In the squalid Hôtel d’Europe Gerry occupied a large room that
overlooked the quay. Even if there had been a better hotel in town, he
would not have moved. Here he looked out on a scene of never-ceasing
movement and color. The setting changed with the varying light. The
false rains of the midsummer season came up in black horses of cloud,
driven by a furious wind. They passed with a whirl and a veritable
clatter of heavy drops hurled against the earth in a splendid volley.
The long strip of the quay emptied at the first wet shot. The
tatterdemalion crowd invaded every doorway and nook of shelter with
screams and laughter. Then came the sun again, and back came the throng
to the fresh-washed quay.
Gerry missed his club, but for that he found a substitute. Cluny’s,
next door to the hotel, was a strange hall of convivial pleasure. A
massive square door, the masonry of which centuries had hardened and
blackened to stone, gave on to a long hallway that ended in a wider
dungeon. Here stood a bar and half a dozen teak tables. The floor was
of stone flags.
The clientele had the cleavage of oil and water. One part stood to
their drink at the bar, had it, and went out. The other sat to their
glasses at the tables, and sat late. Among these was a pale, thin man
of about Gerry’s age, with a mouth slightly twisted to humor until
toward evening drink loosened it to mere weakness. One afternoon he
nodded to Gerry, and Gerry left the bar for the tables. After that they
sat together. The man was an American--the American consul. Gerry liked
him, pitied him, and forgot to pity himself. One night he invited the
consul to his room. They sat in the balcony, a bottle of whisky and a
siphon between them. Gerry started to put his glass on the rail.
“Don’t do it,” said the consul, with his twisted smile; “it might carry
away.” He went on more seriously. “It’s rotten. The whole place is
rotten. There’s a blight on the men and the women and on the children.
God!”
Gerry put down his glass untouched. “Why don’t you go home?”
The consul took a long drink, eyed the empty glass, and spoke into it.
“I used to think just like that. ’Why don’t you go home?’ I used to
think I could go home, that it was just a question of buying a ticket
and climbing aboard a liner. But--” he broke off, and glanced at Gerry
as he refilled his glass.
“But what?” said Gerry.
“Well,” said the consul, “I’m just drunk enough to tell you. I’m only
proud in the mornings before I’m thoroughly waked up. I used to drive a
pen for a Western daily at twenty-five dollars a week. It was good pay,
and I married on it. I and the girl lived like the corn-fed hogs of our
native State. Life was one sunshine, and when the baby came, we joined
hands, and said good-by to sorrow forever. Then her people got busy
and landed me this job. The pay was three thousand, and if you want to
see how big three thousand dollars a year can look, just go and stand
behind any old kind of plow in Kansas. I jumped at it. We sold out our
little outfit and raked up just enough to see me out here. The girl and
the kid went to visit her people. I was to save up out of the first
quarter’s pay and send for them. That was three years ago.”
“Do you see that steamer out there?” said Gerry. “Well, she’s bound for
home. I want to give you the chance that comes after the last chance. I
want you to let me send you home.”
The consul looked around. His pendulous lip twisted into a smile.
“So you took all that talk for the preamble to a touch!” he said.
“No, I didn’t,” said Gerry, indignantly.
“Well, well, never mind,” said the consul. “There’s nothing left to go
back to, and there’s nothing left to go back. That little account in
the bank, and what it may do for some poor devil, is the only monument
I’ll ever build.”
The whisky-bottle was almost empty, but Gerry’s glass was still
untouched. The consul pointed at it.
“You can still leave it alone? I don’t know where you come from, or
what you’re loafing in this haven of time-servers for, but I’m going to
give you a bit of advice: you take that steamer yourself.”
Gerry colored.
“I can’t,” he stammered. “There’s nothing left for me either to go home
to.” He said nothing more. The consul had suddenly turned drowsy.