Part 8 (2/2)
Lanyard permitted himself to be penned in a corner behind a table, ordered champagne not because he wanted it but because it was etiquette, suppressed a yawn, lighted a cigarette, and reviewed the a.s.semblage with a languid but shrewd glance.
He saw only the company of every night; for even in the off-season there are always enough English-speaking people in Paris to make it possible for L'Abbaye Theleme to keep open with profit: the inevitable a.s.sortment of respectable married couples with friends, the men chafing and wondering if possibly all this might seem less unattractive were they foot-loose and fancy-free, the women contriving to appear at ease with varying degrees of success, but one and all flushed with dubiety; the sprinkling of demi-mondaines not in the least concerned about _their_ social status; the handful of people who, having brought their fun with them, were having the good time they would have had anywhere; the scattering of plain drunks in evening dress.... Nowhere a face that Lanyard recognized definitely: no Mr. Bannon, no Comte Remy de Morbihan....
He regarded this circ.u.mstance, however, with more vexation than surprise: De Morbihan would surely show up in time; meanwhile, it was annoying to be obliged to wait, to endure this martyrdom of ennui.
He sipped his wine sparingly, without relish, considering the single subsidiary fact which did impress him with some wonder--that he was being left severely to himself; something which doesn't often fall to the lot of the unattached male at L'Abbaye. Evidently an order had been issued with respect to him. Ordinarily he would have been grateful: to-night he was merely irritated: such neglect rendered him conspicuous....
The fixed round of delirious divertiss.e.m.e.nt unfolded as per schedule.
The lights were lowered to provide a melodramatic atmosphere for that startling novelty, the Apache Dance. The c.o.o.n shouted stridently. The dancers danced bravely on their poor, tired feet. An odious dwarf creature in a miniature outfit of evening clothes toddled from table to table, offensively soliciting stray francs--but s.h.i.+ed from the gleam in Lanyard's eyes. Lackeys made the rounds, presenting each guest with a handful of coloured, feather-weight celluloid b.a.l.l.s, with which to bombard strangers across the room. The inevitable shamefaced Englishman departed in tow of an overdressed Frenchwoman with pride of conquest in her smirk. The equally inevitable alcoholic was dug out from under his table and thrown into a cab. An American girl insisted on climbing upon a table to dance, but swayed and had to be helped down, giggling foolishly. A Spanish dancing girl was afforded a clear floor for her specialty, which consisted in singing several verses understood by n.o.body, the choruses emphasized by frantic a.s.saults on the hair of several variously surprised, indignant, and flattered male guests--among them Lanyard, who submitted with resignation....
And then, just when he was on the point of consigning the Pack to the devil for inflicting upon him such cruel and inhuman punishment, the Spanish girl picked her way through the mob of dancers who invaded the floor promptly on her withdrawal, and paused beside his table.
”You're not angry, mon coco?” she pleaded with a provocative smile.
Lanyard returned a smiling negative.
”Then I may sit down with you and drink a gla.s.s of your wine?”
”Can't you see I've been saving the bottle for you?”
The woman plumped herself promptly into the chair opposite the adventurer. He filled her gla.s.s.
”But you are not happy to-night?” she demanded, staring over the brim as she sipped.
”I am thoughtful,” he said.
”And what does that mean?”
”I am saddened to contemplate the infirmities of my countrymen, these Americans who can't rest in Paris until they find some place as deadly as any Broadway boasts, these English who adore beautiful Paris solely because here they may continue to get drunk publicly after half-past twelve!”
”Ah, then it's la barbe, is it not?” said the girl, gingerly stroking her faded, painted cheek.
”It is true: I am bored.”
”Then why not go where you're wanted?” She drained her gla.s.s at a gulp and jumped up, swirling her skirts. ”Your cab is waiting, monsieur--and perhaps you will find it more amusing with that Pack!”
Flinging herself into the arms of another girl, she swung away, grinning impishly at Lanyard over her partner's shoulder.
VIII
THE HIGH HAND
Evidently his first move toward departure was signalled; for as he pa.s.sed out through L'Abbaye's doors the carriage-porter darted forward and saluted.
”Monsieur Lanyarr'?”
”Yes?”
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