CHAPTER XLVI
Wherein the Husband of the Concierge fears that he is growing Blind
Darknesswas stealing over the city, and Paris was taking a drowsy breath in the twilight before awakening to her evening gaiety and frolic mood.
In her narrow old grey streets, many-shuttered, which huddle about the broad Boule Miche that is the students’ highway on the left bank of the river—in the time-honoured Latin quarter—over against the Ile de la Cité, there stands a narrow way where artists do largely abide. In the whitest house of the block, or the one that at least attempts the nearest to approach a dingy suggestion of whiteness, where at any rate whiteness is become less a bygone tradition than with the rest of its fellows down the length of the alley, there stood at its topmost window, his hands behind his back, and in pensive fashion, a handsome young fellow in the slouched black hat and short black coat, flowing tie, and baggy brown corduroy pantaloons of the student of Paris; but the yellow hair was the hair of Horace Malahide.
His brooding eyes were on the end of the alley, where in the reek of the lilac dusk Paris glittered her myriad lamps, her flaming streets sweeping away into the shadow of the night, showing afar dim sparks of fire that winked up the heights and were lost in the purple firmament, where a white star trembled into liquid light above the gaunt scaffolding of the huge basilica a-top of the distant hill of Montmartre.
A cracked voice in the dark room asked:
“Monsieur wishes that I shall light the candle?”
Before the brooding youth at the window gave answer, a match was struck, and discovered a little old man guarding the flame of a candle with his hand. The old fellow set the candle on a table.
Horace turned, with a sigh, into the room, sat down on a chair, and pushed back his hat; he came down into the world.
“Husband of concierges,” said he——
The little old man, with skull-cap a-top, coughed, held out a protesting hand:
“Pardon, monsieur—husband oftheconcierge!”
Horace laughed:
“Husband of the concierge of concierges,” said he—and he held out a jewelled box of cigarettes—“we will smoke—to disinfect the room.”
The old shoulders rose in the shrug of protest:
“Good God, monsieur, the room is absolutely polished”—the shoulders swore it—“clean as a dish—not a grain of dust. I said it should be so. I did not trust thefemme de ménagealone. I did it myself.”
Shoulders and arms and hands, all bore confirmatory evidence.
Horace nodded:
“Smoke,” said he. “It is an honour to smoke with so clean a husband of concierges.”
The old man laughed, shook his head, and shuffling to Horace’s side, took a cigarette:
“Ah, monsieur the student he is always gay—always gay. He has always his joke against his concierge.... I have known students for thirty years—and who would have it otherwise? When students fall away from joy of life they take to believing too much in themselves, and cross the river to Montmartre, and drink absinthe, and die, and are buried.”
“Come, my husband of concierges,” cried Horace, “don’t let us weep. Light all the candles, and let us see what the room looks like——”
“But, monsieur, not all the candles?”
“Certainly! certainly!... This is the last rehearsal, my old veteran; theyarriveto-morrow.... Light up, man—light up!”
The old man shuffled about the room in his thick felt slippers, setting candles aflame until the place was a blaze of light.
Horace’s eyes went over the details of the room.
“Those rogues sent a fresh new bed, eh? You saw to that, eh?”
“The sommier was as monsieur had ordered it—ab-so-lu-ment.” The old man stopped in the midst of lighting a last candle to point to the couch-ottoman that is the student’s lounge by day and bed by night.
Horace nodded:
“Good!... The rest of the furniture, though not too profuse, looks far from too new. We showed taste in our choice, my old veteran. Now, you will not forget your lesson? Monsieur Horace has sent what he did not want from his own studio; but there was no stove nor towels, and you have taken the liberty to buy a stove and a dozen towels which were a bargain and they only cost you twelve francs! God forgive me! You have it all in your head, all under that embroidered cap, my husband of concierges, eh?”
The old man bowed, shrugged his shoulders, and held out his open palms in the protest of indignation:
“Has monsieur yet known me to forget anything?”
Horace blew out a cloud of smoke, frowning at his thoughts....
He put his hand in the breast-pocket of his coat and drew out a bundle of banknotes. He beckoned the old man to him; put five of them into his hand, and shut the old fingers upon them:
“My friend,” said he, putting his hand on the old fellow’s shoulder—“there will always be here, early every morning for an hour or so, a woman,une femme de ménage, to make beds and brush and sweep and keep things tidy—besides, you and madam will, I know, have business up in this part of the house—at times that will just happen to be useful to the young lady who is coming here. There will be water wanted, and breakfast rolls and milk and things. And—I shall not forget that you do not forget them.”
The old man nodded, smiled.
“I will have business on the sixth floor morning and evening, monsieur,” he said—“and my wife also; I know of an excellent woman.”
“Good!... Now put out the lights.”
The old man shuffled round the room, and blew out the candles....
They locked the door and went down the stairs together.
Horace turned suddenly on the first landing:
“Husband of concierges—we have forgot the baths.”
“Mon Dieu, monsieur—yes.”
“They will be there to-morrow?”
“It will be there to-morrow, m’sieu.”
“They—my veteran—they!Twobaths.”
“They shall be there, m’sieu.”
Horace ran down the stairs; called “Good-night!” and was gone.
The old man scratched his head:
“My God!” said he; “how these English are always washing! That will be two extra cans to carry up.”
That night as Hodendouche, the once Sergeant of cavalry, joined his plump little mate in the bed that took up the greater part of that small room in the gateway, on the ground floor where concierges have their habitation, he blew out the candle.
“That is you!” said the stout little woman sleepily.
The old fellow chuckled:
“Thou didst not dream it was the President of the Republic, my Marie?” said he, and cackled again. “If so, I like not thy complacency.”
She turned to the wall.
“Marie,” said he—“thePetit Journallies. The English are notcanaille.... He gave me five hundred francs.... Our little Aloysius shall go on with his studies.... ThePetit Journallies.”
“Tsh! Hodendouche! Thou art grown garrulous. Get thee into thy nightcap and to sleep. Thou fool! he loves the woman.”
There was a long silence.
“Mon Dieu!” said the old man—“yes, indeed. My eyesight is not what it was.”