House of All Nations Read Free Page A

Aristide asked. ‘We don’t know if Léon is going to drink.’
    A handsome, slender, middle-aged South Russian, with that mottled dusky-and-olive complexion often seen in underfed Negroes, leaned across the bar to a young woman whose silver curves resembled those of the chromium. He said in a conversational tone, ‘What beautiful nipples you have, Mademoiselle! I’m mad with enthusiasm. I should love to bite your splendid breasts.’
    Aristide started. ‘There’s Paul Méline! Let’s go and speak to him before Henri comes back.’
    The barman laughed. ‘I’ll introduce you to Mademoiselle, Mr. Méline, so that you needn’t be so formal: but you must behave.’
    The young woman had flushed, but looked at Méline without resentment. No woman had ever looked at Paul Méline with resentment.
    â€˜See how beautiful my wife is,’ said Méline, getting out a leather billfold and extracting a bundle of photographs. ‘Here she is—that’s my little boy.’ Whereas Léon had an old, dull story and began by telling girls that he was unhappy and misunderstood at home, Méline always showed a picture of his wife and raved about his domestic happiness. It put everyone on the right footing and kept him out of scrapes.
    â€˜Good morning, Paul,’ said Marianne. She took the photograph and looked again at the heavy Russian beauty whose dress was dashingly but comfortably draped over her, like a shawl over a grand piano. Meline got up, bowed, ignored Marianne’s plainness, seemed to enter it in large figures in her credit sheet that she was cherished by someone (Aristide) if not by him. Then he took the photograph back rather hastily. It was not intended for Marianne. ‘Let’s have our drinks in the foyer,’ he said. A waiter saw Méline a long way off and floated rapidly nearer.
    From their seats in the lounge, waiting for their drinks, they could see Léon at the desk. A black-coated manager with a set face appeared to remonstrate with Léon. Two clerks looked distantly preoccupied till they moved round the corner when they began to smirk in an unpleasant gentlemanly way. The revolving door turned and blew Léon’s voice to them, brisk: ‘No, no, no, no, no. You quoted me one price. I’ve been here for months. You made me one price. I don’t pay another. Next time you tell me beforehand, see.’ His voice faded again. They heard Léon commanding, ‘Send someone to fix up the room. Did Mr. Méline come downstairs? Where, where? Is there a lady waiting for me? Where is she?’
    He came springing towards them with his sturdy step, a short giant, five feet three in height, a great skull, bull neck, prizefighter’s shoulders, gorilla’s chest, thick waist and fleshy limbs, in a suit with too swagger a cut. His arms were short and thick above the elbow but of normal size in the forearm, so that they swung as he walked with an exaggerated sweep. Everything he did, even his sitting still, betrayed a violent will. He turned and rushed back to the desk with a swirl of coattails, to give the groom a message. He called peremptorily, ‘Hé, boy!’ Another groom approached with the self-respecting scuttle of a great hotel. When he dispatched the second, both grooms sneered and grinned behind his back. They were taller, and were slender, dark young fellows, wearing white collars and the hotel livery. They thought Léon a bounder and themselves the tailor’s dream. Besides, Léon had an all-in rate at the hotel and did not give any tips.
    A pale blonde with large hat, pointed chin, thin toes, thin neck but a good figure, sat and scrutinized them steadily. She also observed Léon with prepossession. Leon’s bossy back, bright shoes, and malacca cane at an angle of forty-five degrees performed at the telephone switchboard. The telephone girl smiled her sweetest. Now he came towards