Her room, which, like all the rooms in the bungalow, had wide door-windows standing open upon the veranda for greater coolness, lay between Tony Kenyon’s own bedroom and the main living-room. The step had come from Tony’s room, yet it was not like his step! It was slow, halting, more like that of an old man than a young one, vigorous despite recent illness—slipping out of bed, the girl flung on her dressing-gown, and stealing to the window, pulled the mosquito-net aside and peeped out.
Yes! There was Tony, a tall shadow against the strong moonlight, clad like herself in pyjamas and dressing-gown, moving slowly, uncertainly along the veranda towards the living-room . . . pausing only to thrust her feet into slippers, for fear of snakes, Eve stepped softly out upon the veranda, and keeping close to the house wall, stole after the moving figure, her heart in her mouth. Puzzled, alarmed as she was, yet something seemed to keep her from crying out, from seizing him by the arm, as was her first impulse—as he turned towards the door leading into the living-room, she caught a glimpse of him in profile, and in the light of the lamp that they had forgetfully left burning upon the veranda-table, she saw that his eyes were open, but fixed. He was asleep!
His lips were set in a faint, contented smile, he breathed lightly, easily, but he was moving tranced a figure in a dream . . . silent, scared, she watched him enter the living-room, go straight towards the desk, and pulling up a chair, sit down before it. Her heart thumping like a sledge-hammer, her brain a tumult of excited wondering speculations through which the amazing truth was, like a distant light, already beginning to dawn, she watched him fumble for a pencil, set a pad of writing paper square before him, and began to write?. Stealing noiselessly into the room, her breath held taut with excitement, her wrapper clutched tightly about her, she peered over his shoulder, and all but gave a loud and terrified cry of wonder—for Tony Kenyon was writing in the dead man’s hand!
There he sat, staring before him with the strange blank stare of the sleepwalker, tracing slowly but clearly upon the sheet of blank white paper, the neat upright lettering characteristic of Len Sanders, dead over a year ago . . . so, still gasping, unable to believe her eyes, Eve Dersingham read her old lover’s explanation, blessing, and farewell! Read it as it was indited by the hand of her new lover, dictated and controlled by the old—dictated and controlled as had been all the earlier letters that had succeeded in bringing these two young souls together?
Dear Child [the letter ran],
I did not know that I should have to resort to this letter-writing business again, but to save you the pain and trouble of having to dig my poor old body up tomorrow to satisfy your quite legitimate curiosity, I am forced to do so. Don’t trouble my child! My body lies there all right—my worn-out clothes—but though what the world calls dead, I live still, and by the favour of the gods I have, through this lad’s unconscious hand, been able to serve and save you, my dear. Dying as I did, and when I did, I thought of you, my little love, and thinking, was troubled. You were alone and poor . . . what could I do for you? Then when I woke after the Great Sleep, and found not death, but fresh life, I cast about wondering how I might help you still—and found the right solution positively jogging my elbow! Here was this lad—fine, courageous, young, a fit mate for you, far better than I should ever have been, dearly as I loved you, my little Eve. . . .
It was pure luck that I drifted about my old quarters, unable to make up my mind to go onwards and leave you to take your chance in the world, wondering, worrying as to how I might do something for you. I saw the blue light of the psychic flame about him, and knew him not only clear and honest, but a medium ready to my hand! The idea came to me like a flash, one day as I sat studying him as he fought against loneliness and terror and temptation, and, all unconsciously calling upon me for help, put himself en rapport with me—and I knew I could use him for my purpose! The rest was easy. So through his hand I began again to write to you, child; through his hand I have written all the letters since I ‘died’; in them, deliberately, I urged you to come out, knowing you and he fit mates for each other, knowing that he will make you happy, and that in the long run all is good in God’s mysterious world. Bless you, my children—think of me sometimes! Some day we shall meet. But now I have done my work, and must go onwards. . . .
(Author’s Note.—The above story was taken down from the lips of ‘Tony’ and ‘Eve’ themselves, who declared to me that it was true both in substance and in fact.)
