The Mischief-Maker Part 62

She came into his arms. He patted her head gently.

"Dear little one!"

"You are taking me to supper?" she begged.

He shook his head. Her face fell, the big tears were already in her eyes.

"But you are troubled!" she cried. "Oh, come and forget it all for a time! Isn't that what you told me once was my use in the world--that I could chatter to you, or sing, or lead you through the light paths, so that your brain could rest? Let me take you there, dear one. To-night, if ever, you have the look in your face. You need rest. Come to me!"

He looked at her steadfastly, looked at her feeling as one far away gazing down upon some strange element in life. Then a thought came to him.

"Little one," he whispered, "you are irresistible. Wait, then. It may be as you desire. Only, after supper I pa.s.s on."

"And I with you?" she implored.

He shook his head.

"Wait here."

Once more he returned to Estermen's apartments. Estermen was still there, smoking furiously. The room was blue with tobacco smoke.

Falkenberg regarded him with distaste.

"Make yourself presentable, man," he ordered. "We sup in the Montmartre and we leave in a few minutes."

"What, I?" Estermen exclaimed, springing up.

"You and I and mademoiselle," Falkenberg told him. "I have made plans.

You may perhaps escape--who can tell?"

Estermen, with a little sob of relief, hurried into his sleeping apartment. Soon they were all three in the big car, gliding through the busy streets. It was getting towards midnight and they took their place among the crowd of vehicles climbing the hill, only wherever the street was broad enough they pa.s.sed always ahead. At the Rat Mort they came to a stand-still. Falkenberg led the way up the narrow stairs, greeted Albert with both hands, nodded amiably to the _chef d'orchestre_, the flower girl and the head waiter, who crowded around him.

"For as many as choose to come!" he declared. "The round table! The best supper in France! It is a gala night, Albert. Serve us of your best. Mademoiselle will sing. We are here to taste the joys of life."

Albert led the way.

"Ah, monsieur," he said, "it is good, indeed, to hear your voice! There is no one who comes here who enters more splendidly into the spirit of the place. When you are here I know that it will be a joyful evening for all. They catch it, too, those others," he explained. "Sometimes they come here stolid, British. They look around them, they eat, they drink, they sit like stuffed animals. Then comes monsieur--dear monsieur! He talks gayly, he laughs, he waves salutes, he drinks wine, he makes friends. The thing spreads. It is the spirit--the real spirit.

Behold! Even the dull, once they catch it, they enjoy."

Falkenberg took the cus.h.i.+oned seat in the corner. Close to his side was mademoiselle, her hand already clasping his. Estermen, gaunt, red-eyed, still haggard with fear, sat a few feet away.

"Wine!" Falkenberg ordered. "Pommery--bottles of it! Never mind if we cannot drink it. Let us look at it. Let us imagine the joys that come, added to those we feel."

Already the wine was rus.h.i.+ng into their gla.s.ses. Falkenberg raised his gla.s.s.

"To our last supper, dear Marguerite!" he whispered.

She s.h.i.+vered all over. She looked at him, her face was suddenly strained.

"You jest!"

"Jest? But is it not a night for jests!" he answered. "Why not? Ah, Marguerite, I take it back! To our first supper! Let us say to ourselves that to-night we stand upon the threshold of life. Let us say to ourselves that never before have I seen how blue your eyes s.h.i.+ne, how sweet your mouth, how soft your fingers, how dear the thrill which pa.s.ses from you to me. Close to me, Marguerite--close to me, little one! Our first evening!"

"Dearest," she whispered, "first or last, there could never be another.

It is you who make my life. It is you who, when you go, leave it desolate."

He held her hand more tightly.

