Part 2 (1/2)
”It would have been less picturesque afterwards,” said Claudius.
”It would have been more effective at the time.”
Claudius was thinking of the dark woman and her parasol, and how he had climbed down there a few weeks before. To show to himself that he did not care, he told his companion the incident as graphically as he could.
His description of the lady was so graphic that Mr. Barker screwed up his eyes and put out his jaw, so that two great lines circled on his sallow face from just above the nostril, under his heavy moustache to his chin.
”I could almost fancy I had seen her somewhere,” said he.
”Where?” asked Claudius eagerly.
”I thought he would give himself away,” was the American's terse inward reflection; but he answered coolly--
”I don't know, I am sure. Very likely I am mistaken. It was pretty romantic though. Ask me to the wedding, Professor.”
”What wedding?”
”Why, when you marry the fascinating creature with the parasol.”
Claudius looked at Mr. Barker with some astonishment.
”Do you generally manage things so quickly in your country?”
”Oh, I was only joking,” returned the American. ”But, of course, you can marry anybody you like, and why not the dark lady? On the whole, though, if I were you, I would like to astonish the natives before I left. Now, you might buy the castle here and turn it into a hotel.”
”Horrible!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Claudius.
”No worse than making a hotel of Switzerland, which is an older and more interesting monument than the castle of Heidelberg.”
”Epigrammatic, but fallacious, Mr. Barker.”
”Epigrams and proverbs are generally that.”
”I think,” said Claudius, ”that proverbs are only fallacious when they are carelessly applied.”
”Very likely. Life is too short to waste time over weapons that will only go off in some singular and old-fas.h.i.+oned way. When I start out to do any shooting, I want to hit.”
So they went to dinner. Claudius found himself becoming gayer in the society of his new acquaintance than he had been for some time past. He could not have said whether he liked him or thought him interesting, but he had a strong impression that there was something somewhere, he could not tell what, which Mr. Barker understood thoroughly, and in which he might show to great advantage. He felt that however superficial and unartistic the American might be, he was nevertheless no fool. There was something keen and sharp-edged about him that proclaimed a character capable of influencing men, and accustomed to deal boldly and daringly with life.
They dined as well as could be expected in a country which is not gastronomic, and Mr. Barker produced a rare brand of cigars, without which, he informed his guest, he never travelled. They were fat brown Havanas, and Claudius enjoyed them.
”Let us go to Baden-Baden,” said Barker, sucking at his weed, which protruded from his immense moustache like a gun under the raised port-hole of an old-fas.h.i.+oned man-of-war.
”If I were seeking innocent recreation from my labours, that is not exactly the spot I would choose to disport myself in,” replied Claudius.
”The scenery is good, but the people are detestable.”
”I agree with you; but it is a nice place for all that. You can always gamble to pa.s.s the time.”
”I never play games of chance, and there is no play in Baden now.”