April
The Concierge’s Tale
The Portrait Of Comtesse X
He was a mysterious creature, was Monsieur Gilles Rousselier. Tall, lean, with wild dark locks of hair and deep-set eyes—in the early thirties, one would say—shabby and out-at-elbows as a tramp, though his clothes were well cut enough.
He came here one bleak November day, with a portfolio of drawings under one arm, and under the other a brown paper parcel containing all his other worldly possessions. I was not here at the moment, else I should certainly have refused him as a tenant—I, who have my living to make by letting these rooms! But he had eyes like a deer’s, dark-brown and wistful, and you know what women are . . . he had a starved hungry look, too, in his wide black hat and rain-spattered grey tweed suit. Louise, my wife, surveyed him, and, despite his obvious poverty, despite his saying (honestly enough, one admitted!) that at the moment he could not pay the deposit that is customary on taking a room, she took him in.
And not only that, ma foi! She gave him the large studio at the back, my best-letting room, and more, cooked him a meal forthwith—omelette, bread, cheese and wine . . . crazy! I was angry enough when I returned to find this vagabond installed in the finest room in the house, but my wife rounded on me; vowed she should give food and shelter to whom she chose, reminded me of the entirely unpractical example of our Lady on these matters. . . . é la la! . . . I left her to talk and said nothing, but I determined to see that our new tenant paid at least his board, or out he should go, brown eyes and all!
I was surly enough to start with, naturally, but the fellow had a way with him. Odd—one found oneself liking him against one’s will; forgiving him, making excuses for him, his moods and vagaries. Despite his lack of money he was gay enough at times, though, like all these artist-fellows, when the gloom got him by the throat there was no lifting it. He would stare into the bit of fire my wife persisted in allowing him—though Monsieur understands it is an extra, that—stare fixedly, his chin on one long paint-stained hand, a cigarette burning itself out unnoticed in the other . . . stare and stare unblinking, till it made my eyes water to see him. I challenged him once—asked how he learnt to do that, to keep his great eyes open without fluttering his lashes—blinking, you call it, eh? He looked at me oddly and laughed.
‘Do not ask me that, my little Lespinasse, my jewel of a concierge! I learnt how a very long time ago—when I learnt other things that I am trying now to forget. There are things it is not good for man to know, lest he challenge the gods with their own powers of life, and maybe death. . . .’
I thought of his words afterwards with a shiver, but then I did not understand. Indeed, he was often saying things like that, so that it puzzled me to guess what it meant. He was difficult to ranger—one could not place him easily. He was well born, one could see that, his speech and manners, slender height and long delicate hands were aristocratic, though he deliberately affected a patois in his talk as though he were endeavouring to break away from his old world and ways.
He had lived in his youth in a great château, I gathered; had been sent then to a great college in Dresden to study science . . . but there it was the story stopped. He had, apparently, been expelled from the college in disgrace of some sort; in disgrace so grave that when his haughty father heard of it, he turned him out likewise, and the young man flung away into the world alone, embittered, defiant, with only a trivial gift for painting to depend on to earn him bread-and-butter.
Tactfully as she questioned, as she fussed about the studio, my wife co
uld never unearth the name of his family (for, of course, ‘Rousselier’ was obviously his nom-de-guerre), yet in an unguarded moment he owned that his first name, Gilles, was taken from an old ancestor of his, who was a great sinner in his day, a man cursed alike by God and man. Laughing, he said once—mysteriously enough, we thought—that his old grand-grand-grand uncle was doubtless responsible for his taking more interest than he should in hidden things . . . this again was beyond us, so we left it uncomprehended, as we left many of his sayings.
Only one thing he spoke of frankly, and that, a girl. Hélène, the daughter of the noble duke owning the neighbouring estate to his father’s; they had known each other from childhood, and the loss of this adorable child, for she was but eighteen when he left his home, had hit him more sharply than all else. He had stacks of sketches of her; mostly crude young efforts executed in his early boyhood, of Hélène as a child, a small white-faced thing with a halo of curling ruddy hair, and narrowed eyes that looked out at you with a curiously cat-like stare—beautiful, oh yes, yet somehow, to me, cold and with an oddly cruel look about the provocative thin upper-lip, the faintly upward slant to the long eyes.
