IV

Stone still stuck to his post as vis-à-vis to Easter at dinner. But

since the return of Ulick the table was too small for three, and, as

Ulick couldn't very well be shaken off by Stone--who faintly hoped that

Easter entertained the same idea--they had asked Papa Felicé for a

larger table and were given a round one in the centre of the room. The

Felicés were glad to see that the men were beginning to cluster about

the Southern girl. As long as proprieties were outwardly observed no

questions were asked in the Maison; they might have proved awkward.

Wedding rings did not abound there, yet what a delightful oasis it was

in the big, noisy city. A good dinner, cooked by an Alsatian chef,

excellent wines, if you cared to order them, and a nice tight little

game till any hour you cared to lose your money; it was a proverb in

the Maison that Yankee guile, no matter the cards, could not prevail

against the skill of the patron and his urbane wife. In sooth, it

seldom did. Stone played when in funds and always cursed the house,

his luck, when he lost. Ulick didn't know how to play cards, or,

indeed, any games indoor or out-door. He agreed with Huysmans, who

wrote that a monument should be erected to the memory of the inventor

of playing cards, for had he not done something toward the suppression

of free-speech among imbeciles? He forgot the women, said Ulick. They

always gabble, even on their death bed.

Ulick adored the lunar sex, minions of the moon, subject in the

profoundest tides of their being to our attendant planets' influence.

Apart from his studies nothing interested him like sex. Sex is the salt

of life, he had declared one night in the presence of his companions.

Stone growled, but Easter gave him a long, penetrating look and he

went hot and cold, and was all gooseflesh in a minute. "Presently,"

chimed in Stone, "you will be quoting Walt Whitman's The Woman that

Waits for Me." "What did she wait for?" eagerly inquired the girl.

Ulick groaned and put his hands to his ears. "All is lacking, if sex

is lacking, or if the moisture of the right man is lacking! There

you have it, Easter." She steadily regarded Ulick, who was blushing.

"Who is this Walt Whitman? Isn't he a dirty-minded person, or is he

an ex-medical student?" "He was an old woman and a windbag," answered

Alfred. "I knew him well when I was in Philadelphia writing for the

'Evening Bulletin.'" He boasted of a virility he never had." "I hear

the eunuchs singing and trilling," interrupted Ulick who was fond of

Heine.... "No, I won't say that," continued Stone dispassionately;

"Whitman wasn't a eunuch, at least, not mentally...." "Oh! what's

the use of talking so much about the horrid thing?" broke in Easter.

"Actions speak louder than words. When a man begins boasting about past

performances--Alfred there's a jockey phrase for you--make up your mind

that man's through with women, whether he is a poet or a policeman...."

"Easter!" exclaimed in unison the two young men. She had succeeded

in shocking both the student and the cynic. Easter laughed at their

hypocritical expression.

They went to Invern's rooms. Her lungs were too full of food to sing,

she said, so she drummed some Chopin nocturnes and valses. Stone lolled

at length on the couch and studied the Albrecht Dürer Melancolia which

hung level with his gaze. He appreciated the artistic tastes of his

friend and often wondered over his future. The easy-going friendship

of Ulick and the girl didn't disturb him; she was hail-fellow-well-met

with every man she knew; yet he also knew that no one presumed too much

with her. Invern re-appeared. They gossiped. And then came a discreet

tapping on the glass door. All three simultaneously said "damn!"

They were in no receptive mood for strangers. Ulick peevishly cried:

"Entrez." It was Paul Godard. Without allowing a moment to elapse Paul

blithely sped into the room, made a mock-reverence before Easter, said

"hallo!" to Stone, and beamed on the annoyed Ulick, who politely but

frigidly, bade his unwelcome guest be seated. Paul paid no attention

to the request. He faced the girl. "Don't mind my entering in this

rude fashion, do you? Madame told me you were all here and she audibly

wondered if you were having a little game. I informed her in turn that

Invern hated poker too much to run a rival establishment under the

same roof. Ha! ha! Now, good people, what I've come here to propose

is this: I've a new touring-car, a jolly big one. It's moonlight,

and the roads are fairly clear of snow, my fellow says. Let's all go

for a ride in the park and stop at Delmonico's for a little supper

afterwards." The other men frowned. Behind Godard, Ulick shook his

head in significant negation at Easter. But she was entranced by the

invitation. Delmonico's and champagne. And a real motor-car, novel

enough in those days. The name was music in her ears. From a child

she had heard of, had read of, Delmonico's. In the little Virginian

town where she was born Harvey's at Washington had been the shibboleth

of the provincial epicures. But in Richmond they said Delmonico and

Harvey. Fashionable weddings and banquets took place under the roof of

the famous restaurant only a couple of blocks distant. The snob, which

lurks under the skin of every woman, came to life with the beckoning

words of Paul Godard. Would she go? She at once accepted and went

upstairs to get a warm wrap and to prink up, although she wore her best

and only dinner-gown. Let the others do what they pleased. She wouldn't

miss a chance like that, no, not even if she had to go alone. Alone?

