In a steep, narrow alley Spike stopped, exhausted, and leaned against
a spindly tree that stood solitary by the curb. Nearby a woman in a
ragged brown shawl tended a two-wheeled cart heaped high with oranges
and tangerines. She examined with sympathetic curiosity the slim,
red-headed youth who mopped his forehead and looked fearfully over his
shoulder. She said softly, as in occult greeting:
"_Mort au vaches!_"
Spike stared.
"Dirty lackeys of the dirty _bourgeoisie_!" said the orange woman in
her hushed voice. "I, myself, when I was younger, hit one with a brick!
_Voilà!_ Have a tangerine!" She thrust a glowing fruit into Spike's
hands. He held it near his face, gazed at it in amazement as if he had
never seen a tangerine before. Its bright color was a lighter shade of
the color of his bristling hair.... His eyes in contrast were blue as
the clear sky.
"_Merci!_" he said.
"It is nothing! Down with the police!"
"I am not running from the police!" Spike said, sitting down on the
curb. He was breathing more easily now. He was calm enough to peel the
tangerine and eat it slowly. "I am an artist," he added, as if this
explained something. "I was in a restaurant eating lunch when I met an
old woman who knew what I was thinking. It scared me."
"You came up this hill like the cavalry were after you! Who was chasing
you?"
"I don't know that anybody was chasing me. I had seen that old woman
before. She acted as if I belonged to her. She knew about me. She knew
what I was thinking. Suppose you were wondering in your mind, 'Shall I
go home now or wait until I sell a dozen more tangerines?' and a man
came up and poked his face up to yours and said: 'Better wait till you
sell a dozen more!' Wouldn't you be frightened?"
She looked at him, apparently bewildered.
Spike went on, rubbing his hair: "Maybe she is a witch, and maybe she
is only a friend of a witch. She seems to want to be friendly, but she
is so ugly!"
Rosie Rosenberg came down the alley, carrying a canvas and his
color-box. "Hello, Spike Flecker! What are you doing here?"
"Resting," said Spike.
The orange woman spoke up maliciously: "He came running up the hill
like a crazy man. 'What's the matter?' I asked him, 'I just saw a
witch,' he told me, his eyes popping out of his head."
She put her hands to the handle of her cart and walked deliberately
away from them. Her skirt hiked up in back. Flecker gazed fascinated at
her limber feet. Could it be? Anything could be! He shuddered, feeling
utterly defenseless, and alone.
"Spike!" Rosie's voice was melodious with condescending pity. "Look at
me, Spike!"
Spike shouted frantically, "Oh, shut up, Rosie. I'm in trouble!"
Rosie started again.
"Say another word," Spike shouted, getting quickly on his feet, "say
another word to me and I'll sock you one!"
Rosie jumped back, startled. Three brushes fell from his pocket and
he stooped to pick them up, looking up under his wrinkled forehead at
Spike.
"Rosie!" Spike pleaded, "I need help. I am sorry I got angry, but I
need help. I don't want your pity."
They walked toward the _Boul' Mich'_ together.
"I have seen things," Spike said, "that probably no American ever saw
before. Witches. Magic. Disappearing acts to make your hair curl. When
I go walking it seems as if the whole world watches me, holding its
breath, waiting. Powers move around me; something is happening; there
is a struggle somewhere.... I met a pretty girl in a café and she gave
me power of magic.... When I pass a general with red-and-gold ribbons
on him, or see a train pull out from the _Gare_, I smile, thinking how
I could smash 'em to nothing by saying a word."
Spike's talk was jarred loose by his fright. And he was grateful (after
his first irritation) to have the company of even so matter-of-fact and
unimaginative a fellow as Rosenberg.
"I got power," he went on, heedlessly. "The feel of it is with me
always. It scares me a little. Things and people aren't what they seem.
An old woman comes up to me and knows what I am thinking. You know,
Rosie, I'm in danger all the time now."
"Is that so?" said Rosie politely.
Spike knew his friend thought him mad. A feeling that suddenly found
words told him Rosie's opinion was of no moment whatever. Let him think
he was crazy as a coot,--that did not make him crazy. Spike felt he had
grown older in a jerk. He laughed with a new sensation of freedom.
"Don't worry, Rosie," he cried--and hearing the confident ring in his
voice, Rosie visibly shriveled. "The ordeal ends Saturday noon. We
shall see what we shall see. I'll tell you about it, Rosie."
His friend said "All right!" shortly. Plainly he could sympathize only
if Spike were decently ashamed of his madness.
"All right!" he said. "Well, so long. I've lost enough hours of
sunlight."
In the evening Spike walked out almost to the _Porte Versailles_ and
back, thinking of the witch as his legs passed and repassed each other
and the soles of his feet shoved the pavement backwards. He talked to
her of his troubles and she replied intelligently, gayly made whole
the funny half-thoughts he offered her.
Who was the ugly, dangerous,--pathetic, impotent old woman in gray?
What was her place in the drama of his omnipotent wish? What was her
relation to the beautiful, young witch in the _Café de Lilas_?
The young witch was a lovely girl in little, high-heeled shoes, a
chic black hat, and small hands that clutched his forearm. He would
not think of her as a witch! He wanted to see her because her beauty
touched him deeply, because he loved her.