House of All Nations Read Free Page B

them again. ‘That’s right, Aristide, having a drink? No, none for me. Well, where shall we eat?’
    â€˜Griffon’s is a good place: I’ve been there a lot since you were here last,’ Aristide informed the air.
    Léon recovered himself. ‘Yes, yes, is it good? I’ve got a lot to talk over with you, Aristide.’ He turned to them, ‘Excuse us, Marianne. I want to go over a lot of business with your husband. We’ll both make a profit. You don’t mind, do you? I must look around. I’m expecting someone. A lady. I want her to come to lunch—er, I want you to run your eye over her, Marianne. I think a lot of your opinion. A very fine business head. I don’t usually go in for business ladies—’ (the sudden sunrise which was his smile) ‘—one of the smartest I ever met.’ He frowned slightly, shook his head vigorously into his collar, and pulled back his chin with a rebellious pout and a somber roll of the eye. He thrust at Aristide, ‘How’s Bertillon? Jules?’
    â€˜As usual. I’d like you two to meet.’
    â€˜He does, eh?’ he said vaguely. ‘I want to meet him, too. Saw him only a second. Heard about him. Smart feller. Must see for myself. Can’t believe it: a goyisher Kopf . Old Amsterdam family, isn’t it—Antwerp? Family in diamonds, something?’
    â€˜The grandfather. The only non-Jew,’ said Aristide priggishly, ‘in the business.’
    Léon’s laughter rumbled in the seven mountains of his mind, ‘And he got out. He, he, he, ho, ho. When can I meet him?’
    â€˜This afternoon. Whenever you like. What hour? I’ll be there.’
    â€˜No, no. Not this afternoon. No. I’ve got some business. Yes. Business. Be occupied until late tonight. This woman’s introducing me to a cotton planter and a man with an oil-royalties business in Mexico. Very smart girl. A cotton-picker, she says: revolutionize the southern states of the U.S.A. I hope it’s one hundred per cent. I don’t trust women’s introductions. I’ll see. At any rate. When can I see Bertillon? Tomorrow morning early? First thing? Eh, early? What time’s he get in, eight?’
    â€˜Nine-thirty,’ said Aristide.
    â€˜All right: late. I’ll be—where is it?—39, Pillet-Will, nine-thirty.’ He wrote it down. ‘All right. Come along, Marianne. Wait, I’ll look round. She must be here. Smart woman. She wouldn’t come upstairs. Nice woman.’
    Léon frowned. ‘No, no, no, no: she doesn’t want me to put up—nothing like that. If she does, good-by: nothing doing. But—I’ll see. You’ll give me your opinion, Marianne,’ he said coaxingly, but without conviction.
    He bustled into the passage, came round through the winter garden and the writing room, energetically shuttling his haunches, enumerating the women. Halfway, he saw the observant blonde and, hooking his stick over his arm, rushed towards her. She sat still and when he bent over her, smiled a pearly smile. The great impediment in her career was her expression: she looked as calculating as she was. She had a sweet smile and had brought out with care the lights of her soft skin and pale blonde hair, but the gray-blue eyes looked out sharply still from between her pale lashes and the California sun had drawn early crow’s-feet in the corners. Léon held her pear-shaped small hand with its diamond and platinum bracelet for a minute, patted it, devoured the jewels. Méline lost nothing of all this. ‘Will she?’ said Léon’s attitude. ‘Won’t she!’ replied Méline’s.
    She rose, and they approached. Aristide stood up. Nothing distinguished him from hundreds of Paris stock-exchange runners but an extensible melancholy, indicated by a gloomy bend of the head, feet firmly placed, and eyes bent down as if he were forever in a