A Gentleman Vagabond and Some Others Part 8

I ascended to the upper deck, preceded by the hostess carrying the s.h.i.+p's lantern, now that the last guest had been housed for the night. Baader followed with a bra.s.s candlestick and a tallow dip about the size of a lead pencil. With the swinging open of the bedroom door, I made a mental inventory of all the conveniences: bed, two pillows, plenty of windows, washstand, towels. Then the all-important question recurred to me, Where had they hidden the portable tub?

I opened the door of the locker, looked behind a sea-chest, then out of one window, expecting to see the green-painted luxury hanging by a hook or drying on a convenient roof. In some surprise I said:--

"And the bath, Baader?"

"Does monsieur expect to bathe at ze night?" inquired Baader with a lifting of his eyebrows, his face expressing a certain alarm for my safety.

"No, certainly not; but to-morrow, when I get up."

"Ah, to-morrow!" with a sigh of relief. "I do a.s.sure you, monsieur, zat it will be complete. At ze moment of ze deflexion of monsieur le gouverneur zare was not ze time. Of course it is imposseeble in Cancale to have ze grand bain of Paris, but then zare is still something,--a bath quite special, simple, and of ze people. Remember, monsieur, it is Baader."

And so, with a cheery "Bon soir" from madame, and a profound bow from Baader, I fell asleep.

The next morning I was awakened by a rumbling in the lower hold, as if the cargo was being s.h.i.+fted. Then came a noise like the moving of heavy barrels on the upper deck forward of the companionway. The next instant my door was burst open, and in stalked two brawny, big-armed fish-girls, yarn-stockinged to their knees, and with white sabots and caps. They were trundling the lower half of a huge hogshead.

"Pour le bain, monsieur," they both called out, bursting into laughter, as they rolled the mammoth tub behind my bed, grounded it with a revolving whirl, as a juggler would spin a plate, and disappeared, slamming the door behind them, their merriment growing fainter as they dropped down the companionway.

I peered over the head-board, and discovered the larger half of an enormous storage-barrel used for packing fish, with fresh saw-marks indenting its upper rim. Then I shouted for Baader.

Before anybody answered, there came another onslaught, and in burst the same girls, carrying a great iron beach-kettle filled with water. This, with renewed fits of laughter, they dashed into the tub, and in a flash were off again, their wooden sabots clattering down the steps.

There was no mistaking the indications; Baader's bath had arrived.

I climbed up, and, dropping in with both feet, avoiding the splinters and the nails, sat on the sawed edge, ready for total immersion. Before I could adjust myself to its conditions there came another rush along the companionway, accompanied by the same clatter of sabots and splas.h.i.+ng of water. There was no time to reach the bed, and it was equally evident that I could not vault out and throw myself against the door. So I simply ducked down, held on, and shouted, in French, Normandy patois, English:--

"Don't come in! Don't open the door! Leave the water outside!" and the like. I might as well have ruined my throat on a Cancale lugger driving before a gale. In burst the door, and in swept the Amazons, letting go another kettleful, this time over my upper half, my lower half being squeezed down into the tub.

When the girls had emptied the contents of this last kettle over the edge, and caught sight of my face,--they evidently thought I was still behind the head-board,--both gave one prolonged shriek that literally roused the house. The brawnier of the two,--a magnificent creature, with her corsets outside of her dress,--after holding her sides with laughter until I thought she would suffocate, sank upon the sea-chest, from which her companion rescued her just as Mme. Flamand and Baader opened the door.

All this time my chin was resting on the jagged rim of the tub, and my teeth were chattering.

"Baader, where in thunder have you been? Drag that chest against that door quick, and come in. Is this what you call a bath?"