She looked at her image in the glass of her dressing table. Alone! No,

that wouldn't do. She must have a chaperone. That was inevitable. But

where to find the treasure--a blind, dumb, deaf, sleepy chaperone.

Easter realized the difficulties of the campaign ahead of her. She

resigned herself to the superfluous presence of Stone or Invern, or

horrors, to the pair of them.

She hurried downstairs. To her astonishment there was no light in

Invern's room. She shook the door. It was locked. She flared-up at

once. Her watch told her that she hadn't been dressing more than a

quarter of an hour--a generous fifteen or twenty minutes. This looked

like a planned insult. Were those two boys jealous because Mr.

Godard had invited her? Thoroughly ruffled she marched through the

drawing-room determined to go for a walk, when she heard Paul's voice:

"Miss Brandès, Miss Brandès. Come to this door, the car is waiting."

Aglow, his handsome face betrayed his joy at having her near him. She

looked blank. "Oh! Invern and Stone have gone on the job, as they put

it. I presume to some theatre or concert. But," he lightly assured

her, not without a tinge of malice, "I think they are both huffed

because they can't come along with us." Easter didn't pause. In the car

speeding under a frosty moon, she said: "Of course, they are mad. There

is no opera or theatre to write about tonight. They are quite free.

That was an excuse." "Aren't some men small potatoes?" cried Paul as he

cuddled as closely as he dared.

V

... Ulick went with Stone to the opera, but he didn't enjoy himself.

It was repetition night of "Les Huguenots" with the celebrated cast:

Melba, Nordica, the two De Reszkes, Maurel, Plançon; but Meyerbeer

--who was surely a syndicate--had ceased to interest the young man.

His companion seldom sat in the "Chanticleer's" seats, consoling

himself with cigarettes in the press-room. Ulick wandered about the

lobby dodging De Vivo and other ghosts from the musical past who could

give you all the famous casts of the opera since it was produced. He

chatted with Max Hirsh and Tom Bull, shook Maurice Grau by the hand

and no longer able to endure the heated house he strolled out into

Broadway and irresolutely stood at the corner. A drinking man would

have passed the time more agreeably; neither a smoker nor a drinker he

was bored to death. Past eleven o'clock and nowhere to go but home.

Why not? Tomorrow was to be a busy day. He had to write his Sunday

screed. Ibsen again. No one else to write about. The New York theatre

was simply disgusting. Poor plays reeking with greasy sensuality thinly

varnished with sloppy sentimentality. That's your theatre-goer for you,

he said to himself as he slowly walked down Broadway to 25th Street;

either filth or tears, or both. But, then, sentimental souls are only

one remove from sensuality; they call it "sensuousness" in fiction, but

it's plain, everyday eroticism. I wonder what that girl is doing now?

It was like an aching nerve, this question.

From the moment when they left Paul Godard, Ulick had not ceased to

think of Easter. Her insensibility to the finer shades had irritated

him before this. Her manners were superficially good. She was not a

"noisy" girl, though evidently little restrained by convention in the

matter of speech; she would blurt out the most appalling sentences, and

with composed features. Is she on the other side of good and evil, as

Nietzsche, his favorite philosopher phrased it? And how selfishly she

had acceded to that snob Godard simply because he was rich and owned

a motor-car. Of course, he would make love to her and, of course, she

knew how to take care of herself. No doubt as to that. But Delmonico's

and champagne. Oceans of it. What then? Where could they go afterwards?

Would Easter be foolish enough to visit Godard's apartment--he had a

swell suite on upper Madison Avenue. Surely not. But, added Ulick in a

resigned mood, you never can tell with the rotten artistic temperament;

always the excuse this same temperament to kick the decalogue in the

midriff. Despite his grouchy humor he smiled at his acute attack of

virtue.

It was within a half hour of midnight on the Hoffman House clock when

he reached his street. Delmonico's was brilliantly illuminated. He

paused and wondered whether he should cross, go into the café and eat

a rabbit, but he feared meeting Godard. The young men hadn't parted

amiably. Ulick naturally thought Paul a bit of a cad to invade his room

and carry off his guest without a by-your-leave! Was he in love with

Easter himself? Or was it only an itching curiosity to discover her

feelings concerning a certain mysterious event? He didn't know, yet

it was with mixed feelings that he saw Godard's motor-car in front of

the Maison Felicé, the chauffeur on guard, smoking. So they're back,

he said. No doubt in the drawing-room, or, perhaps, Godard has been

drawn into the poker game. Mounting the steps that led to the second

entrance, Ulick found himself in the hall at the end of which was his

apartment. As he passed he peeped into the drawing-room. It was empty

and as mournful as ever. He could hear the poker players in Madame's

room, but he had no stomach for cards and he went to his own glass

door. The lights had been extinguished in the music-room. The place,

however, was faintly illuminated. Confused noises reached his ears.

