"Barbarous names of these mad Americans!"
The door, closing, totally eclipsed the grenadier.
With thoughtful deliberation Matthias (smiling guiltily) tore Joan's
note into minute bits and, dropping them in a waste-basket, dismissed
her message and herself entirely from his mind.
Five minutes later the typewriter was rattling cheerily.
But its staccato chattering continued without serious interruption only
for the time required to cover two pages and part of a third. Then came
a long interval of smoke-soothed meditation, which ended with the young
man cheerfully placing fresh paper in the machine and starting all over
again. This time he worked more slowly, weighing carefully the value of
lines already written before recasting and committing them to paper; but
the third sheet was covered without evident error, and a fourth, and
then a fifth. Indeed the type-bars were drumming heartily on the last
quarter of page 6, when suddenly the young man paused, scowled, thrust
back his chair and groaned from his heart.
He sat for a space, teetering on the rear legs of his chair, his lips
pursed, forehead deeply creased from temple to temple. Then in a
sepulchral tone uttering the single word "_Snagged!_" he rose and began
to pace slowly to and fro between the door and the windows.
At the end of an hour he was still patrolling this well-worn beat--his
way of torment by day and by night, if the threadbare length of carpet
were to be taken as a reliable witness. And there's no telling how long
he might have continued the exercise had not Madame Duprat knocked once
again at his door.
Roused by that sound, he came suddenly out of profound speculations.
Stopping short and bidding Madame enter, he waited with hands thrust
deep in his trouser-pockets and shoulders hunched high toward his ears,
a cloud of annoyance darkening his countenance.
Madame Duprat came in with a "Pardon, monsieur," and a yellow envelope.
Placing this last upon the table, she announced with simple dignity, "A
telegram, if you please," and retired.
Matthias strode to the table and with an air of some surprise and
excitement tore open the message. He found its import unusual in more
than one respect: it was not a "day-letter," and it had been written
with a fine, careless extravagance of emotion that recked naught
whatever of the ten-word limit.
He conned its opening aloud: "'_Beast animal coward ingrate poltroon
traitor beast_'--"
At this point he broke off to glance at the signature and observe
thoughtfully: "If Helena's going in for this sort of thing, I really
must buy her a thesaurus: she's used '_beast_' twice in two lines...."
He continued: "'_How dared you run away last night? You promised. I was
counting on you. I am disgusted with you and never want to see your face
again. Return at once. Perhaps you won't be too late after all.
Imperative. I insist that you return._'"