An hour later Esther sat at a table in the magnificent Restaurant des
Ambassadeurs, drinking her tea with enjoyment and revelling in the
scene before her. She felt a little guilty at being here, for she was
a conscientious young woman, averse to throwing money about when there
was nothing coming in. Still, she had not indulged herself to any
great extent since Miss Ferriss departed, having bent all her efforts
towards finding work, and now that there was employment in prospect she
thought she had earned the right to a little relaxation. Gaiety was
all about her, the very air of this holiday place held the suggestion
of it like a pervading perfume. Consequently, when she had roamed
about for an hour and finally gravitated towards the Croisette, the
temptation came upon her to satisfy her longing for tea in some place
where she could look upon the care-free world that flocked here to
play. Not that she belonged to that world, heaven knows!--though,
travelling de luxe with patients, as she often did, she knew a good
deal about it, and it was always fun to pretend for a brief time that
she did not have to work for her living.
The huge room was filling rapidly; it was the hour of the _thé
dansant_. An orchestra, rich with saxophones, played a waltz that
everyone in France was singing. It was from the latest musical success
now running in Paris, and it pleased Esther to think she had seen the
piece itself, ten days ago: it made her feel herself _au courant_ of
things new and smart. Leaning back in her chair she listened to the
insidious little tune that grew more captivating with each repetition,
meanwhile letting her eyes wander happily over the circling figures of
the dancers. Glamour overspread the scene; she was in the mood to see
only the gracious and gay. For the moment the obvious boredom of
confirmed pleasure-seekers escaped her entirely; the efforts of spoiled
youth and jaded old age to escape from themselves had no place in the
pattern of the life she saw before her. No, on the contrary, as she
gazed through half-closed eyes, she fancied she saw a multi-coloured
bed of flowers--flowers in rhythmic motion, that was all. Delicious
frocks, swirling, floating, delicate shades of rose, mauve,
periwinkle-blue, accents of black, graceful bodies, slender legs and
ankles ... not all so slender, she amended presently, becoming more
critical. There were lower extremities of the grand-piano type, and
short, fat feet with a look of pincushions resolutely stuffed into
shoes.
Her own slender, well-shod feet would do more than pass muster here,
she reflected with satisfaction. Indeed, although she was more plainly
dressed than most of the women present, she rejoiced to feel she did
not suffer too much by comparison. Esther was never dowdy. She was
not ashamed of her well-tailored coat and skirt, marron in
colour--which went well with her eyes and hair--nor of her little new
felt hat, purchased in Paris. Her small choker fur was of good
stone-marten, even her gloves and the handkerchief peeping from her
pocket had the correct touch. Trifles, perhaps, but trifles that
mattered. She made "good money," and she had always found it paid to
dress well and carefully.... Of course, she would not be able to buy
clothes on her salary from Dr. Sartorius--but what did it matter, for
six months or so? It was surely worth a sacrifice to remain in France.
Besides, she had a little saved up.
The doctor ... that rather odd, cold creature. The prospect of working
for him did not fill her with enthusiasm. What exactly was it she felt
about him? She strove to analyse her impression, and found herself
thinking only of his small, dull eyes and queer, flat forehead.... He
was an able man, no charlatan, of that she was sure, instinctively.
Primarily, a student, no doubt. What was his practice like, if indeed
he had any? Not a good manner for a doctor, too remote, too negative,
too lacking in humanity.
"For a moment I felt positively creepy!" she told herself. "What was
it he reminded me of? Something that fascinated and repelled ... or am
I merely imagining things?"
After all, what did it matter? She always got on well with people....
"My Dinah's gone away to Carolina,
My Dinah's gone and broke my heart in two.
Lonesome and blue,
Nothin' to do,
I roams around a-feelin' like I had the 'flu..."
From the region of the saxophones a gorgeous baritone had soared forth.
