And the antiphony followed, Mais il est charmant.
Later, another remarked, Je crois que je vais lui demander de me faire
une politesse!
Overhearing which, Peter rejoined, Avec plaisir, Mademoiselle. Quel
genre?
It was all gay, irresponsible and meaningless, perhaps, but _gay_.
We sat at tables and drank and smoked and spun more fantasies and
quaint conceits until a late hour, and that night I learned that even
French cocottes will occasionally waste their time, provided they are
sufficiently diverted. Towards four o'clock in the morning, however,
I began to note a change in Peter's deportment and demeanour. There
were moments when he sat silent, a little aloof, seemingly the prey of
a melancholy regret, too well aware, perhaps, that the atmosphere he
had himself created would suck him into its merry hurricane. I caught
the lengthening shadows under his eyes and the premonitory hollows in
his cheeks. And this time, therefore, it was I who suggested departure.
Peter acceded, but with an air of wistfulness as if even the effort of
moving from an uncomfortable situation were painful to him. Rising, we
kissed our hands to the band of sirens, who all pressed forward like
the flower maidens of Parsifal and with equal success. Three of the
pretty ladies accompanied us upstairs to the sidewalk and every one of
the three kissed Peter on the mouth, but not one of them offered to
kiss Richards or me.
We engaged another fiacre and drove up the Champs-Elysées. Now, it was
Richards and I who had become vibrant. Peter was silent and old and
apart. The dawn, the beautiful indigo dawn of Paris was upon us. The
cool trees were our only companions in the deserted streets until,
near the great grey arch, we began to encounter the wagons laden with
vegetables, bound for the Halles, wagons on which carrots, parsnips,
turnips, onions, radishes, and heads of lettuce were stacked in orderly
and intricate patterns. The horses, the reins drooping loosely over
their backs, familiar with the route, marched slowly down the wide
avenue, while the drivers in their blue smocks, perched high on the
fronts of their carts, slept. We drove past them up the Avenue du
Bois-de-Boulogne into the broadening daylight. On Peter Whiffle's
countenance were painted the harsh grey lines of misery and despair.