Part 9 (1/2)
CHAPTER VI
THE UNFAILING MEMORY
PRINCE WALDEMAR DE BOSKY, confronted by the prospect of continued cold weather, decided to make an appeal to Mrs. Moses Jacobs, sometime Princess Mariana di Pavesi. She had his overcoat, the precious one with the fur collar and the leather lining,--the one, indeed, that the friendly safe-blower who lodged across the hall from him had left behind at the outset of a journey up-state.
”More than likely,” said the safe-blower, who was not only surprised but gratified when the ”little dago” came to visit him in the Tombs, ”more than likely I sha'n't be needin' an overcoat for the next twelve or fourteen year, kid, so you ain't robbin' me,--no, sir, not a bit of it.
I make you a present of it, with my compliments. Winter is comin' on an'
I can't seem to think of anybody it would fit better'n it does you. You don't need to mention as havin' received it from me. The feller who owned it before I did might accidentally hear of it and--but I guess it ain't likely, come to think of it. To the best of my recollection, he lives 'way out West somewhere,--Toledo, I think, or maybe Omaha,--and he's probably got a new one by this time. Much obliged fer droppin' in here to see me, kid. So long,--and cut it out. Don't try to come any of that thanks guff on me. You might as well be usin' that coat as the moths. Besides, I owe you something for storage, don't forget that. I was in such a hurry the last time I left town I didn't have a chance to explain. You didn't know it then,--and I guess if you had knowed it you wouldn't have been so nice about lookin' out for my coat durin' the summer,--but I was makin' a mighty quick getaway. Thanks fer stoppin' in to remind me I left the coat in your room that night. I clean forgot it, I was in such a hurry. But lemme tell you one thing, kid, I'll never ferget the way you c'n make that fiddle talk. I don't know as you'd 'a'
played fer me as you used to once in awhile if you'd knowed I was what I am, but it makes no difference now. I just loved hearin' you play. I used to have a hard time holdin' in the tears. And say, kid, keep straight. Keep on fiddlin'! So long! I may see you along about 1926 or 8. And say, you needn't be ashamed to wear that coat. I didn't steal it.
It was a clean case of mistaken ident.i.ty, if there ever was one. It happened in a restaurant.” He winked.
And that is how the little violinist came to be the possessor of an overcoat with a sable collar and a soft leather lining.
He needed it now, not only when he ventured upon the chilly streets but when he remained indoors. In truth, he found it much warmer walking the streets than sitting in his fireless room, or even in going to bed.
It was a far cry from the dapper, dreamy-eyed courtier who kissed the chapped knuckles of the Princess Mariana on Wednesday night to the shrinking, pinched individual who threaded his way on Friday through the cramped lanes that led to the rear of the p.a.w.n-shop presided over by Mrs. Jacobs.
And an incredibly vast gulf lay between the Princess Mariana and the female Shylock who peered at him over a gla.s.s show-case filled with material pledges in the shape of watches, chains, rings, bracelets, and other gaudy tributes left by a s.h.i.+fting const.i.tuency.
”Well?” she demanded, fixing him with a cold, offensive stare. ”What do you want?”
He turned down the collar of his thin coat, and straightened his slight figure in response to this unfriendly greeting.
”I came to see if you would allow me to take my overcoat for a few days,--until this cold spell is over,--with the understanding--”
”Nothing doing,” said she curtly. ”Six dollars due on it.”
”But I have not the six dollars, madam. Surely you may trust me.”
”Why didn't you bring your fiddle along? You could leave it in place of the coat. Go and get it and I'll see what I can do.”
”I am to play tonight at the house of a Mr. Carpenter. He has heard of me through our friend Mr. Trotter, his chauffeur. You know Mr. Trotter, of course.”
”Sure I know him, and I don't like him. He insulted me once.”
”Ah, but you do not understand him, madam. He is an Englishman and he may have tried to be facetious or even pleasant in the way the English--”
”Say, don't you suppose I know when I'm insulted? When a cheap guy like that comes in here with a customer of mine and tells me I'm so d.a.m.ned mean they won't even let me into h.e.l.l when I die,--well, if you don't call that an insult, I'd like to know what it is. Don't talk to me about that b.u.m!”
”Is _that_ all he said?” involuntarily fell from the lips of the violinist, as if, to his way of thinking, Mr. Trotter's remark was an out-and-out compliment. ”Surely you have no desire to go to h.e.l.l when you die.”
”No, I haven't, but I don't want anybody coming in here telling me to my face that there'd be a revolution down there if I _tried_ to get in.
I've got as much right there as anybody, I'd have him know. Cough up six or get out. That's all I've got to say to you, my little man.”
”It is freezing cold in my room. I--”
”Don't blame me for that. I don't make the weather. And say, I'm busy.