Glancing around she saw the glistening black face of a faultlessly
attired American negro. The song, one of the mournful type now
emanating from Broadway, was the last word in banality, but the honeyed
voice, suave, insinuating, gave it the charm of a narcotic. Even the
waiters stopped where they were and gazed as they listened, transfixed.
Conversation died, the great room was stilled to drink in the notes. A
storm of applause, the chorus was repeated once, twice. Then fell a
moment's lull and ordinary sounds began again.
It was at this moment that, tea-pot in hand, Esther heard close at her
elbow the choking sound of a woman's sob. It startled her so that she
very nearly looked around, curious to see the person who was so moved
by the sentimental tribute to the lost Dinah. Then she was glad she
had not turned, for she caught these words, low, passionate, distinct:
"Arthur--if _you_ go away from me, as you speak of doing, I think,
quite quietly, I shall kill myself!"
Good heavens! The woman, whoever she was, said it as it she meant it.
It was no joking voice, its owner was deeply moved. She was evidently
French, though her English was nearly faultless, the accent a mere
flavour. Esther recalled that a man and woman had taken the table on
her right and a little behind her. She longed to look at them, but
controlled her impulse, out of curiosity to hear more. There was a
silence that seemed interminable. Then the woman spoke again, her
voice vibrant, urgent:
"You heard me! Why don't you answer? Why? Ah! My God, it is like
beating against a stone wall!"
At last a man's voice, low, cold and a little sulky.
"What do you want me to say, Thérèse? You know as well as I do I've
got to live."
"Ah, but is that the reason--the only reason for your going?"
"Good God, what else would it be? You don't imagine I'd choose to bury
myself in a rotten hole like that, do you?"
There was a long sigh, quavering with tears.
"I know how fearfully difficult it all is, only, Arthur, why must you
decide at once? Why not wait a bit?"
"If I wait, I lose the job. That's why. I thought you understood.
Besides, what is there to hang about here for?"
"Well ... There's always a chance, isn't there?"
An exclamation of contempt followed by the scratch of a match, then
again silence, fraught, so Esther felt, with tension. Who, what were
these people? She must try to steal a glance at them. Cautiously she
turned her head, then, finding both the occupants of the next table
were looking the other way, she indulged in a good inspection.
The woman claimed her attention first. Young--a very young
thirty-five, Esther decided--blonde with delicate transparency, and
lovely; her natural beauty was accentuated by careful make-up and
clothes so exquisite that they could be called "elegant" without a
misuse of the word. It seemed evident that she was wealthy. Her gown
of filmy black had the cachet of an exclusive house, the expensive
simplicity that serves so well as a background for wonderful jewels.
Against it gleamed a heavy strand of glistening pearls--"Real ones,
too!" thought Esther--on one slender arm slid negligently half a dozen
diamond bangles, on the hand which supported her chin an enormous
square diamond blazed. Her skin, shadowed by her little close black
hat, was dazzling, her eyes large, grey flecked with gold, and shaded
by long dark lashes. Altogether there was about her the clear beauty
of a star, which even the traces of emotion now discernible could not
dim.
And her companion--what was he like? Esther glanced at him and gave a
start. It was the young Englishman who had come out of the doctor's
house, the man she had seen before somewhere--she still did not recall
where. Studied at close range he revealed points of interest. He was
dressed with that perfection crowned with negligence which the
Englishman of the upper classes so admirably achieves. He was, in
fact, unmistakably a gentleman, at least by birth, though his bored
manner held a hint of insolence, a suggestion of the bounder. His
hazel eyes, glancing about with irritable restlessness, were curiously
devoid of any depths, his mouth showed a mixture of weakness and
obstinacy, devil-may-care courage and lack of moral stamina. An
after-the-war product, no doubt, nervy and jumpy, frayed by stimulants
and late hours, and yet, with all this, attractive. Yes, curiously
attractive, there was no denying it.
"Waiter--where's that blasted waiter gone?"
