For Gerald had earned money. This whiskered Englishman had never earned money, never known the value of it, never imagined himself without as much of it as he might happen to want. He had the face of one accustomed to give orders and to look down upon inferiors. He was absolutely sure of himself. That his companion chiefly ignored him did not appear to incommode him in the least. She spoke to him in French.
He replied in English, very briefly; and then, in English, he commanded the supper. As soon as the champagne was served he began to drink; in the intervals of drinking he gently stroked his whiskers. The woman spoke no more.
Gerald talked more loudly. With that aristocratic Englishman observing him, he could not remain at ease. And not only did he talk more loudly; he brought into his conversation references to money, travels, and worldly experiences. While seeking to impress the Englishman, he was merely becoming ridiculous to the Englishman; and obscurely he was aware of this. Sophia noticed and regretted it. Still, feeling very unimportant herself, she was reconciled to the superiority of the whiskered Englishman as to a natural fact. Gerald"s behaviour slightly lowered him in her esteem. Then she looked at him--at his well-shaped neatness, his vivacious face, his excellent clothes, and decided that he was much to be preferred to any heavy-jawed, long-nosed aristocrat alive.
The woman whose vermilion cloak lay around her like a fortification spoke to her escort. He did not understand. He tried to express himself in French, and failed. Then the woman recommenced, talking at length.
When she had done he shook his head. His acquaintance with French was limited to the vocabulary of food.
"Guillotine!" he murmured, the sole word of her discourse that he had understood.
"Oui, oui! Guillotine. Enfin...!" cried the woman excitedly. Encouraged by her success in conveying even one word of her remarks, she began a third time.
"Excuse me," said Gerald. "Madame is talking about the execution at Auxerre the day after to-morrow. N"est-ce-pas, madame, que vous parliez de Rivain?"
The Englishman glared angrily at Gerald"s officious interruption. But the woman smiled benevolently on Gerald, and insisted on talking to her friend through him. And the Englishman had to make the best of the situation.
"There isn"t a restaurant in Paris to-night where they aren"t talking about that execution," said Gerald on his own account.
"Indeed!" observed the Englishman.
Wine affected them in different ways.
Now a fragile, short young Frenchman, with an extremely pale face ending in a thin black imperial, appeared at the entrance. He looked about, and, recognizing the woman of the scarlet cloak, very discreetly saluted her. Then he saw Gerald, and his worn, fatigued features showed a sudden, startled smile. He came rapidly forward, hat in hand, seized Gerald"s palm and greeted him effusively.
"My wife," said Gerald, with the solemn care of a man who is determined to prove that he is entirely sober.
The young man became grave and excessively ceremonious. He bowed low over Sophia"s hand and kissed it. Her impulse was to laugh, but the gravity of the young man"s deference stopped her. She glanced at Gerald, blushing, as if to say: "This comedy is not my fault." Gerald said something, the young man turned to him and his face resumed its welcoming smile.
"This is Monsieur Chirac," Gerald at length completed the introduction, "a friend of mine when I lived in Paris."
He was proud to have met by accident an acquaintance in a restaurant.
It demonstrated that he was a Parisian, and improved his standing with the whiskered Englishman and the vermilion cloak.
"It is the first time you come Paris, madame?" Chirac addressed himself to Sophia, in limping, timorous English.
"Yes," she giggled. He bowed again.
Chirac, with his best compliments, felicitated Gerald upon his marriage.
"Don"t mention it!" said the humorous Gerald in English, amused at his own wit; and then: "What about this execution?"
"Ah!" replied Chirac, breathing out a long breath, and smiling at Sophia. "Rivain! Rivain!" He made a large, important gesture with his hand.
It was at once to be seen that Gerald had touched the topic which secretly ravaged the supper-world as a subterranean fire ravages a mine.
"I go!" said Chirac, with pride, glancing at Sophia, who smiled self-consciously.
Chirac entered upon a conversation with Gerald in French. Sophia comprehended that Gerald was surprised and impressed by what Chirac told him and that Chirac in turn was surprised. Then Gerald laboriously found his pocket-book, and after some fumbling with it handed it to Chirac so that the latter might write in it.
"Madame!" murmured Chirac, resuming his ceremonious stiffness in order to take leave. "Alors, c"est entendu, mon cher ami!" he said to Gerald, who nodded phlegmatically. And Chirac went away to the next table but one, where were the three lorettes and the two middle-aged men. He was received there with enthusiasm.
Sophia began to be teased by a little fear that Gerald was not quite his usual self. She did not think of him as tipsy. The idea of his being tipsy would have shocked her. She did not think clearly at all.
She was lost and dazed in the labyrinth of new and vivid impressions into which Gerald had led her. But her prudence was awake.
"I think I"m tired," she said in a low voice.
"You don"t want to go, do you?" he asked, hurt.
"Well--"
"Oh, wait a bit!"
The owner of the vermilion cloak spoke again to Gerald, who showed that he was flattered. While talking to her he ordered a brandy-and-soda.
And then he could not refrain from displaying to her his familiarity with Parisian life, and he related how he had met Hortense Schneider behind a pair of white horses. The vermilion cloak grew even more sociable at the mention of this resounding name, and chattered with the most agreeable vivacity. Her friend stared inimically.
"Do you hear that?" Gerald explained to Sophia, who was sitting silent.
"About Hortense Schneider--you know, we met her to-night. It seems she made a bet of a louis with some fellow, and when he lost he sent her the louis set in diamonds worth a hundred thousand francs. That"s how they go on here."
"Oh!" cried Sophia, further than ever in the labyrinth.
""Scuse me," the Englishman put in heavily. He had heard the words "Hortense Schneider," "Hortense Schneider," repeating themselves in the conversation, and at last it had occurred to him that the conversation was about Hortense Schneider. ""Scuse me," he began again. "Are you--do you mean Hortense Schneider?"
"Yes," said Gerald. "We met her to-night."
"She"s in Trouville," said the Englishman, flatly.
Gerald shook his head positively.
"I gave a supper to her in Trouville last night," said the Englishman.
"And she plays at the Casino Theatre to-night."
Gerald was repulsed but not defeated. "What is she playing in to-night?
Tell me that!" he sneered.
"I don"t see why I sh"d tell you."
"Hm!" Gerald retorted. "If what you say is true, it"s a very strange thing I should have seen her in the Champs Elysees to-night, isn"t it?"
The Englishman drank more wine. "If you want to insult me, sir--" he began coldly.
"Gerald!" Sophia urged in a whisper.
"Be quiet!" Gerald snapped.
A fiddler in fancy costume plunged into the restaurant at that moment and began to play wildly. The shock of his strange advent momentarily silenced the quarrel; but soon it leaped up again, under the shelter of the noisy music,--the common, tedious, tippler"s quarrel. It rose higher and higher. The fiddler looked askance at it over his fiddle.
Chirac cautiously observed it. Instead of attending to the music, the festal company attended to the quarrel. Three waiters in a group watched it with an impartial sporting interest. The English voices grew more menacing.
Then suddenly the whiskered Englishman, jerking his head towards the door, said more quietly:
"Hadn"t we better settle thish outside?"