House of All Nations Read Free

‘What do you think of her, eh? Eh, Marianne?’ He flushed. ‘I value your opinion, Marianne.’
    â€˜Russian, eh?’ asked Aristide, somewhat embarrassed.
    â€˜Very beautiful: I admire your taste,’ croaked Marianne.
    Léon made a wry face, recovered himself, expostulated, ‘She’s a lady. I met her with Paul, Paul Méline, with a little friend, a Mme. Something, on the Champs-Élysées, Café du Berry. There were two of them right there at the little table. Méline was with me and I had a bet with him that they wouldn’t speak to us. He got them into conversation and he won. I didn’t pay him yet. He got the other girl. A lady, too.’ He begged, ‘She’s a decent woman, Marianne, married. Have you ever seen a girl like that, Aristide?’ He exulted, checked himself immediately out of respect for Marianne. He grinned at Marianne. ‘Marianne doesn’t mind if you speak up. She knows you’re faithful. Don’t you, eh, Marianne?’ He became earnest. ‘I can tell you one thing about that boy, Marianne. I’ve known him ten, fifteen years, I’ve tempted him.’ He bubbled over with the confession. ‘I’ve tempted him.’ He sobered again. ‘No disrespect to you, Marianne. That was before I met you. Since I met you, never! Never, I swear to you! You’re a fine type of woman. I respect you. But I’ve got to say it: he never fell! He’s faithful to you, Marianne, I’ve got to say that for him.’ He ended with a shade of regret.
    Then he laughed, ‘Listen, Aristide, there’s too much talk about how good the pound sterling is. I want to see that banker you were telling me about. Berty? Berty—Bertillon? I’ve got an idea. Never mind—’ He lowered his voice. ‘The other girl says she’s a widow. She’s quite a lady. Méline had breakfast with her. She’s just gone, I think. Poor girl—’ (He was evidently thinking of his own girl again.) He confided to Marianne: ‘A beauty like that. That’s surprising, isn’t it, Marianne? What do you make of it? And she lives in the Rue de Valence, near the Gobelins. Quite poor! Miserable! That shows she’s honest.’ He looked dubious. ‘I saw her room last night: two rooms. Her husband’s a naval lieutenant—comes home every three months. It’s not much. She hasn’t heard from him for three months. She’s had typhoid fever. Some little trouble between them, I guess.’ He said lustily, ‘I should worry! My profit, eh! He, he, my profit.’ He clouded again. ‘I didn’t like her telling me about the typhoid, but she says she comes from Transylvania too. Says she’s a country girl. Shows she’s honest. Eh? Eh?’ He meditated between them, convinced they were absorbed by his affair. ‘She seems unhappy—I don’t want no sympathy tales though. Imagine a girl like that living all alone. Can you?’ He became gigantically sunny. ‘If she does. Well, who knows? Well, where are we lunching, Aristide? How’s the son at Oxford, Marianne? My boy—not satisfied at all. Wants to be an archeologist; what’s that, eh? Old ruins, eh? No good. Well, wait, wait, we’ll see.’
    They went towards the door, Léon affectionately grabbing Marianne’s arm and murmuring, ‘What do you advise me to do, eh? You’re a mother. You’ve got brains. What can I do? Well, where shall we—here, here, downstairs, I’ve got some telephoning to do. Here, here, this way.’
    They had resigned themselves to Léon ten minutes before. Now, they let him waft them to the lounge, where they were supposed to wait for him respectably while he skirmished with his own business. They drifted to the bar of the hotel, waited, standing, awkwardly. ‘Let’s have a drink,’ said Marianne.
    â€˜What for?’