"Ah, little friend," he murmured, "you spoil me with your sweet phrases! You set the music playing in my heart--the witch music, I think. Come, we must speak to Estermen," he continued, looking resolutely away from her. "We cannot have him sitting there glum, a death's-head at our feast. Estermen, drink, man! Is this a funeral party? Wake up. Mademoiselle who dances there looks towards you. Why not? You see, she waves her hand. You have waltzed with her before. Ask her to sit down with us. I have ordered supper. See, mademoiselle approaches, Estermen. More gla.s.ses, waiter. Open more wine. There is champagne here for everybody. Mademoiselle does us great honor. Permit me!"

The little dancing girl obeyed his invitation. She sat by Estermen's side, but she cast a longing glance at Falkenberg. Their gla.s.ses were filled. Estermen drank quickly, all the time looking about him with the furtive air of a whipped dog.

"To-night," Falkenberg cried, as he lifted his gla.s.s, "I have but one command--be joyful. Why not? To-night I have Marguerite by my side, and you--you can choose from the world of Marguerites. There is nothing in life like this--the hour of midnight, the music of the moment, the wine of the hour, the woman we love. Drink, Estermen, once more. Fix your thoughts upon the present. Mademoiselle looks around her. She finds you dull. She will seek for another admirer. Ah, mademoiselle!" he added, leaning across the table, "if the sweetest girl in Paris were not here already by my side, do you think that I would permit you to be for an instant the companion of a dumb admirer?"

Mademoiselle laughed back into his eyes.

"If monsieur's friend were but as gallant as monsieur himself!"

"He is depressed," Falkenberg declared, "but it pa.s.ses. Behold! Another gla.s.s like that, Estermen! Drink till you feel it bubbling in your veins. Look at him now!"

Falkenberg leaned back in his place and pressed his companion's arm.

Indeed, the wine was working its magic. The terror was pa.s.sing from Estermen's face. Already he was becoming more natural.

"Leave them alone," Falkenberg said softly. "He will have no relapse.

The wine is in his blood. Ah, Marguerite! never did you seem so sweet to me as tonight, when my face is set for the cold north! Have you joy in remembering, little one? Have you sentiment enough for that?"

"I have sentiment enough," she whispered, "to suffer every time you leave me. To-night I am afraid to let you go. Oh! dear--my dear--take me with you! I have begged you before, but to-night I beg you in a different manner. I am afraid to be left alone. I care not where or whatever the end of your journey may be. Take me with you, dear one. It is because I love that I ask this!"

He looked at her for a moment and there were wonderful things in his eyes.

"Ah, little girl," he murmured, "you teach one so much! One pa.s.ses through life too often with one's eyes closed, one finds the great things in strange places, the rarest flowers even by the roadside.

Drink your wine, press my fingers--like that. See, it is the _chef d'orchestre_ who approaches. You shall sing--sing to me, little one."

He motioned to the musician, who with a smile of delight held up his hand to the orchestra. Mademoiselle hummed a few bars. The man who listened nodded his head. Then he raised his violin, he pa.s.sed his bow across the strings. With the touch of his fingers he drew from them a little melody. Mademoiselle a.s.sented. Her head was back against the wall, her eyes half closed. Then she began to sing; sang so that in a few moments the pa.s.sionate words which streamed from her lips held the room breathless. It was no ordinary music. It was the love prayer of a woman, starting in sadness, pa.s.sing on to pa.s.sion, ending in wild entreaty. As she finished she turned her head towards her companion.

"You shall not go alone!" she cried, and her words might well have been the text of her song.

Falkenberg shook his head.

"Something gayer," he begged,--"something more like the wine which foams in our gla.s.ses."

She obeyed him after only a moment's hesitation, yet in the first few bars her song came to an abrupt end, her voice choked. She leaned suddenly forward in her place, her face was hidden between her hands.

They all gazed at her curiously.

"Nerves!" one declared.

"Hysterics!" another echoed.

"It is the life they lead, these women," an American explained to a little party of guests. "They weep or they laugh always. Life with them quivers all the time. They pa.s.s from one emotion to another--they seldom know which. Look, it is over with her."