If wound stripes were given to soldiers on becoming casualties to
Cupid's archery barrage, Ronnie Morgan's sleeve would be stiff with
gilt embroidery. The spring offensive claimed him as an early victim.
When be became an extensive purchaser of drab segments of fossilized
soap, bottles of sticky brilliantine with a chemical odour, and
postcards worked with polychromatic silk, the billet began to make
inquiries.
"It's that little mam'zelle at the shop in the Rue de la République,"
reported Jim Brown. "He spends all his pay and as much as he can
borrow of mine to get excuses for speaking to her."
There was a period of regular visits and intense literary activity on
the part of Ronnie, followed by the sudden disappearance of Mam'zelle
and an endeavour by the disconsolate swain to liquidate his debts in
kind.
"I owe you seven francs, Jim," said he. "If you give me another
three francs and I give you two bottles of brilliantine and a cake of
vanilla-flavoured soap we'll be straight."
"Not me!" said Jim firmly. "I've no wish to be a scented fly-paper.
Have you frightened her away?"
"She's been _swept_ away on a flood of my eloquence," said Ronnie
sadly. "But in the wrong direction; and after I'd bought enough
pomatum from her to grease the keel of a battleship, and enough soap
to wash it all off again. Good soap it is too, me lad; lathers well if
you soak it in hot water overnight."
"How did you come to lose her?" asked Jim, steering the conversation
out of commercial channels.
"The loss is hers," said Ronnie; "I wore holes in my tunic leaning
over the counter talking to her, and I made about as much progress as
a Peace Conference. I got soap instead of sympathy and scent instead
of sentiment. However, she must have got used to me, because one day
she asked if I would translate an English letter she'd received into
French.
"'Now's your chance to make good,' I thought, language being my
strong suit; but I felt sick when I found it was a love-letter from
a presumptuous blighter at Calais, who signed himself 'Your devoted
Horace.' Still, to make another opportunity of talking to her, I
offered to write it out in French. She sold me a block of letter-paper
for the purpose, and I went home and wrote a lifelike translation.
"She gave me a dazzling smile and warm welcome when I took it in, but
on the balance I didn't feel that I'd done myself much good. And next
day I'm dashed if she didn't give me another letter to translate, this
time signed 'Your loving Herbert.' Herbert, I discovered, was a sapper
who'd been transferred to Boulogne and, judging by his hand, was
better with a shovel than a pen. As an amateur in style I couldn't
translate his drivel word for word. Like _Cyrano_, the artist in
me rose supreme, and I manicured and curled his letter, painted and
embroidered it, and nearly finished by signing 'Ronnie' instead of
'Herbert.'
"She was quite surprised when she read the translation.
"_'C'est gentil, n'est-ce-pas_?' said she, kissing it and stuffing it
away in her belt. 'I did not think,' she went on in French, 'that the
dear stupid 'Erbert had so much eloquence.' I saw my error. I had made
a probable of a horse that hadn't previously got an earthly. So, to
adjust things, I refrigerated the next letter--which happened to be
from 'Orace--to the temperature of codfish on an ice block. And the
consequence was that Georgette sulked and would scarcely speak to me
for three whole days.
"The situation, coldly reviewed, appeared to be like this. When 'Orace
or 'Erbert pleased her I got a share of the sunshine, but when their
love-making cooled her displeasure was visited on poor Ronnie. Any
advances on my own part were countered with sales of soap, customers
apparently being rarer than lovers. So I had to bide my time.
"But one day letters from 'Orace and 'Erbert arrived simultaneously,
and were duly handed to the fourth party for necessary action. It
occurred to me that when the time came for me to enter the race on
my own behalf I need have little fear of 'Erbert as a rival, so I
determined to cut 'Orace out of the running.
"I translated his letter first. I censored the tender parts, spun out
the padding and served it up like cold-hash. Then I set to work on
'Erbert. I got the tremolo stop out and the soft pedal on and made a
symphony of it. I made it a stream of trickling melody--blue skies,
yellow sunshine and scent of roses, with Georgette perched like a
sugar goddess on a silver cloud and 'Erbert trying to clamber up to
her on a silk ladder. To read it would have made a Frenchman proud of
his own language. Then, for dramatic effect, I took the letters, put
them on the counter and walked out without a word. 'That,' thought I,
'will do 'Orace's business--and then for 'Erbert!'
"Next day, when I went to see the result, to my surprise I found
that her place behind the counter was taken by that little red-haired
Celestine.
"'Where's Georgette?' said I.
"'Ah, M'sieur, she has gone,' said Celestine. 'Figure to yourself,
this 'Orace, who used to write with ardour and spirit, sent her
yesterday a poor pitiful note. It made one's heart bleed to read
it, such halting appeal, such inarticulate sentiment. _"Le pauvre
garçon!"_ cried Georgette, "his passion is so strong he cannot find
words for it. He is stricken dumb with excess of feeling. I must be at
his side to comfort him." And she has flown like the wind to Calais,
that she may be affianced to him. But if M'sieur desires to buy the
soap I know the kind you prefer.'
"So you see me," concluded Ronnie plaintively, "bankrupt in love and
money. Three francs, Jim, and I'll chuck in a packet of post-cards."
* * * * *