Part 23 (1/2)
”_Mange ton omelette_,” she said.
My meal over, I went to Paragot's room. I found him in bed, not as usual pipe in mouth and a tattered volume in his hand, but lying on his back, his arms crossed beneath his head, staring into the white curtains of which Blanquette was so proud.
”My son,” said he, after he had enquired after my welfare and my lunch and advised me as to cooling medicaments wherewith to mitigate a certain pimplous condition of cheek, ”My son, I want you to make me a promise.
Swear that if a hitch occurs in your scheme of the cosmos, you will not break up your furniture with a crusader's mace. Such a proceeding has infinite consequences of effraction. It disrupts your existence and ends with the irreparable smash of your porcelain pipe.” Whereupon he asked me for a cigarette and began to smoke reflectively.
”One ought to order one's scheme so that no hitch can occur,” said I.
”As far as I can gather from the theologians that is beyond the power even of the Almighty,” said Paragot.
Blanquette appeared with the morning absinthe.
”The hitch, my son, in my case was beyond mortal control,” he said looking up at the bed-curtains. ”You may think that I caused it in the first place. You heard me last night accused of cruelty. You, discreet little image that you are, know more about things than I thought. And yet you must wonder, now that you are nearly a man, what can be, what can have been between this disreputable hairy scallywag who is eating the bread of idleness and,” with a sip of his absinthe, ”drinking the waters of destruction, and that fair creature of dainty life. Don't judge anyone, my little Asticot '_Hi sumus, qui omnibus veris falsa quaedam esse dicamus, tanta similitudine, ut in iis nulla insit certe judicandi et a.s.sentiendi nota._' That is Cicero, an author to whom I regret I have not been able to introduce you, and it means that the false is so mingled with the true and looks so like it, that there is no sure mark whereby we may distinguish one from the other. It is a d.a.m.ned fool of a world.”
In this chastened mood I left him.
I learned later in the day that the appearance of the Comtesse in the Cafe Delphine and the exodus of Paragot had caused no small sensation.
Cazalet had peeped through the gla.s.s door.
”_Cre nom de nom_, she is driving him off in her own carriage!”
He returned to the table and drank a gla.s.s of anisette to steady his nerves. Who was the lady? Evidently Paragot was leading a double life.
Madame Boin nodded her head mysteriously as though possessed of secrets she would not divulge. They spent the evening in profitless conjecture.
The fact remained that Paragot, the hairy disreputable scallywag, had relations with a high born and beautiful woman. It was stupefying.
_C'etait abracadabrant!_ That was the final word. When the Quartier Latin calls a thing _abracadabrant_ there is no more to be said.
The Cafe Delphine was far from being the school of discretion and good manners that Paragot frequented in his youth, but such was his personal influence that when he reappeared in his usual place no one dared allude to the disconcerting incident. Paragot had recovered from the chastened mood and was gay, Rabelaisian, and with great gestures talked of all subjects under heaven. One of the International Exhibitions was in prospect and many architects' offices were busy with projects for the new buildings. A discussion on these having arisen--two of our company were architectural students--Paragot declared that the Exhibition would be incomplete without a Palais de Dipsomanie. Indeed it should be the central feature.
”_Tiens!_” he cried, ”I have an inspiration! Some one give me a soft black pencil. Hercule, clear the table.”
He caught the napkin from beneath Hercule's arm and as soon as the gla.s.ses were removed, he dried the marble top, and holding the pencil draughtsman's fas.h.i.+on, a couple of inches from the point, began to draw with feverish haste. His long fingers worked magically. We bent over him, holding our breath, as gradually emerged the most marvellous, weird, riotous dream of drunken architecture the world could ever behold. There were columns admirably indicated, upside down. The domes looked like tops of half inflated balloons. Enormous b.u.t.tresses supporting nothing leaned incapable against the building. Bottles and wine cups formed part of the mad construction. Satyrs' heads leered instead of windows. The whole palace looked reeling drunk. It was a tremendous feat of imagination and skill. The hour that he spent in elaborating it pa.s.sed like five minutes. When he had finished he threw down his pencil.
”_Voila!_”
Then he called for his drink and emptied the gla.s.s at a gulp. We all clamoured our admiration.
”But Paragot,” cried one of the architectural students in considerable excitement, ”you are a trained architect, and a great architect! It is the work of a genius. Garnier himself could not have done it.”
Paragot whipped up the napkin from the seat and, before we could protest, rubbed the drawing into a black smudge.
”I am a poet, painter, architect, musician and philosopher, _mon pet.i.t_ Bibi,” said he, ”and my name is Berzelius Nibbidard Paragot.”
It was growing late and we all rose in a body--except Paragot, who made a point of remaining after everyone had gone. He caught me by the sleeve.
”Stay a bit to-night, my little Asticot,” said he.