Later, there came more ambitious sketches, yet none quite completed . . . yes, that picture you see on the wall there, labelled ‘Portrait of Countess X’ . . . that was the only one he finished. Wait, Monsieur, and you shall hear in time. This girl Hélène—she was a veritable obsession! He would talk about her by the hour while my wife cleaned the studio, set to rights his shabby camp-bed with its rug that did duty for blanket and sheet, washed his wretched battered collection of cups and plates . . . I was angry with my good Louise! Dieu, the energy she would spend seeing to this tatterdemalion, and leaving better-paying tenants alone! But it is no use to talk to a woman. Had Louise, my wife, been less old and fat, bless her heart, I might have waxed jealous of the young man. But there—’twas her kind heart and his hungry dark eyes together, so what could I say? Also, I will say he paid when he could, and paid generously. He did a little work at times for a firm of decorators; painted book-covers, handbags, shoe-leather and so on . . . work he hated, but took for sheer pride’s sake—and once, after many weeks, he had an order for a real picture!
When that commission brought its cheque—what a feast! He took us all, Louise and me, and little Germaine and Alphonse, to the famous Lampe Rouge in the Boulevard Italien and bade us order what we would.
Louise wore her plaid silk gown and a black velvet coat, and a hat with a green feather, and I bought new brown boots that squeaked, and Germaine had a red cloth frock . . . by the beard of little St Jacques, we were a merry party! We ate moules marinières and potage reine, steak with olives and mushrooms, and fresh green figs with cream . . . ma foi, what a meal! Gilles ate like a fiend and drank too, till his thin cheeks were red and his eyes shone?
When we had all eaten well, he said he would show us some tricks to make us laugh. We sat at a corner table of the Lampe Rouge, so few could see us—it was, what do you say?—‘round an angle’. That was well, for now indeed came the part of the evening that we do not like even now to remember.
Louise, my wife, she is a lively woman, Monsieur. Très gaie, laughing, vivace, despite her age—she was always thus, and now she began to tease our Gilles about his trick of staring so hard, so straight, and never winking.
He looked at her suddenly, under his lashes, so—and for a moment I had a feeling that there peeped out a Gilles I did not know, I did not even want to know. I felt a little cold, yet the feeling passed away in a flash, and I scoffed at myself for foolishness.
He was valiant with wine—good strong wine we had drunk, and plenty of it—but his eyes were steady enough in his flushed face as he answered. His stare? He could do strange things with that stare, if we only knew. . . .
Now, would Madame Louise look across the restaurant, to where four fat men sat, replete, sleepy after their meal, and single out the one who sat with his back towards us, the bald one with the thick neck? Yes . . . now, watch well what would happen!
Gilles was sitting with his back to the room, but there was a great mirror behind us upon the wall, against which we sat, Louise and me, with little Germaine between us, and of a sudden we saw him stare into this, his eyes fixed hard upon the back of the fat man. There was a long moment’s pause, then, of a sudden the man rose, turned, and came with short stilted steps across the restaurant towards us!
Two or three steps only he took, then suddenly Gilles laughed, relaxing, and the fat man, bewildered, gaped around him at the people staring open-mouthed at his sudden uprising . . . then he sat down again ruffled, furious, amidst a volley of amazed questions from his friends.
Despite the sudden little shock of fright that she admitted afterwards this gave her, Louise scoffed.
‘Hé, then! That is not so much—that! It is foolish to think that just because you look at a man he should turn and get up! It was a good chance, that it all. . . .’
She went on laughing loudly, rather foolishly—the wine was certainly strong—and the young man’s face hardened a little.
‘You think that a chance, Madame? Will you call it “chance” still when I make that glass at your elbow, when I look at it, fall and roll across the table to me here?’
