Yes, I still owe that considerable amount for lunches and dinners, but
that’s beside the mark. It’s vulgar to mention it in the same breath
with the fact that I never saw Mouse again.
Naturally, I intended to. Started out—got to the door—wrote and tore up
letters—did all those things. But I simply could not make the final
effort.
Even now I don’t fully understand why. Of course I knew that I couldn’t
have kept it up. That had a great deal to do with it. But you would
have thought, putting it at its lowest, curiosity couldn’t have kept my
fox-terrier nose away . . .
_Je ne parle pas français._ That was her swan song for me.
But how she makes me break my rule. Oh, you’ve seen for yourself, but I
could give you countless examples.
. . . Evenings, when I sit in some gloomy café, and an automatic piano
starts playing a “mouse” tune (there are dozens of tunes that evoke
just her) I begin to dream things like . . .
A little house on the edge of the sea, somewhere far, far away. A girl
outside in a frock rather like Red Indian women wear, hailing a light,
barefoot boy who runs up from the beach.
“What have you got?”
“A fish.” I smile and give it to her.
. . . The same girl, the same boy, different costumes—sitting at an
open window, eating fruit and leaning out and laughing.
“All the wild strawberries are for you, Mouse. I won’t touch one.”
. . . A wet night. They are going home together under an umbrella. They
stop on the door to press their wet cheeks together.
And so on and so on until some dirty old gallant comes up to my table
and sits opposite and begins to grimace and yap. Until I hear myself
saying: “But I’ve got the little girl for you, _mon vieux._ So little .
. . so tiny.” I kiss the tips of my fingers and lay them upon my heart.
“I give you my word of honour as a gentleman, a writer, serious, young,
and extremely interested in modern English literature.”
I must go. I must go. I reach down my coat and hat. Madame knows me.
“You haven’t dined yet?” she smiles.
“No, not yet, Madame.”