Voices, indistinct, unmistakably those of a man and a woman, startled

him so that he stood arrested on the threshold. A struggle of some

sort was under way. A man's voice pleaded. The woman's was suppressed

as if with rage. At times there were outbursts and threats. A heavy

object fell somewhere. Ulick's indignation boiled over. Turning up the

lights at the switch he hastened into his bedroom. There he saw Easter

in a half-sitting posture on the bed her strong arms outstretched

against the assaulting male. She was fully dressed though her skirt was

rolled above her knees, revealing her lithe legs encased in black silk

stockings. Her features were discomposed by emotion. Her hair deranged.

She was not agreeable to contemplate.

"Don't you dare!" she was gasping as Ulick entered. At once the action

of the drama halted. Half-drunk, Paul stared at Ulick. He began

babbling an excuse when he was violently shoved from the room and soon

found himself in the hall. He didn't resist for he knew the grip of

Ulick, saw his broad, deep chest, and was aware that the other was

the stronger. "My chauffeur," he began, but was swiftly propelled to

the street door. "You mean brute. Only because I don't want to make

a scandal I'd kick you into the gutter. You cad. You rotter. Trying

to assault a girl in my room--" "You want her for yourself," giggled

Paul in drunken fashion. He was expelled without undue gentleness and

staggered into the arms of his chauffeur. A minute later Ulick heard

the honk of a horn as the machine sped toward Fifth Avenue. He returned

to his room inwardly rejoicing that no one had witnessed the row.

Easter lay sprawling, her hat crushed over her eyes, her arms helpless.

She was asleep and slightly snoring. Her red face proclaimed a certain

congestion. She's drunk, too, exclaimed Ulick. What should he do now?

Summon Madame Felicé? No, not to be thought of. The Madame never

demanded a wedding certificate, but in the matter of behaviour she was

inflexible. A half-drunken man was looked upon as a matter of course;

a drunken woman, however, was invited to leave the house after the

first transgression. The Maison Felicé was eminently respectable, and,

thriving hotel as it was, the police had never been called in because

of a recalcitrant guest. Ulick remembered that. Nevertheless, he

shivered. The snoring of the girl increased in volume and intensity. He

lifted her head and put a pillow under it; he feared she would strangle

with her head so pushed into her neck. He pulled down her dress, but

noted the generous proportions of the young woman who in her stupour

was at his mercy. But such a temptation never came to him. His rage

was not yet appeased over the ungentlemanly tactics of a clubman, who

took a defenceless girl out, got her drunk because of her inexperience,

and then had the insolence to bring her into the apartment of another

man and attempt to rape her. What else was it? She was, thanks to

her condition, nearly overpowered when he had entered. Ulick became

almost heroic in his own eyes. Rescued from the ravisher--that vulgar

cad! But what was he going to do with the lady? She looked as if she

expected to spend the night in his bed. A pretty mess, this. Then he

heard her voice:

"Ulick, darling man, my darling husband," she muttered, and opened her

arms as if to embrace him. The champagne is telling the truth--at last,

he thought, and lost no time in lying beside her and taking her in his

arms. "Yes, you poor, dear Easter. How glad I am to be near you, I love

you so"--he did love her as he felt her splendid body close to him. He

kissed her on the mouth, but the champagne odor was repugnant. Easter,

her eyes closed, returned his ardent hug. Suddenly she burst into

hysterical laughter. Ulick relaxed his hold thinking it was the effects

of the champagne. He became alarmed. Someone might hear this maniacal

laughter. Sitting up he placed his hand over her mouth. She gasped

and struggled pointing all the while at something. He looked in the

open bath-room door. Nothing. Her laughter was become uncontrollable.

Cursing his luck, for he had almost achieved felicity, Ulick dashed

to the washstand and drew a glass of water. That would revive her and

stop the damnable noise. She waved him away, chuckling: "Ulick, Ulick,

look at yourself in the glass. Jewel, you've been making love to me all

this time with your hat on. Oh! Jewel, I'll die over this joke"--fresh

peals ensued. Chagrined, he touched his head. His silk hat was jammed

over his ears. In his excitement he hadn't noticed it. With an oath he

dropped the glass and turning to the bed was about to warn her that if

she didn't stop he would turn her out. For the moment he hated her.

What a sight he must have been. But too his consternation she was

again in deep slumber. To hell with her! he exclaimed and went into

the music-room where he turned on the lights and seated himself on a

comfortable couch. He could not sleep. She snored on.... Stiff, in the

dull morning, he found himself in the same spot. He tip-toed into the

bedroom. Easter had gone. Mechanically he gazed into the mirror. The

hat was still on his head....