"Who is the old woman?" Spike asked. "Where did she come from? Where
did she get the ring? Why did she let you have it? Why did you...?"
"Not so fast!"
Spike covered her hand with his in an impulsive gesture of contrition.
For a moment the touch of her hand made his heart beat so furiously he
could not speak.
"You don't mind telling me?"
She shook her head.
"Tell me first who is the old woman and where did she come from." He
passed her his _packet bleu_. They both took cigarettes, and when he
had lit hers she blew out the match so that he might light his from
hers. The tousled red head leaned to the sleek dark one. Their eyes met
and it was as if they had embraced.
"Let me tell it from the beginning," she said. "It began with you
coming along with no hat.... Tell me, where _is_ your hat, anyway?"
Spike put both hands on his head as if, indeed, he did not know it was
bare. "I lost it," he said. "I had a good hat I bought from Marshall
Field's in Chicago, and I lost it I forget where. I guess I better buy
a new one!"
She laughed at him, but her eyes were adoring. "You forget where!" she
mocked and laughed again, reaching back to rap on the window for the
_garçon_. "You'll want another glass of wine," she told Spike. When
this was poured she began
The Story of the Old Witch
The White Hen is a good café. The coffee is strong and cheaper than
in the big cafés nearby. The walls are covered with assertive, noisy
paintings--work of the young men who frequent the place. They are not
as quarrelsome as their pictures and they drink together and with their
girls, and laugh. They play piquet, checkers, write letters, sketch the
waiters and madame at her high desk near the entrance.
In the front windows of the White Hen is a permanent display of plaster
confectionery--pink cakes, green cakes, pink, green and yellow striped
cakes--wedding cakes of several stories, tiny little cakes, smothered
in whipped cream. By pointing at a plaster imitation one may order the
real cake from madame, who is interested in a nearby bakery.
When I first saw you you were standing, hands in your pockets, gazing
at a pink plaster cake. You seemed very tall. As you turned I saw your
pale face and wild blue eyes. The color of your hair and the way it
stood on end amazed me. As I stood watching you go down the boulevard
an old woman hurried by in the same direction. Her gray skirts were
very wide and her shoes flat, her step quick and uneven.
The next night I saw you come into the café alone. The following night
you sat till late with two friends, a bearded fellow who dresses like a
cowboy and a Hungarian. Both times the old woman followed you.
She watched you and when you nodded your head and smiled or frowned, a
reflection of your expression changed hers. She seemed fascinated by
you.
You had a reckless, eager manner. You watched everything. You always
smelled your wine. Sometimes I heard you talk and you said Life and
Death and Love as if you had just discovered them. When you laughed
every man and woman in the café would look at your table. Not because
your laugh was so loud but because it was different. The waiter told
me: "That American with the red hair!--when he gets drunk he weeps and
laughs and runs down the street. He does not sleep enough. He has two
gold teeth in back!"
One night the old woman came up to my table.
"Would you mind if an old woman sat down with you?" she asked.
She lounged in a limp sort of way, elbows on the table, her scrawny
hands in her hair. She kept moving her lips nervously. I was frightened.
"You are young and pretty," she said. Her eyes were slate-color and
there was no living light behind them. "Very soon you will be old." She
smiled. I could not smile in return, and I said:
"Yes, but now I am young, and I do not want to be old and young at the
same time!"
Her eyes came to life, glittering. "Who are you?" she asked.
"My name is Marie," I told her.
She waited for more, studying my face, but I kept silent.
"Who are _you_?"
Her fingers twisted together nervously. "Poor old thing!" I said to
myself.
As if she had heard my thought, she said: "You may well pity me!" With
the heel of her hand she scrubbed a tear from the corner of her eye. "I
am the oldest woman in Paris."
You had been sitting alone at the other side of the room. Now you
got up to go and before you turned toward the door you nodded in my
direction. Your nod was for a thin English girl in back of me, but the
witch thought it was for me.
"Oh, you know that boy!"
It was pleasant that she thought of me in connection with you, and I
lied. But in the beginning it was a small lie. I merely nodded my head,
really meaning no more than that I had seen you before, and had heard
talk of you.
"Then you can help me! I have known many men in my time, but none who
seemed more greedy for wisdom and for living than that red-headed
Yankee with the loud voice. I want to give him power," the old woman
dropped her voice to a whisper, "unlimited power." Her eyes stuck out.
"Don't be frightened," she told me, seeing me shrink away. "I will not
hurt you. In this you will be my ally, my good friend, and I yours!"
She strained her head across the table. "_I have a Plan!_"
She was not like other women. I made the sign of the cross under the
table.
"Ah, you do not believe me!"
"Madame," I said, "why should I disbelieve you? If I can help you and
you can help me, _tant mieux_!"
"Shall I tell you who I am?" she asked politely.
"Please do!"
But she was silent.
"Tell me why you are sad," I said.
"I am the last witch!"