembered his necktie. Ah—he would tell her about it. It would amuse her.
“I am in trouble,” he said, smiling, “very serious trouble.”
“You are in trouble?”
She smiled doubtfully, seeing that he smiled, but at the mention of trouble her dark eyes (magnificent!) had grown even darker with a beautiful swiftness of sympathy.
“You are in trouble, great trouble? It would be good to speak of it?”
“Great, great trouble.… I have forgotten to put on a necktie.”
“You have forgotten to—?”
“Put on a necktie—a cravat.”
He raised his hand to his naked collar, parting his coat lapels. She opened her eyes very wide, very wide, and they grew intensely bright, as if whole chandeliers had been lighted in them.
“Oh!” she cried. “How droll! Monsieur has forgotten to wear a cravat!”
“Exactly—a cravat!”
She began to laugh, with a soft dovelike sound, leaning forward on the table. She put her hand on top of his, just for a second, quick as a wing.
“Oh, how droll!” she cried. “How funny it makes you look!”
“But it is serious! I can’t go back to my hotel!”
“Comment?”
She didn’t at once fathom this.
“I can’t go back to my hotel.… What would they think? It is very, very serious!”
“Serious? Ah!…” She stared at him, sobering, her eyes resuming their natural look of melancholy good-humor. She still smiled a little, however. “You are married, perhaps,” she then added.
“Yes, married. And what would the concierge think?”
“Ah, I see. It is very serious. Life and death. You will be disgrace.”
“Disgrace! You bet I will.”
Her eyes twinkled with delicious malice, and she was on the point of laughing again, but instead she picked up the dead match and touched with it the edge of his sleeve.
“No,” she said, “I will save you. If you will be so kind and give me one more coffee.”
“You will save me!” His heart gave a great bound of joy. “Waiter! Garçon! Un café! Et whisky!… But how?”
She waved the match before him, mysterious.
“You will see,” she said. “I suprise you! Ha ha! How funny you are!”
She gave a wriggle of delight, shaking her dark head. Was she laughing at him? But no, it was sympathetically. She tittered, and took a sip of coffee, and tittered again. Henry shook his finger at her sternly.
“You are making fun of me!” he said. “Now, now!”
“Non, non, but it is so droll!… and I will save you from this disgrace—this—how you say épouvantable?”
“Frightful?”
“—this frightful disgrace! You must thank me. Yes, you must!”
“Thank you! I should say I would!… But how are you going to save me?”
“You have finish your whisky? All right. You go, and wait outside, not far. In a minute I come too. It is not good to see me go out with you. Comprenez? I stay and finish my café.”
What a delicious turn of fortune! And such a nice girl! Still, it was high time that something turned up, and time he was back at the hotel. What must poor Charlotte be thinking? Heavens! He walked fifty yards away from the café, and then turned and walked slowly back. Twenty minutes past eleven. Too late—far too late. Otherwise he might ask her to come out to supper with him somewhere, or to a dance-hall—what fun that would be! But no. This necktie business must be settled, and he must hurry back. Damnation. Life was always like this. Just as something nice and interesting occurred, destiny must intervene with some pressing engagement or responsibility which could not be ignored. Or else the event occurred when, as in this case, you were not in a proper state of mind for it—obsessed with something else. Too bad, too bad. And how thrilled Charlotte would be when she heard about it! But no—on second thought, she had better not hear about it. Goodness no—she would become insanely jealous, and wouldn’t believe a word of it! One of her mute reproachful spells, a four days’ headache, tears falling drop by drop in her secret romantic heart of hearts, and then a protracted and exhausting reconciliation. Poor, poor Charlotte—life was so hard for her; and the least he could do was to try and make it a little more bearable.… Ah! There she was! Coming with a little skip of joy, like a chamois! How young she looked, too! Not a day over twenty-five!