IX

IX

Promptly at noon, Friday, Hamilton was ringing the bell at the nurses’ home. Meadows, enveloped in a blue cloak, opened the door for him.

“Right on time,” she laughed, extending her hand. “Do you wish to come in? All right, then, we’ll go ahead.”

Hamilton wondered what Meadows thought of his conduct at thereception—his suddenleaving—his angry denunciation of the coloredrace—as they walked together to the curb.

Through the stark trees a bright December sun was shining. Hundreds of students of the Sorbonne, a few blocks away, were on the streets, coming from their morning classes, talking, shouting, laughing, singing. Hamilton was about to signal a cab.

“Oh, let’s walk,” said Meadows impulsively. “It’s such a beautiful day.

“But first”—she halted, and shook her finger at him, “before we goon—wherever we’regoing—you haven’t toldme—you must promise not to run away from me in case we should happen to run across Williams or some other colored patient and I answer his greeting.”

“I suppose I do owe you an apology for my outburst at the reception,” Hamilton replied. “But seriously, I don’t know if I shouldn’t run away. That happens to be one thing I feel strongly about. I suppose you’ve never lived in the South.”

Meadows shook her head.

“Well, then, you can have no conception of what the negro problem means to the Southerner. Of course I shouldn’t have lost my temper. A person never should do that. And the French, who before the war probably saw a negro once ayear—and then a genius, one of those freaks that is apt to come out of anyrace—don’t understand.”

“Well, maybe I don’t understand, either. And another thing I don’tunderstand—where you’re taking me.”

“Oh, I thought we’d have lunch at some restaurant and then take in a vaudeville.”

“Let’s just ramble through the Luxembourg Gardens,” suggested Meadows. “It’s only a few blocks away and it will give us the afternoon to ourselves.”

“All right, the Luxembourg Gardens it will be then,” agreed Hamilton. “Perhaps you could suggest the restaurant. As a matter of fact, I’ve been seeing Paris mostly by night, and specializing in only indecent cafés.”

Meadows did know just the café, only a few blocks down Rue de St. Jacques and around the corner, a relatively obscure place for most Americans, but the haunt of tourists “who really know,” and the less impecunious students. It was a rather unimposing place, from the outside. One entered it after stumbling down a flight of decrepit stairs and opening an ancient door. But inside everything was inviting. It was called the Black Cat and everything was done in black and orange, with black cats forming the principal motif of ornament. Black cats ran around the wall in a stencilled pattern and basked in front of the cozy fireplace in the form of cast-iron statuettes. Hamilton noticed that a log was blazing briskly. Black cats grimaced from under the shades of the table lamps and from the salt and pepper shakers. And, as Hamilton sat down, he noticed that even the backs of the chairs were ferocious chats noirs.

The proprietor himself, or so itseemed—no other person in the world could possibly have taken such an interest in thepatrons—greeted them with a smile and conducted them personally to a table. He was a short, dark, stout man, with carefully curled jet-black mustache, who smiled and bowed perpetually, like an automaton.

One of a half-dozen waiters who had been hurrying about, placed menus, decorated with hungry black cats, in front of them with a flourishand—oh, so humbly!—suggested dishes for the Americans’ consideration.

“Oh, you must try one of their omelettes. They’refamous for them,” said Meadows. “MonsieurBarbiton—that’s that grinningBilliken—can do more things with eggs than any other three chefs in Paris, which means the world.”

While waiting for their omelettes, Hamilton and Meadows looked about the room. It was larger than one would think upon first entering, much larger than one would imagine from theoutside—but cozy. There was a comfortable clatter of dishes and a buzz of voices. The diners were mostly Frenchmen and Frenchwomen, shrugging their shoulders and gesticulating over their food. Here and there appeared the sombre uniform of an American or English officer.

“How much warmer every one seems here,” remarked Meadows, groping about in her mind for the right adjective. “Here they come to discussthings—art, poetry, philosophy, politics. In a Broadway restaurant people come to eat and get over thebusinessas quickly as possible.”

Hamilton laughed.

“Oh, I suppose we’re too efficient. Afraid to waste time. In the South, though, we take things a bit easier.”

“But are we Americans really so efficient?” queried Meadows. “We hurry about a great deal, but do we get anywhere?”

“Well, we are tremendously advanced in technicalmatters—in machine production. We can make things faster and cheaper than any other country in the world. The average American workingman probably produces twice as much as the best workingman in Europe.”

Hamilton paused. The waiter was approaching with a tray of hors d’œuvres—olives, radishes, appetizing little fish that Hamilton failed to recognize. He selected a radish and emphasized points with it between bites. He was entering into the atmosphere of the place.

“But in order to get this production, the business man has to work like the deuce. He’s at his desk early in the morning and late at night. He runs into a restaurant at noon, grabs a ham sandwich, a piece of pie and a cup ofcoffee, eats it in a cramped position from the arm of a chair, and rushes back again. He’s not a captain, but a slave of industry.”

Hamilton went on lugubriously, with mock dramatic force. “There’s your plutocrat. Your silk-hatted, obese gentleman of the cartoons. As a matter of fact he is usually thin and suffering from dyspepsia. This is the object of the attack of the representatives of the pee-pul—the demagogues. This is your hated capitalist. I prefer the man who has sense enough to see that there is nothing essentially noble in work and who devotes his time to the pleasures of life.”