He turned in Esther's direction, and for an instant his eyes met hers
and took her in, though with little show of interest. Seeing him
full-face she suddenly recalled him. Of course! When she and Miss
Ferriss had first arrived, they had seen him on two occasions lunching
in the Carlton grill, in company with a swarthy over-dressed
Spanish-looking woman and her daughter. She remembered now. Shrewd
old Miss Ferriss had said about him:
"Esther, that young Englishman over there is very nice-looking, but I
can tell you he's what we call at home a _cake-hound_. I can always
spot them!"
Esther smiled at the recollection.
"Waiter--bring me a 'doctor'--will you? And hold on--what do you want,
Thérèse?"
"_Rien--rien du tout. Non, tenez--du thé de Chine, simplement._"
She took care of her looks, that was evident. The waiter gone, Esther
saw the Frenchwoman lean across to her companion with an obvious effort
of self-control.
"Arthur--tell me once more. What is it, this job you speak of?"
"What, the Argentine? I don't know. The Toda woman wants to take me
out there as a sort of manager or something. She sails on the eighth;
she expects me to go with her."
"T'ck! I knew it!"
The beautiful woman's voice rose shrilly with a strident note which was
an odd revelation.
"So that is it! Manager--ha, ha, ha! But, of course, I might have
known, it is quite plain, she wants you for herself--the old cow!
_Naturellement!_"
"S'sh, Thérèse, for God's sake----"
"Well, isn't it true? What can you do on a ranch? Why does she want
you if not for herself? Do you deny it?"
"What's the use of denying anything? You'll believe what you want to
believe."
He sounded cold, indifferent. The woman made an impulsive gesture.
"Ah, _mon cher_, now I have hurt you! Naturally I know you cannot care
for this creature, this mountain of fat, _cette espèce de vache
espagnole_"--she uttered the epithet literally through her teeth--"but
all the same I know that she wants you, and I also know that if you go
so far away--thousands and thousands of miles--it will be the end. You
know it too."
Out of the tail of her eye, Esther saw the young man merely shrug his
shoulders. She grew more and more interested.
"Listen, Arthur. Can we not find you something here?"
"Good God, in Cannes?"
She answered the utter contempt of this with a burst of self-reproach.
"_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, c'est de ma faute, si j'avais su----_"
"Oh, cut it, old girl, what's the good of post-mortems?"
"But it was my fault! If only I hadn't let him think it was
baccarat--if I'd thought of some other excuse! But I never knew, I
never dreamed--and now, of course, I'm so utterly helpless, my hands
are tied!"
She made a hysterical gesture which shivered the diamond bangles in a
mass together.
"Oh, well----"
"Arthur, tell me! Is there no other way, absolutely no other? Must
you go with this creature?"
A pause while the returning waiter set before them tea and a cocktail.
Then the young man's voice, wearied and irritable.
"I tell you I've got to live. And I can't live on air."
Another long pause and Esther began to fear they would say no more.
She had become so interested, too, it seemed a shame. After a wait of
at least three minutes the woman spoke once more in an altered, quieter
tone:
"I forgot to tell you something. Yesterday I went again to
Fleuristine. You remember Fleurestine?"
"Oh, _that_ woman!"
"Oh, I know you don't believe in her, but ... well, anyhow, yesterday
she went into a trance. She was quite, quite unconscious. She saw
things. She saw Charles..."
"Oh, she did, did she?"
As if moved by a common impulse, both turned and took a brief survey of
the neighbouring tables. On Esther they bent but a casual glance. She
was apparently quite absorbed in the contents of her bag.
"She saw him in bed, ill, very ill. There was a nurse beside him."
"Oh, ill enough for a nurse ... Well, did she see anything more?"
"No, that was all, except that she described the doctor."
"Not my friend Sartorius?"
"Yes, she described him perfectly."
Esther strained her ears to catch all they said. Dr. Sartorius--so
these people were patients of his!
"What then?"
"Nothing. She woke up."
"She would!"
He gave an ironical laugh.