"Monsieur, if you will pardon. I arouse myself at ze daylight; I rely upon Mme. Flamand that ze Englishman who is dead had left one behind; I search everywhere. Zen I make inquiry of ze mother of ze two demoiselles who have just gone. She was much insulted; she make ze bad face. She say with much indignation: 'Monsieur, since I was a baby ze water has not touched my body.' At ze supreme moment, when all hope was gone, I discover near ze house of ze same madame this grand arrangement. Immediately I am on fire, and say to myself, 'Baader, all is not lost. Even if zare was still ze bath of ze Englishman, it would not compare.' In ze quickness of an eye I bring a saw, and ze demoiselles are on zare knees making ze arrangement, one part big, one small. I say to myself, 'Baader, monsieur is an artist, and of enthusiasm, and will appreciate zis utensile agreable of ze fisherman.' If monsieur will consider, it is, of course, not ze grand bain of Paris, but it is simple, and quite of ze people."

Some two months later, the governor and I happened to be strolling through the flower-market of the Madeleine. He had been selecting plants for the windows of his apartment, and needed a reliable man to arrange them in suitable boxes.

"That fellow Baader lives down here somewhere; perhaps he might know of some one," he said, consulting his notebook. "Yes; No. 21 Rue Chambord.

Let us look him up."

In five minutes we stood before a small, two-story house, with its door and wide bas.e.m.e.nt-window protected by an awning. Beneath this, upon low shelves, was arranged a collection of wicker baskets, containing the several varieties of oysters from Normandy and Brittany coasts greatly beloved by Parisian epicures of Paris. On the top of each lid lay a tin sign bearing the name of the exact locality from which each toothsome bivalve was supposed to be s.h.i.+pped. These signs were all of one size.

The governor is a great lover of oysters, especially his own Chesapeakes, and his eye ran rapidly over the tempting exhibit as he read aloud, perhaps, unconsciously, to himself, the several labels: "Dinard, Parame, Dieppe pet.i.te, Cancale speciale." Then a new light seemed to break in upon him.

"Dieppe pet.i.te, Cancale speciale,"--here his face was a study,--"why, that's what Baader always called Cancale. By thunder! I believe that's where that fellow got his names. I don't believe the rascal was ever in Normandy in his life until I took him. Here, landlord!" A small shop-keeper, wearing an ap.r.o.n, ran out smiling, uncovering the baskets as he approached. "Do you happen to know a courier by the name of Baader?"

"Never as courier, messieurs--always as commissionaire; he sells wood and charcoal to ze hotels. See! zare is his sign."

"Where does he live?"

"Upstairs."

THE LADY OF LUCERNE

I

Above the Schweizerhof Hotel, and at the end of the long walk fronting the lake at Lucerne,--the walk studded with the round, dumpy, Noah's-ark trees,--stands a great building surrounded by flowers and palms, and at night ablaze with hundreds of lamps hung in festoons of blue, yellow, and red. This is the Casino. On each side of the wide entrance is a bill-board, announcing that some world-renowned Tyrolean warbler, famous acrobat, or marvelous juggler will sing or tumble or bewilder, the price of admission remaining the same, despite the enormous sum paid for the appearance of the performer.

Inside this everybody's club is a cafe, with hurrying waiters and a solid bra.s.s band, and opening from its smoke and absinthe laden interior blazes a small theatre, with stage footlights and scenery, where the several world-renowned artists redeem at a very considerable discount the promissory notes of the bill-boards outside.

During the performance the audience smoke and sip. Between the acts most of them swarm out into the adjacent corridors leading to the gaming-rooms,--licensed rooms these, with toy-horses ridden by tin jockeys, and another equally delusive and tempting device of the devil--a game of tipsy marbles, rolling about in search of sunken saucers emblazoned with the arms of the nations of the earth. These whirligigs of amateur crime are constantly surrounded by eager-eyed men and women, who try their luck for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the moment, or by broken-down, seedy gamblers, hazarding their last coin for a turn of fortune. Now and then, too, some sweet-faced girl, her arm in her father's, wins a louis with a franc, her childish laughter ringing out in the stifling atmosphere.

The Tyrolean warbler had just finished her high-keyed falsetto, bowing backward in her short skirts and stout shoes with silver buckles, and I had just reached the long corridor on my way to the garden, to escape the blare and pound of the band, when a man leaned out of a half-opened door and touched my shoulder.