Over the omelettes, which after the first bite, Hamilton decided were worth all their reputation, the discussion was resumed.

“Isn’t that a rather narrow view to take?” asked Meadows. “Devoting one’s life to mere pleasure.”

“It’s the very highest. What are the higher things in life but means to increasing our pleasure? What is all ourculture—manners, art, literature, music? Even religion is the sole pleasure of the millions who are too incompetent or unfortunate to enjoy the material pleasures of life, the pleasures of the flesh. There is no rational occupation for man, aside from what is absolutely necessary for his subsistence, except the pursuit of pleasure.”

“But haven’t you any place for duty in your philosophy?” put in Meadows. “Your views are interesting, but obviously only applicable to a small class. Obviously every one couldn’t go about hunting pleasure.”

“Certainly, it’s a class philosophy,” replied Hamilton. “I don’t pretend to prescribe a philosophy that fits every one. It’s simply my own private brand. It would be just as ridiculous for me to have a philosophy that is more universally applicable, as it would be for me to drink beer instead of Château Yquem, because it suits more palates.”

“And you don’t care about the beer drinker?”

“On the whole, he’s just as well off as your average American capitalist. He eats more, sleeps as long, andsatisfies practically the same desires. Both read the same newspapers and attend the same movies. And the beer drinker doesn’t have to worry about his wife eloping with the chauffeur.”

“So you admit the morality of the beer drinkers, only I don’t like that term.”

“That,” interrupted Hamilton, his eyes gleaming, “is because your appetite also has been developed beyond the beer stage.”

“Anyway you admit that his morality is higher.”

“Not at all. His wife very obviously cannot elope with a chauffeur, because there’s no chauffeur to elope with. In fact, she may already be married to him.”

They both laid down their forks and laughed.

“You’ve aroused a tremendous appetite in me for Château Yquem,” said Meadows mischievously. And Hamilton ordered a bottle, after the waiter had assured him that the oldest bottle in Paris lay in the wine cellar of the Black Cat.

“After a swallow I may learn to appreciate your point of view better,” she said.

“There’s no pleasanter way of learning that I know of.”

Hamilton watched Meadows lift the glass to her lips, her dark eyes sparkling as brightly as the yellow wine. He had never noticed how charmingly her lips were curved before. A ridiculous idea came into his mind and he promptly dismissed it. Certainly he was not falling in love with her. This was merelycompanionship—intellectual companionship. And, of course, there was Margaret, to whom he was engaged and whom he really loved. Meadows made a little face, whether it was expressive of dislike or of coquetry Hamilton was not certain.

“Boo!” said Meadows, setting it down. “I’m afraid I’ll have to remain a plain American bourgeoise.”

“You couldn’t do that,” Hamilton made a mock bow, supposed to be imitative of the restaurant proprietor. “You couldn’t, even if you did remain a bourgeoise.”

“You’re perfectly horrible today, Colonel!” Meadowslaughed. Over his wine and pastry he watched the changing expressions in her face. Were her eyes actually larger than Margaret’s? Therewasa resemblance between them. Meadows seemed more cosmopolitan, yet hardly less girlish. He watched the high lights in her hair, where the sun fell on it through the window. Then her lips again. They were very much like Margaret’s. He wondered whether she would go out with other officers after he was gone. Probably, he decided. And would he ever see her again? He imagined Margaret meeting Meadows and perhaps thanking her. He was conscious of her voice going on and it soothed him in a strange way. Vaguely it made him feel as though he were with Margaret. This, he reasoned with himself, was no treachery. Meadows was simply a medium for the expression of a certain mood. She represented Margaret.

“I bet you haven’t heard a word I said.”

Hamilton came out of his trance.

“Why, yes I have.” He groped blindly. “You were asking meif—if—”

“See, you haven’t been listening to me. You’ve sat that way for ten minutes, staring at something.”

Hamilton didn’t wish to say it, fought against saying it, and said it, although still in his tone of light banter.

“I was staring into your eyes. You know how one loses oneself while gazing into a crystal.”

Now that he had said it, it sounded flat, stilted. But even so, flattery of some kind was his only possible defense. Meadows made a little bow.

“While you were crystal-gazing you mumbled something about your idea of aristocracy and business efficiency.”

“Oh, did I? It’s simply that an aristocracy, freed from the necessity of work, that is, free to seek pleasure, is necessary if we are to have anyculture—any civilization higher than a factory civilization.”

“Then you’d have to have a class that works and another class that lives on the fruits of their labor.”

“Exactly.”

“Now I understand your attitude toward the Negro. You’d have them slaves.”

“Slaves, servants orlaborers—in their definiteplace—it doesn’t matter. And a cultured, leisure class instead of the efficient business man. But that isn’t what we’re herefor—to discuss sociology. I want to know more about you. This may be our last time together.”

He leaned across the table, conscious that his hands were moving toward hers across the cloth. But he stopped them.

“You know I’m going to rejoin my regiment Monday. Another month in barracks and then I’ll be sailing back.”

They rose, Hamilton helped her into her cloak, paid his pour boire to the waiter and picked up his check.

“They’re not so inefficient,” he said, glancing at the figures.

“Who? The French?”

“Yes, they put a half dozen hors d’œuvres on the table that aren’t on the menu and charge you for the whole plate if you take just a single radish or olive or whatever it is. Well, c’est la guerre. Poor devils, they need it.”

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