'Woman!' he said, 'are your cheeks so painted that you have lost all sense
of shame?' But she had her answer--
'Man! are you so _great_ that you have lost the sense of pity? And which
is the greater shame: to publish your sins in large paper and take
royalties for them, or to speak of them, just you and I together, you and
I, as "there in the odorous meadowsweet afternoon"?'
'Look you,' she continued, 'an artist pays his model at least a shilling
an hour, and it is only her body he paints: but you use body and soul, and
offer her nothing. Your blues and reds are the colours you have stolen
from her eyes and her heart--stolen, I say, for the painter pays so much a
tube for his colours, so much an hour for his model, but you--'
'I give you immortality. Poor fly, I give you amber,' modestly suggested
the poet.
But Annette repeated the word 'Immortality!' with a scorn that almost
shook the poet's conceit, and thereupon produced an account, which ran as
follows:--
'Mr. Hyacinth Rondel
Dr. to Miss Annette Jones,
For moiety of the following royalties:--
Moonshine and Meadowsweet, 500 copies.
Coral and Bells, 750 copies.
Liber Amoris, 3 editions, 3,000 copies.
Forbidden Fruit, 5 editions, 5,000 copies.
-------
9,250 copies at 1s.
= £462, 10s.
Moiety of same due to Miss Jones, £231, 5s.'
'I don't mind receipting it for two hundred and thirty,' she said, as she
handed it to him.
Hyacinth was completely awakened by this: the joke was growing serious. So
he at once roused up the bully in him, and ordered her out of his rooms.
But she smiled at his threats, and still held out her account. At last he
tried coaxing: he even had the insolence to beg her, by the memory of the
past they had shared together, to spare him. He assured her that she had
vastly overrated his profits, that fame meant far more cry than wool:
that, in short, he was up to the neck in difficulties as it was, and
really had nothing like that sum in his possession.
'Very well, then,' she replied at last, 'you must marry me instead. Either
the money or the marriage. Personally, I prefer the money'--Rondel's
egoism twinged like a hollow tooth--'and if you think you can escape me
and do neither, look at this!' and she drew a revolver from her pocket.
'They are all loaded,' she added. 'Now, which is it to be?'
Rondel made a movement as if to snatch the weapon from her, but she
sprang back and pointed it at his head.
'If you move, I fire.'
Now one would not need to be a minor poet to be a coward under such
circumstances. Rondel could see that Annette meant what she said. She was
clearly a desperate woman, with no great passion for life. To shoot him
and then herself would be a little thing in the present state of her
feelings. Like most poets, he was a prudent man--he hesitated, leaning
with closed fist upon the table. She stood firm.
'Come,' she said at length, 'which is it to be--the revolver, marriage, or
the money?' She ominously clicked the trigger, 'I give you five minutes.'
It was five minutes to eleven. The clock ticked on while the two still
stood in their absurdly tragic attitudes--he still hesitating, she with
her pistol in line with the brain that laid the golden verse. The clock
whirred before striking the hour. Annette made a determined movement.
Hyacinth looked up; he saw she meant it, all the more for the mocking
indifference of her expression.
'Once more--death, marriage, or the money?'
The clock struck.
'The money,' gasped the poet.
* * * * *
But Annette still kept her weapon in line.
'Your cheque-book!' she said. Rondel obeyed.
'Pay Miss Annette Jones, or order, the sum of two hundred and thirty
pounds. No, don't cross it!'
Rondel obeyed.
'Now, toss it over to me. You observe I still hold the pistol.'
Rondel once more obeyed. Then, still keeping him under cover of the
ugly-looking tube, she backed towards the door.
'Good-bye,' she said. 'Be sure I shall look out for your next volume.'
Rondel, bewildered as one who had lived through a fairy-tale, sank into
his chair. Did such ridiculous things happen? He turned to his
cheque-book. Yes, there was the counterfoil, fresh as a new wound, from
which indeed his bank account was profusely bleeding.
Then he turned to his laurels: but, behold, they were all withered.
So, after a while, he donned hat and coat, and went forth to seek a
flatterer as a pick-me-up.