Part 51 (1/2)

”Well, it wasn't by choice, I suppose,” he said.

Andrews was silent. Unaccountable shame took possession of him before these people who had never been soldiers, who would never be soldiers.

”The Greeks used to say,” he said bitterly, using as phrase that had been a long time on his mind, ”that when a man became a slave, on the first day he lost one-half of his virtue.”

”When a man becomes a slave,” repeated the lame boy softly, ”on the first day he loses one-half of his virtue.”

”What's the use of virtue? It is love you need,” said the girl.

”I've eaten your tomato, friend Andrews,” said Henslowe. ”Justine will get us some more.” He poured out the last of the wine that half filled each of the gla.s.ses with its thin sparkle, the color of red currants.

Outside the fog had blotted everything out in even darkness which grew vaguely yellow and red near the spa.r.s.ely scattered street lamps. Andrews and Henslowe felt their way blindly down the long gleaming flights of steps that led from the quiet darkness of the b.u.t.te towards the confused lights and noises of more crowded streets. The fog caught in their throats and tingled in their noses and brushed against their cheeks like moist hands.

”Why did we go away from that restaurant? I'd like to have talked to those people some more,” said Andrews.

”We haven't had any coffee either.... But, man, we're in Paris. We're not going to be here long. We can't afford to stay all the time in one place.... It's nearly closing time already....”

”The boy was a painter. He said he lived by making toys; he whittles out wooden elephants and camels for Noah's Arks.... Did you hear that?”

They were walking fast down a straight, sloping street. Below them already appeared the golden glare of a boulevard.

Andrews went on talking, almost to himself. ”What a wonderful life that would be to live up here in a small room that would overlook the great rosy grey expanse of the city, to have some absurd work like that to live on, and to spend all your spare time working and going to concerts.... A quiet mellow existence.... Think of my life beside it.

Slaving in that iron, metallic, brazen New York to write inept.i.tudes about music in the Sunday paper. G.o.d! And this.”

They were sitting down at a table in a noisy cafe, full of yellow light flas.h.i.+ng in eyes and on gla.s.ses and bottles, of red lips crushed against the thin hard rims of gla.s.ses.

”Wouldn't you like to just rip it off?” Andrews jerked at his tunic with both hands where it bulged out over his chest. ”Oh, I'd like to make the b.u.t.tons fly all over the cafe, smas.h.i.+ng the liqueur gla.s.ses, snapping in the faces of all those dandified French officers who look so proud of themselves that they survived long enough to be victorious.”

”The coffee's famous here,” said Henslowe. ”The only place I ever had it better was at a bistro in Nice on this last permission.”

”Somewhere else again!”

”That's it.... For ever and ever, somewhere else! Let's have some prunelle. Before the war prunelle.”

The waiter was a solemn man, with a beard cut like a prime minister's.

He came with the bottle held out before him, religiously lifted. His lips pursed with an air of intense application, while he poured the white glinting liquid into the gla.s.ses. When he had finished he held the bottle upside down with a tragic gesture; not a drop came out.

”It is the end of the good old times,” he said.

”d.a.m.nation to the good old times,” said Henslowe. ”Here's to the good old new roughhousy circus parades.”

”I wonder how many people they are good for, those circus parades of yours,” said Andrews.

”Where are you going to spend the night?” said Henslowe.

”I don't know.... I suppose I can find a hotel or something.”