"Still, Arthur, one can't help thinking ... after all, he's
seventy-three...."
"Yes, and he'll live to be ninety. You'll see."
"Ninety!"
"I'm not joking. It wouldn't surprise me if he outlived us both."
There was a gasp of horror from the Frenchwoman.
"Oh, Arthur, it's cruel of you! Besides, I tell you, it's impossible;
it's----"
"Yes, I know, it's simply not done. But he'll do it, you'll see."
"I will not see. I refuse to believe it. He cannot, he----"
"Steady on, Thérèse!"
There was a note of warning in his voice the cause of which Esther
perceived when a moment later the couple were joined by a plump
Frenchwoman with hennaed hair and a burnt-orange make-up.
"_Comment ça va, Thérèse?_ Ah, Captain, _on me dit que vous avez
l'intention de nous quitter. C'est vrai?_"
What ensued was lost in a cackle of French interspersed with
high-pitched laughter. The friend sat down for a few minutes, joked
with the "Captain," drank the remainder of his cocktail, and patted him
familiarly on the cheek. Esther stole a glance at the beautiful blonde
woman and found her calm, gazing across the room with narrowed eyes and
an expression of thought. At last she got out her mirror and made
herself up, as delicately as a cat washes its face, little touches here
and there.
"Going?"
"Yes, I shall see if the doctor will give me a _piqûre_. I am very
tired."
"I thought you had them on Mondays and Thursdays."
"Yes, but sometimes I have an extra one. They pick me up."
"_Ah, les piqûres! Je suis, très bien, ça!_"
In two minutes all three had risen and disappeared into the crowd about
the broad stairs that led into the room. Left behind, Esther felt a
sense of flatness and anti-climax. She had begun to take such a keen
interest in the blonde woman and her young Englishman, that the thought
of not finding out more about them filled her with disappointment.
Still, they were patients of the doctor she was perhaps going to work
for; there was a chance that she might learn something more. She sat
turning over in her mind all she had overheard. Though not
particularly worldly wise, she was no fool, and while she was not quite
clear about the situation of these two and their relations to each
other, the various implications they had let fall were not entirely
lost on her.
She had not seen the last of the Captain, as it happened. Five minutes
later she caught sight of him sauntering about near the entrance with a
vacant eye and a restless manner. Simultaneously there approached her
corner a short, enormously fat, overdressed woman, barging aggressively
ahead towards the vacant table, her huge bosom well in advance like the
prow of a ship. As the swarthy face drew nearer she saw that it and
the bosom belonged to the Spanish woman of the Carlton--no doubt the
very one who was trying to entice the young man to the Argentine. Yes,
and there was the daughter coming in her wake, a clumsily built girl in
pink satin, her swart arms bare to the shoulder. The elder woman
attacked the waiter almost bodily, and in hard, guttural French
commanded him to move the table closer to the dancing floor--an
operation causing considerable annoyance to the surrounding guests.
For a moment the Spaniard pressed her hulk so close to Esther that the
latter was nearly choked with the fumes of her chypre. Then suddenly
there was a shriek of delight. The lady, as Esther expressed it to
herself, had discovered her "boy friend."
"What will be the end of it?" wondered Esther as she paid her bill and
rose to go. "Which of these two women is going to get her way?"
With amusement she watched the stolid daughter led away by a
"professional" to dance the tango, leaving her mother in eager
conversation with the Englishman, tapping his arm with her pudgy hand,
her black eyes like burnt holes in the whiteness of her powdered face.
Then she threaded her way out of the restaurant and through the main
entrance of the Casino.
When she reached her hotel the sallow clerk called to her as she passed
his desk.
"Oh, Mees, I have here a note for you. It has just arrived."
She tore open the envelope. It contained two lines in a small,
slovenly hand, on thick, engraved paper.
"Dr. Sartorius will expect Nurse Rowe to-morrow, Wednesday, at nine in
the morning."
So that was that!