CHAPTER LXI
Wherein the Landlord ofThe Scarlet Jackassis unable to sing his Song
Atthe tavern ofThe Scarlet Jackassthe hero of the evening was a young poet who had that day found a publisher. The wines and ale went round. Amidst uproar they were crowning the old mad poet Gattepoésie with a wreath of pure white roses, where he sat blinking and smiling in a chair upon a table, that he, having uttered a panegyric upon the new immortal, after the manner of the Academy, might conduct him to the chair and crown him; and it was in the midst of the resulting fooleries that Noll, nudging Horace Malahide, noticed the absence of André Joyeux—missing the flow of his rollicking wit and the effect of his commanding personality.
He signed to one of the waiters, an enormous stout man, chosen by André because he resembled Renan in his Academic uniform.
“Garçon,” said he—“where is the master?”
He was resting—upstairs—in the room just over the tavern. He was only allowed to drink milk—he was in need of rest.
The young Englishmen said they would go up and see him, and the waiter leading the way, the two young fellows followed him up the private stair. At the door the waiter knocked, and left them. They entered.
On his bed lay André Joyeux, his face deathly pale, and a drawn look about the eyes.
He received the two young fellows affectionately, held Noll’s hand, embraced Horace.
Noll found himself mute. But the sick man saw that he was affected, and patted him on the shoulder—it was only nerves, he said—it would pass—he would soon be giving them
Proud as kings and loud as carters,Live they who live on the Hill of Martyrs
Proud as kings and loud as carters,Live they who live on the Hill of Martyrs
Proud as kings and loud as carters,
Live they who live on the Hill of Martyrs
—they should have the rousing chorus——
The distant sound of laughter below checked him, and brought a frown to his knit brows.
He sank back on his pillows, shutting his eyes, wearily.
But the noise below fretted his ears, and the baffling bursts of laughter and applause kept his mind going, seeking the cause, restless, inquisitive.
Noll drew a chair beside his bed, he offered to come and look after him; but André patted his hand, put his offer aside, laughed pathetically, said he would soon be all right—they should see—they would very soon again have
Proud as kings and loud as carters,Live they who live on the Hill of Martyrs.
Proud as kings and loud as carters,Live they who live on the Hill of Martyrs.
Proud as kings and loud as carters,
Live they who live on the Hill of Martyrs.
The sound of a song being sung below brought a questioning frown to the sick man’s eyes again. Who was it playing? What was the song? He did not recognise it!
Noll asked if he might not send them all away—he would stop the noise.
“No, no,” said André. “Let them sing their songs—it was Guitreau who had found a publisher—he had himself discovered Guitreau—it would be boorish to spoil his evening—no, no—let them sing their songs. We have only once to live——”
There was loud laughter....
They had sat awhile in silence, when Noll asked if they could do nothing.
No; he wanted for nothing. The waiters were good souls. Everyone had been kind. No.... He thought he would now sleep.
He embraced them, and they left the room—crept from it silently, some strange instinct and dread dictating their going a-tiptoe.
And as Noll turned to close the door, the wan-faced man in the gloom of the ill-lit room ran his hand wearily over his brow and flung his arm restlessly upon the coverlet.