I dare say it would have been more seemly to decline this proposal. I
think perhaps I should have made a show of the indignation I really
felt, and I am sure that Colonel MacAndrew at least would have thought
well of me if I had been able to report my stout refusal to sit at the
same table with a man of such character. But the fear of not being able
to carry it through effectively has always made me shy of assuming the
moral attitude; and in this case the certainty that my sentiments would
be lost on Strickland made it peculiarly embarrassing to utter them.
Only the poet or the saint can water an asphalt pavement in the
confident anticipation that lilies will reward his labour.
I paid for what we had drunk, and we made our way to a cheap
restaurant, crowded and gay, where we dined with pleasure. I had the
appetite of youth and he of a hardened conscience. Then we went to a
tavern to have coffee and liqueurs.
I had said all I had to say on the subject that had brought me to
Paris, and though I felt it in a manner treacherous to Mrs. Strickland
not to pursue it, I could not struggle against his indifference. It
requires the feminine temperament to repeat the same thing three times
with unabated zest. I solaced myself by thinking that it would be
useful for me to find out what I could about Strickland’s state of
mind. It also interested me much more. But this was not an easy thing
to do, for Strickland was not a fluent talker. He seemed to express
himself with difficulty, as though words were not the medium with which
his mind worked; and you had to guess the intentions of his soul by
hackneyed phrases, slang, and vague, unfinished gestures. But though he
said nothing of any consequence, there was something in his personality
which prevented him from being dull. Perhaps it was sincerity. He did
not seem to care much about the Paris he was now seeing for the first
time (I did not count the visit with his wife), and he accepted sights
which must have been strange to him without any sense of astonishment.
I have been to Paris a hundred times, and it never fails to give me a
thrill of excitement; I can never walk its streets without feeling
myself on the verge of adventure. Strickland remained placid. Looking
back, I think now that he was blind to everything but to some
disturbing vision in his soul.
One rather absurd incident took place. There were a number of harlots
in the tavern: some were sitting with men, others by themselves; and
presently I noticed that one of these was looking at us. When she
caught Strickland’s eye she smiled. I do not think he saw her. In a
little while she went out, but in a minute returned and, passing our
table, very politely asked us to buy her something to drink. She sat
down and I began to chat with her; but, it was plain that her interest
was in Strickland. I explained that he knew no more than two words of
French. She tried to talk to him, partly by signs, partly in pidgin
French, which, for some reason, she thought would be more
comprehensible to him, and she had half a dozen phrases of English. She
made me translate what she could only express in her own tongue, and
eagerly asked for the meaning of his replies. He was quite
good-tempered, a little amused, but his indifference was obvious.
“I think you’ve made a conquest,” I laughed.
“I’m not flattered.”
In his place I should have been more embarrassed and less calm. She had
laughing eyes and a most charming mouth. She was young. I wondered what
she found so attractive in Strickland. She made no secret of her
desires, and I was bidden to translate.
“She wants you to go home with her.”
“I’m not taking any,” he replied.
I put his answer as pleasantly as I could. It seemed to me a little
ungracious to decline an invitation of that sort, and I ascribed his
refusal to lack of money.
“But I like him,” she said. “Tell him it’s for love.”
When I translated this, Strickland shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“Tell her to go to hell,” he said.
His manner made his answer quite plain, and the girl threw back her
head with a sudden gesture. Perhaps she reddened under her paint. She
rose to her feet.
_“Monsieur n’est pas poli,”_ she said.
She walked out of the inn. I was slightly vexed.
“There wasn’t any need to insult her that I can see,” I said. “After
all, it was rather a compliment she was paying you.”
“That sort of thing makes me sick,” he said roughly.
I looked at him curiously. There was a real distaste in his face, and
yet it was the face of a coarse and sensual man. I suppose the girl had
been attracted by a certain brutality in it.
“I could have got all the women I wanted in London. I didn’t come here
for that.”