And at the far end of that great room the panel door opened to upset someone who was depending upon it as part of the wall.
— Don't tell me that advertising does a cultural service by reproducing art, confusing the art and the product in people's minds, it corrupts the art by exalting the. . ooops!
— Pardon, said M. Crémer, stepping back while this speaker picked himself up and renewed his attack. — So your hair oil reproduces the Mona Lisa, that's patronage. .
— A magnificent work, Crémer went on, coming out, — bien en-tendu, le visage de la Vierge. .
— Yes that, of course, said the white-haired man behind him, — but most obviously the work of some restorer. Rather serves to show up the excellence of the rest of the thing, though, you might say.
— Un sacrilege, ce visage-la, archaïque, dur comme la pierre, voyez vous, sans chaleur, sans cœur, sans sympathie, sans vie… en un mot, la mort, vous savez, sans espoir de Resurrection.
Last in the short line, Mr. Sonnenschein came out saying, — It's a price. It's a price. He looked over his shoulder, and started to say something, but the door closed in his face.
The white-haired man bumped Crémer, who'd stopped abruptly, one foot full on an Aubusson rose, to say, — Your Monsieur Brown, he is… typical?
Here the sharkskinned Argentine approached, to excuse himself and ask if any of them were Mr. Brown?
— He's right here. . ummph. . somewhere, the white-haired man said looking round over their heads. The Argentine looked, anxiously, with him.
— You are here on… business? Crémer challenged him.
— My official commission is completed earlier, the Argentine answered, — but I am here with the hope to secure something of… artistic?…
Crémer turned his back. — II va sans dire, he said, pausing to chuckle, — comme tout le monde sail bien, les grands tableaux de Goya qu'on trouve dans le Jockey Club de Buenos Aires sont des. . faux.
— A deodorant company reproduces the Madonna of the Rocks in an ad, and you call that. . ooopsl
Recktall Brown came through the panel door, with a fresh cigar in his mouth. He strode into the room and looked around with expectation, holding one heavy hand in the other behind him, and then the second in the first, his back turned to the direction he had come from, passing Crémer and the others so fast he had not seen them.
— A laxative company reproduces the portrait of Doctor Arnolfini and his wife in full color, and that's supposed to be… ooops!
Basil Valentine came through the panel door, and stood there, pulling it closed behind him slowly as he looked over the room, pale, his lips tight but moved by the tongue which caressed the broken tooth.
— Look, come on over to a safe corner, because I want to tell you that if there's one single cancer eating out this country, it's advertising.
Basil Valentine cupped his hands to light a cigarette, for the one he had held up with a match was quivering.
— But Doctor. . Kuvetli is it? in the Fourth Dynasty the process of embalming and mummification. .
— I beg you to excuse me for a moment. . Valentine watched him approach, the cigarette poised at his mouth, where he pressed his upper lip with a fingertip.
— What is the trouble? what is happening?
— Nothing, Valentine answered in the same low tone.
— But there is something, you are very upset. How did you injure yourself?
— An absurd accident…
— But you must tell me what all this is, there is something very wrong here tonight. .
— There is nothing wrong with anything but. . with anything that concerns you, Valentine answered quickly.
— Ah, but you cannot…
— I can do anything I wish, Valentine said heatedly, turning his back on the room.
— I am most concerned to see you lose… to see you so disturbed, said the other, backed against the wall there. — It is never a good thing.
— I've lost control of nothing.
— And you expect some trouble?
— Nothing that. . with which I am not familiar.
— Are you armed?
— Armed? Good heavens, do you expect someone to… attempt my life?
— Ah, but not so loudly. .
Valentine backed a step from him. He looked the man up and down. — What the devil is all this. .? Do you think you're here to… keep a watch on me? All this, I assure you, he went on, — I assure you it has nothing to do witn any but personal concerns, do you understand me? And that man over there… he started to turn, nodding over his shoulder at Brown's heavy back. Then he suddenly closed in again. — And you, are you armed? he demanded. He had only a smile in return, a smile which did not spread beyond the lips, nothing else moved from the point of the beard to the sharp black eyes. — Give it to me, Valentine said.
— But if, as you say, this is all no more than a personal affair…
— Give it to me, I say.
— But in matters of this sort, your authority does not extend. .
— Damn you! hand it over, and stop. . The vein stood out, pounding in Basil Valentine's temple. — My authority extends where I take it, he said, opening his dinner jacket and shielding the figure before him as the square weight of an automatic pistol passed between them. — And now. .
— Ah yes of course, I have read the book, a charmingly cynical thing of its kind. It is written with such. . freshness. . He stroked his beard with one finger, as Basil Valentine composed himself quickly, buttoning his dinner jacket and stepping back to allow the intrusion of a man whom neither of them appeared to know, — such naïveté, that one may imagine the author himself quite innocent of comprehending the full meaning of the deceit implicit in the scandalous behavior which he recommends, in order to win friends and, as it follows, influence people. Did you not have this feeling, Mister. . Mister. .?
Valentine had retired a step, and then another, about to turn. But he said, — Valentine. And now…
— Of course. . He had not taken his sharp eyes from Valentine's face but for an instant. — Of course I have implicit faith in your judgment, in matters of this sort.
— Thank you, Valentine said, bowing quickly from the waist and excusing himself, — I must see our host for a moment.
— Of course. .
— It proves no more than that the ends justify the means, and that eventually connivance is necessary to the accomplishment of good, said the intruder, carrying on with some perspicacity what he believed to be a conversation. — I believe that we can call its success in a society supposedly based in reason, as logical an outcome as the pragmatic approach of modern American psychoanalysis, he went on, though the man to whom he was now talking had favored him with the briefest scrutiny, and stood now looking over his shoulder toward the center of the room, where Basil Valentine collided with Fuller, who was retreating backwards with a loaded tray.
— You idiot! Idiotl
— Oh yes sar, yes sar. .
— Here, what do you mean calling Fuller an idiot?
— Oh Mister Brown sar, Mister Valentine sar. .
And if Basil Valentine was surprised, Fuller was astonished; if Valentine was discountenanced, Fuller was thoroughly alarmed at this guttural defense from the last source either of them might ever have expected.
Recktall Brown stood with his hands flattened across his belly one upon the other, the diamonds hidden beneath the thick joint of a finger. And as Valentine's eyes turned to the pools floating rash defiance in those thick lenses, Fuller made good his escape.
On the shifting surfaces of voices, rising, hesitating, and breaking, rolling deeply and fading away, moving in even swells, shattering in conflict, figures moved around them, as Recktall Brown took out a cigar with one hand, found the penknife with the other, and stood there, waiting.
— Whatever this game of yours is, it's gone far enough, Valentine got out finally.