I sat there, horribly disturbed; the words, "One must try to be a gentleman!" haunting me.When I came out, he was standing by the entrance with one hand on his hip and the other on his dog.In that attitude of waiting he was such a patient figure; the sun glared down and showed the threadbare nature of his clothes and the thinness of his brown hands, with their long forgers and nails yellow from tobacco.Seeing me he came up the steps again, and raised his hat.
"I am glad to have caught you; please forget all that." I asked if he would do me the honour of dining at my hotel.
"Dine?" he repeated with the sort of smile a child gives if you offer him a box of soldiers; "with the greatest pleasure.I seldom dine out, but I think I can muster up a coat.Yes--yes--and at what time shall I come? At half-past seven, and your hotel is--? Good! Ishall be there.Freda, mia cara, you will be alone this evening.
You do not smoke caporal, I fear.I find it fairly good; though it has too much bite." He walked off with Freda, puffing at his thin roll of caporal.
Once or twice he stopped, as if bewildered or beset by some sudden doubt or memory; and every time he stopped, Freda licked his hand.
They disappeared round the corner of the street, and I went to my hotel to see about dinner.On the way I met Jules le Ferrier, and asked him to come too.
"My faith, yes!" he said, with the rosy pessimism characteristic of the French editor."Man must dine!"At half-past six we assembled.My "Cosmopolitan" was in an old frock-coat braided round the edges, buttoned high and tight, defining more than ever the sharp lines of his shoulders and the slight kink of his back; he had brought with him, too, a dark-peaked cap of military shape, which he had evidently selected as more fitting to the coat than a straw hat.He smelled slightly of some herb.
We sat down to dinner, and did not rise for two hours.He was a charming guest, praised everything he ate--not with commonplaces, but in words that made you feel it had given him real pleasure.At first, whenever Jules made one of his caustic remarks, he looked quite pained, but suddenly seemed to make up his mind that it was bark, not bite; and then at each of them he would turn to me and say, "Aha! that's good--isn't it?" With every glass of wine he became more gentle and more genial, sitting very upright, and tightly buttoned-in; while the little white wings of his moustache seemed about to leave him for a better world.
In spite of the most leading questions, however, we could not get him to talk about himself, for even Jules, most cynical of men, had recognised that he was a hero of romance.He would answer gently and precisely, and then sit twisting his moustaches, perfectly unconscious that we wanted more.Presently, as the wine went a little to his head, his thin, high voice grew thinner, his cheeks became flushed, his eyes brighter; at the end of dinner he said: "Ihope I have not been noisy."
We assured him that he had not been noisy enough."You're laughing at me," he answered."Surely I've been talking all the time!""Mon Dieu!" said Jules, "we have been looking for some fables of your wars; but nothing--nothing, not enough to feed a frog!"The old fellow looked troubled.
"To be sure!" he mused."Let me think! there is that about Colhoun at Gettysburg; and there's the story of Garibaldi and the Miller."He plunged into a tale, not at all about himself, which would have been extremely dull, but for the conviction in his eyes, and the way he stopped and commented."So you see," he ended, "that's the sort of man Garibaldi was! I could tell you another tale of him."Catching an introspective look in Jules's eye, however, I proposed taking our cigars over to the cafe opposite.
"Delightful!" the old fellow said: "We shall have a band and the fresh air, and clear consciences for our cigars.I cannot like this smoking in a room where there are ladies dining."He walked out in front of us, smoking with an air of great enjoyment.
Jules, glowing above his candid shirt and waistcoat, whispered to me, "Mon cher Georges, how he is good!" then sighed, and added darkly:
"The poor man!"
We sat down at a little table.Close by, the branches of a plane-tree rustled faintly; their leaves hung lifeless, speckled like the breasts of birds, or black against the sky; then, caught by the breeze, fluttered suddenly.
The old fellow sat, with head thrown back, a smile on his face, coming now and then out of his enchanted dreams to drink coffee, answer our questions, or hum the tune that the band was playing.The ash of his cigar grew very long.One of those bizarre figures in Oriental garb, who, night after night, offer their doubtful wares at a great price, appeared in the white glare of a lamp, looked with a furtive smile at his face, and glided back, discomfited by its unconsciousness.It was a night for dreams! A faint, half-eastern scent in the air, of black tobacco and spice; few people as yet at the little tables, the waiters leisurely, the band soft! What was he dreaming of, that old fellow, whose cigar-ash grew so long? Of youth, of his battles, of those things that must be done by those who try to be gentlemen; perhaps only of his dinner; anyway of something gilded in vague fashion as the light was gilding the branches of the plane-tree.
Jules pulled my sleeve: "He sleeps." He had smilingly dropped off;the cigar-ash--that feathery tower of his dreams--had broken and fallen on his sleeve.He awoke, and fell to dusting it.
The little tables round us began to fill.One of the bandsmen played a czardas on the czymbal.Two young Frenchmen, talking loudly, sat down at the adjoining table.They were discussing the lady who had been at the concert that afternoon.
"It's a bet," said one of them, "but there's the present man.I take three weeks, that's enough elle est declassee; ce n'est que le premier pas--'
My old friend's cigar fell on the table."Monsieur," he stammered, "you speak of a lady so, in a public place?"The young man stared at him."Who is this person?" he said to his companion.
