Clifford did not go back to the studio; he took a long drive in a cab to
steady his nerves. He alternately thought of Amyce, of Fantozzi, of his
Excellency’s incoherent stories, of Elliott and the studio,—and, perhaps,
of Jacquette. Two hours before dawn he found himself standing in front
of Sylvain’s; and, wondering why he had wandered there, he went in and
upstairs. The long glittering room reeked with cigar smoke; voices rose
harshly from the disordered tables; a piano tinkled faintly on the floor
above. He looked at his watch; it lacked an hour of the appointed time
when he was to meet Stanley with the carriage at the studio. He turned
toward the portal impatiently; somebody entered as he opened the leather
doors; he glanced up and met his Excellency face to face.
His Excellency began a mechanical trot into the room; Clifford
involuntarily detained him and the Ambassador stopped obediently as
though somebody had arrested his running-gear. He examined Clifford
with mild vitreous eyes as though he had never before seen him. He was
perfectly docile, perfectly contented to be started again in any new
direction. He needed a few repairs; Clifford saw that at once. It would
never do to send his Excellency home with such a hat and collar and
tie; the personnel at the Embassy must never see his Excellency in such
disorder.
“Come,” said Clifford gently. There was a cab at the door; he stowed his
Excellency away in one corner and followed, ordering the cabby to hasten
to the studio in the rue Notre Dame. There was not much time to lose when
they reached the studio. Clifford attempted to adorn his Excellency with
clean linen, but found that it might take some hours as the machinery
had run down and the Ambassador evinced an unmistakable inclination to
slumber. He seated his Excellency in an arm-chair, and hurriedly changed
his own evening dress for morning clothes. Then he went up to Elliott’s
bed-room, but that young man’s bed was untenanted and undisturbed. The
Ambassador slept peacefully in the studio; after a moment’s thought
Clifford scribbled a note:
“DEAR ELLIOTT:—
“When you come in please give this gentleman clean linen and a
new hat and brush his clothes and send him to the United States
Embassy p. d. q.
“Yours,
“CLIFFORD.”
As he finished he heard carriage-wheels in the street outside and he
thrust the note into his Excellency’s hat-band, jammed the hat on the
slumbering diplomat’s head, and hurried out to the street where Stanley
and Bull were waiting in the dim grey of the coming dawn.
“Not had coffee!” exclaimed Bull; “nonsense, it’s traditional!”
“We’ll take it at St. Cloud,” said Stanley. “Are you ready, old fellow?”
The carriage door slammed, the wheels rattled faster and faster.
“By the way,” said Clifford, “his Excellency paid me a visit this
morning. I’ll see he gets home in good shape.”
“Thank heaven!” cried Stanley; “I’ve been hunting him all night!”
A moment later he looked earnestly at Clifford: “Is your hand steady?”
“Yes,” said Clifford pleasantly.
“You’d better shoot closer than you did at the pigeons,” suggested Bull.
“Why? Is Fantozzi a good shot?”
“Rotten,” said Stanley.
“He’s the more to be feared then,” observed Bull cynically.
“Why, you know,” confessed Clifford with a frank smile, “I feel certain
that I’m not going to be hit. I was nervous last night, but not on that
account.”
And he smiled confidently, thinking of Amyce.
“But,” insisted Bull, “are you going to hit your man?”
“Perhaps. What bosh it all is, anyway,” laughed Clifford.