Part 62 (1/2)

She came into his arms. He patted her head gently.

”Dear little one!”

”You are taking me to supper?” she begged.

He shook his head. Her face fell, the big tears were already in her eyes.

”But you are troubled!” she cried. ”Oh, come and forget it all for a time! Isn't that what you told me once was my use in the world--that I could chatter to you, or sing, or lead you through the light paths, so that your brain could rest? Let me take you there, dear one. To-night, if ever, you have the look in your face. You need rest. Come to me!”

He looked at her steadfastly, looked at her feeling as one far away gazing down upon some strange element in life. Then a thought came to him.

”Little one,” he whispered, ”you are irresistible. Wait, then. It may be as you desire. Only, after supper I pa.s.s on.”

”And I with you?” she implored.

He shook his head.

”Wait here.”

Once more he returned to Estermen's apartments. Estermen was still there, smoking furiously. The room was blue with tobacco smoke.

Falkenberg regarded him with distaste.

”Make yourself presentable, man,” he ordered. ”We sup in the Montmartre and we leave in a few minutes.”

”What, I?” Estermen exclaimed, springing up.

”You and I and mademoiselle,” Falkenberg told him. ”I have made plans.

You may perhaps escape--who can tell?”

Estermen, with a little sob of relief, hurried into his sleeping apartment. Soon they were all three in the big car, gliding through the busy streets. It was getting towards midnight and they took their place among the crowd of vehicles climbing the hill, only wherever the street was broad enough they pa.s.sed always ahead. At the Rat Mort they came to a stand-still. Falkenberg led the way up the narrow stairs, greeted Albert with both hands, nodded amiably to the _chef d'orchestre_, the flower girl and the head waiter, who crowded around him.

”For as many as choose to come!” he declared. ”The round table! The best supper in France! It is a gala night, Albert. Serve us of your best. Mademoiselle will sing. We are here to taste the joys of life.”

Albert led the way.

”Ah, monsieur,” he said, ”it is good, indeed, to hear your voice! There is no one who comes here who enters more splendidly into the spirit of the place. When you are here I know that it will be a joyful evening for all. They catch it, too, those others,” he explained. ”Sometimes they come here stolid, British. They look around them, they eat, they drink, they sit like stuffed animals. Then comes monsieur--dear monsieur! He talks gayly, he laughs, he waves salutes, he drinks wine, he makes friends. The thing spreads. It is the spirit--the real spirit.

Behold! Even the dull, once they catch it, they enjoy.”

Falkenberg took the cus.h.i.+oned seat in the corner. Close to his side was mademoiselle, her hand already clasping his. Estermen, gaunt, red-eyed, still haggard with fear, sat a few feet away.

”Wine!” Falkenberg ordered. ”Pommery--bottles of it! Never mind if we cannot drink it. Let us look at it. Let us imagine the joys that come, added to those we feel.”

Already the wine was rus.h.i.+ng into their gla.s.ses. Falkenberg raised his gla.s.s.

”To our last supper, dear Marguerite!” he whispered.

She s.h.i.+vered all over. She looked at him, her face was suddenly strained.

”You jest!”

”Jest? But is it not a night for jests!” he answered. ”Why not? Ah, Marguerite, I take it back! To our first supper! Let us say to ourselves that to-night we stand upon the threshold of life. Let us say to ourselves that never before have I seen how blue your eyes s.h.i.+ne, how sweet your mouth, how soft your fingers, how dear the thrill which pa.s.ses from you to me. Close to me, Marguerite--close to me, little one! Our first evening!”