_Wherein the Ceiling of the Tavern that is called_ The Scarlet Jackass
_is stained with Blood_
Noll was at a gathering of little men--at a students’ tavern on the
heights of Montmartre. The praises of the mediocrities flushed him. His
eyes were bright; he had glittered.
Ah, Noll; and there is one who watches for thee, sitting alone, her
handsome head bowed by the midnight lamp to give thee welcome. She
is thy one selfless friend--with brain whose verdict is worth all
the splutterings of these bedraggled talents that sit about thy
self-sufficient elbows!...
That was a rousing night at the tavern of _The Scarlet Jackass_.
The room was choked with the wild rioting bohemians.
“Waiter!”
“Waiter!”
“Waiter!”
“Yes, sir--mon Dieu!--one minute--one minute.”
The waiters rushed to and fro, perspiring, white aprons flying.
The glass went round.
So the place roared with laughter and riot and noisy good-fellowship
and song.
As the crowd began to thin out, and the place emptied of all but the
regular frequenters, the old mad poet, his chin sunk on his chest where
he snored in a chair, his wreath of roses askew over his ear, roused
and asked for André Joyeux--he regretted that he had not been there--he
missed his waggeries.
At the mention of his name they called the head-waiter, who lay
a-drouse in a corner. No, he had not seen the master since sundown.
There had been no time to go and see him--but he had only to ring his
bell should he have need of anything. He was sleeping, they trusted,
content that his tavern was filled to overflowing--he had need of
sleep--much sleep. Yes, yes; it had been a mad night indeed--a great
night. Yes; the English gentlemen might go up and see the master if
they would but go very quietly--yes, they might all go, if they would
but go very quietly, in case he slept----
Noll and Horace stumbled up the dark stair that was but half revealed
in the smoky haze of the dusk that goes before the dawn. Opening
the door stealthily, they looked in, and saw that amongst the other
departing shadows that lingered there, a dead man lay stretched upon
the floor, the scarlet brand of a bullet-wound on his pale brow.
The red blood showed on the white skin, a waxen seal upon his last
mysterious testament.
And as the others, befogged with the potations of their riot, entered
the room, close-following at their heels, they solemnly took off their
hats--the old mad poet last of all and with a mighty hiccup.
Yes, André Joyeux slept at last--and slept well. He would ring no more
for sleeping-draughts. He had no more needs. His philosophies were at
an end. In a loud burst of merriment that had echoed from below, he had
taken his life, the pistol unheard in the frantic applause.
They lifted up the poor lifeless body and placed it upon the bed--the
arms restless no longer now--the body still, in the strange silence of
death.
An old bohemian stepped forward and looked down on the pallid peaceful
face; stooped and kissed the dead man upon the cheek. He stood and
looked down upon him.
“He took me from beggary and starvation in a garret,” said he.... “Ah,
that was an artist! And--he knew how to live. He----”