"Pardon, monsieur. May I speak to you a moment?"

He was a short, thick-set, smooth-shaven, greasy man, dressed plainly in black, with a huge emerald pin in his s.h.i.+rt front. I have never had any particular use for a man with an emerald pin in his s.h.i.+rt front.

"There will be a game of baccarat," he continued in a low voice, his eyes glancing about furtively, "at eleven o'clock precisely. Knock twice at this door."

Old habitues of Lucerne--habitues of years, men who never cross the Alps without at least a day's stroll under the Noah's-ark trees,--will tell you over their coffee that since the opening of the St. Gotthard Tunnel this half-way house of Lucerne--this oasis between Paris and Rome--has sheltered most of the adventurers of Europe; that under these same trees, and on these very benches, nihilists have sat and plotted, refugees and outlaws have talked in whispers, and adventuresses, with jeweled stilettos tucked in their bosoms, have lain in wait for fresher victims.

I had never in my wanderings met any of these mysterious and delightful people. And, strange to say, I had never seen a game of baccarat. This might be my opportunity. I would see the game and perhaps run across some of these curious individuals. I consulted my watch; there was half an hour yet. The man was a runner, of course, for this underground, unlicensed gaming-house, who had picked me out as a possible victim.

When the moment arrived I knocked at the door.

It was opened, not by the greasy Jack-in-the-box with the emerald pin, but by a deferential old man, who looked at me for a moment, holding the door with his foot. Then gently closing it, he preceded me across a hall and up a long staircase. At the top was a pa.s.sageway and another door, and behind this a large room paneled in dark wood. On one side of this apartment was a high desk. Here sat the cas.h.i.+er counting money, and arranging little piles of chips of various colors. In the centre stood a table covered with black cloth: I had always supposed such tables to be green. About it were seated ten people, the croupier in the middle. The game had already begun.

I moved up a chair, saying that I would look on, but not play.

Had the occasion been a clinic, the game a corpse, and the croupier the operating surgeon, the group about the table could not have been more absorbed or more silent; a cold, death-like, ominous stillness that seemed to saturate the very air. The only sounds were the occasional clickings of the ivory chips, like the chattering of teeth, and the monotones of the croupier announcing the results of the play:--

"Faites vos jeux. Le jeu est fait; rien ne va plus."

I began to study the _personnel_ of this clinic of chance.

Two Englishmen in evening dress sat side by side, never speaking, scarcely moving, their eyes riveted on the falling cards flipped from the croupier's hands. A coa.r.s.e-featured, oily-skinned woman--a Russian, I thought--looked on calmly, resting her head on her palm. A man in a gray suit, with waxy face and watery, yellow eyes, made paper pills, rolling them slowly between thumb and forefinger--his features as immobile as a death-mask. A blue-eyed, blond German officer, with a decoration on the lapel of his coat, nonchalantly twirled his mustache, his shoulders straining in tension. A Parisienne, with bleached hair and penciled eyebrows, leaned over her companion's arm. There was also a flas.h.i.+ly dressed negro, evidently a Haytian, who sat motionless at the far end, as stolid as a boiler, only the steam-gauge of his eyes denoting the pressure beneath.

No one spoke, no one laughed.

Two of the group interested me at once,--the croupier and a woman who sat within three feet of me.

The croupier, who was in evening dress, might have been of any age from thirty to fifty. His eyes were deep-set and gla.s.sy, like those of a consumptive. His hair was jet-black, his face clean-shaven; the skin, not ivory, but a dirty white, and flabby, like the belly of a toad. His thin and bloodless lips were flattened over a row of pure white teeth with glistening specks of gold that opened when he smiled; closing again slowly like an automaton's. His shrunken, colorless hands lay on the black cloth like huge white spiders; their long, thin legs of fingers turned up at the tips--stealthy, creeping fingers. Sometimes, too, in their nervous workings, they drooped together like a bunch of skeleton keys. On one of these lock picks he wore a ring studded alternately with diamonds and rubies.