We were silent, impressed, yet disturbed. Louise tossed her head in disbelief, the children stared, yet we sat silent, watching while he squared his much darned elbows on the table, and frowning, bent that strange stare hard upon the tall wineglass.
At his silent concentration, uneasily Louise began to giggle, but her giggle broke off abruptly in the middle as she saw the glass shake, tremble on its squat stem, and at last fall over prone upon its side, and roll, roll, roll, across the table till it knocked against the young man’s hand!
‘Mother of God!’ quoth Louise, frankly scared.
He laughed, a quick laugh of triumph, but I felt cold and oddly nervous . . . pardieu, I did not like this new strange Gilles at all, and wished we had not come. But the two little ones were frankly delighted, as children are with a new toy, and Germaine clapped her hands in ecstasy.
‘Again, again . . . cher oncle Gilles, make another thing tumble, or walk when you tell it, or fly . . . can you make things fly?’
Again that oddly furtive look, swift, wary, from Louise to me and back again! It seemed that on the moment the young man bit back a rejoinder, or changed it into something else, afraid.
‘Fly? That is as may be! If I sent you flying through the air above the tables of the Lampe Rouge, my little Germaine, it may be I should get into serious trouble, and I have caught trouble enough that way already! No . . . but I will show you something strange again. Look now, at that great grey cat there. You see her? Now, watch!’
Proud, stately as befitted the pet cat of an establishment like the Lampe Rouge, the grey cat perched beside Madame la Patronne at the cash-desk—Madame Camille, of the bright dark eyes and immense bust, stiffly upholstered in black stain, who sat easily at the seat of custom, and whose said bright eyes no defaulting customer could ever hope to escape. Under the absent stroking of her plump white hand the grey cat reared its head, somnolent, sensually content.
‘Josèphe’ was old and dignified, resenting any attempt at hurrying him. Nobody had ever seen Josèphe move at a greater pace than a dignified walk . . . Judge then of Madame’s start and shriek of horror when without a word of warning, the great cat, turning, struck violently at her hand, and bolting off the cash-desk, went round the room like a streak of grey lightning, leaping from table to table, sending glasses flying in every direction, amidst shrieks of startled women, curses of men fiercely scratched in their endeavour to catch the creature amidst scattered food, over-turned chairs . . . in effect, pandemonium let loose! Twice the crazy animal circled the restaurant, then Gilles Rousselier, leaping into the middle of the floor, uttered a curious call on a low hissing note, and lo! the cat, leaping to his shoulder, sat there like a stone image, suddenly quelled, at peace, pur
ring as he had done under Madame’s hand!
Imagine, Monsieur, the scene! Madame Camille in hysterics, vowing the cat was mad and must be killed, angry clients vociferating to their agitated waiters, pointing out wine spilt, frocks torn, ugly scratches down white arms? In the midst of this excitement, as we sat subdued, and to tell the truth not a little frightened, I became aware that a tall woman had emerged from a distant corner and was talking to Gilles—talking like an old friend. Her back was towards me for the moment, but I heard her voice, clear, mocking, as she stood with one hand on her slender hip, a hand I saw starred with a marvellous diamond.
‘So, Gilles, you are still at your old ways!’
I did not understand the allusion, but I was not really listening, absorbed as I was in seeing the utter change in the young man’s face.
Radiant, worshipping, transformed—I knew who it was at once. Only one woman could bring that look into his eyes; the girl of his tragic youth, ‘Hélène’ of the olden days. . . .
He answered as one speaks in a dream.
‘You! I never dreamt of seeing you here. Hélène—oh, my dear, my dear! I came to Paris to forget, not to remember, but forgetfulness is not so easy when it comes to forgetting you.’
She laughed on a faintly flattered note.
‘Really? Men are not usually so faithful! But you were always an exception, in your tastes as in your ways. Well, I was bored with haunts of the mighty, so I came here in search of novelty—and find you! Where are you living, mon cher? I shall come and see you. I might even—who knows—sit again for you?’
THE TERRACES OF NIGHT Page 8