Part 8 (1/2)

”You were dancing at rehearsal this morning. You've danced at the music-hall this afternoon, you'll be dancing again this evening--why do you dance here?”

”One can only be young once,” she replied.

”How old are you?”

”Seventeen. And you?”

”Twenty-two.”

She would have given him thirty, she said, he looked so serious. And he, regarding her more narrowly, would have given her fifteen. She was very young, slight, scarcely formed, yet her movements were lithe and complete like those of a young lizard. She had laughing, black eyes and a fresh mouth set in a thin dark face that might one day grow haggard or coa.r.s.e, according to her physical development, but was now full with the devil's beauty of youth. A common type, one that would not arrest masculine eyes as she pa.s.sed by. Dozens of the girls there round about might have called her sister. She was dressed with cheap neatness, the soiled white wing of a bird in her black hat being the only touch of bravura. She spoke with the rich accent of the South.

”You are of the _Midi?_” he said.

Yes. She came from Ma.r.s.eilles. Ingenuously chattering she gave him her family history. In the meanwhile her companions and her partner having finished their dance had retired to a sequestered corner of the restaurant, leaving the pair here to themselves. Lackaday learned that her name was Elodie Figa.s.so. Her father was dead. Her mother was a dressmaker, in which business she, too, had made her apprentices.h.i.+p. But an elderly man, a _huissier_, one of those people who go about with a tricolour-rosetted c.o.c.ked hat, and steel b.u.t.tons and canvas trousers and a leather satchel chained to their waist, had lately diverted from Elodie the full tide of maternal affection. As she hated the _huissier_, a vulgar man who thought of nothing but the good things that the Veuve Figa.s.so could put into his stomach, and as her besotted mother starved them both in order to fulfil the _huissier's_ demands, and as she derived no compensating joy from her dressmaking, she had found, thanks to a friend, a positron as _figurante_ in a Ma.r.s.eilles Revue, and, _voila_--there she was free, independent, and, since she had talent and application, was now earning her six francs a day.

She finished her grenadine. Then with a swift movement she caught a pa.s.sing serving maid and slipped into her hand the money for her companion's scarcely tasted drink and her own. Instantly Andrew protested--Mademoiselle must allow him to have the pleasure.

But no--never in life, she had not intruded on his table to have free drinks. As for the _consommation_ of the feather-headed Margot--from Margot herself would she get reimburs.e.m.e.nt.

”But yet, Mademoiselle,” said he, ”you make me ashamed. You must still be thirsty--like myself.”

”_ca ne vous genera pas?_”

She asked the question with such a little air of serious solicitude that he laughed, for the first time. Would it upset his budget, involve the sacrifice of a tram ride or a packet of tobacco, if he spent a few sous on more syrup for her delectation? And yet the delicacy of her motive appealed to him. Here was a little creature very honest, very much of the people, very proud, very conscientious.

”On the contrary, Mademoiselle,” said he, ”I shall feel that you do me an honour.”

”It is not to be refused,” said she politely, and the serving maid was despatched for more beer and syrup.

”I waited to see your turn,” she said, after a while.

”Ah!” he sighed.

She glanced at him swiftly. ”It does not please you that I should talk about it?”

”Not very much,” said he.

”But I found you admirable,” she declared. ”Much better than that _espece de poule mouillee_--I already forget his name--who played last week.

Oh--a wet hen--he was more like a drowned duck. So when I heard a comedian from Paris was coming, I said: 'I must wait' and Margot and I waited in the wings--and we laughed. Oh yes, we laughed.”

”It's more than the audience did,” said the miserable Andrew.

The audience! Of Avignon! She had never played to such an audience in her her life. They were notorious, these people, all over France. They were so stupid that before they would laugh you had to tell them a thing was funny, and then they were so suspicious that they wouldn't laugh for fear of being deceived.

All of which, of course, is a libel on the hearty folk of Avignon. But Elodie was from Ma.r.s.eilles, which naturally has a poor opinion of the other towns of Provence. She also lied for the comforting of Lackaday.

”They are so unsympathetic,” said he, ”that I shall not play any more.”

She knitted her young brow. ”What do you mean?”

”I mean that I play neither to-night nor to-morrow night, nor ever again.