Section 3

upon their relation with less seriousness because 28
THE MAGICIAN 29
they had not muttered a few words before Monsieur le Maire.
The room was full when Arthur Burdon entered, but Margaret had kept him an empty seat between herself and Miss Boyd. Everyone was speaking at once, in French, at the top of his voice, and a furious argument was proceeding on the merit of the later impressionists. Arthur sat down, and was hurriedly introduced to a lanky youth, who sat on the other side of Margaret. He was very tall, very thin, very fair. He wore a very high collar and very long hair, and held himself like an exhausted lily.
“ He always reminds me of an Aubrey Beardsley that’s been dreadfully smudged,” said Susie in an undertone. ‘“ He’s a nice, kind creature, but his name is Jagson. He has virtue and industry. I haven’t seen any of his work, but he has absolutely no talent,”
“ How do you know, if you’ve not seen his pic- tures?” asked Arthur.
** Oh, it’s one of our conventions here that nobody has talent,” laughed Susie. ‘“‘ We suffer one an- other personally, but we have no illusion about the value of our neighbour’s work.”
** Tell me who everyone is.”
“ Well, look at the little bald man in the corner. That is Warren.”
Arthur looked at the man she pointed out. He was a small person, with a pate as shining as a
30 THE MAGICIAN
billiard-ball, and a pointed beard. He had protrud- ing, brilliant eyes.
“Hasn’t he had too much to drink?” asked Arthur frigidly.
“Much,” answered Susie promptly; “but he’s always in that condition, and the further he gets from sobriety the more charming he is. He’s the only man in this room of whom you'll never hear a word of evil. The strange thing is that he’s very nearly a great painter. He has the most fascinat- ing sense of colour in the world, and the more in- toxicated he is, the more delicate and beautiful is his painting. Sometimes, after more than the usual number of apéritifs, he will sit down in a café to do a sketch, with his hand so shaky that he can hardly hold a brush; he has to wait for a fay- ourable moment, and then he makes a jab at the panel, And the immoral thing is that each of these little jabs is lovely. He’s the most delightful in- terpreter of Paris I know, and when you’ve seen his sketches—he’s done hundreds, of unimaginable grace and feeling and distinction—you can never see Paris in the same way again.”
The little maid who looked busily after the varied wants of the customers stood in front of them to receive Arthur’s order. She was a hard-visaged creature of mature age, but she looked neat in her black dress and white cap; and she had a motherly way of attending to these people, with a capacious smile of her large mouth which was full of charm, |
Ate ie cae
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“T don’t mind what I eat,” said Arthur. “Let Margaret order my dinner for me.”
“Tt would have been just as good if 1 had ordered it,’ laughed Susie.
They began a lively discussion with Marie as to the merits of the various dishes, and it was only interrupted by Warren’s hilarious expostulations.
“Marie, I precipitate myself at your feet, and beg you to bring me a poule au riz.”
“Oh, but give me one moment, monsieur,”’ said the maid.
“Do not pay any attention to that gentleman. His morals are detestable, and he only seeks to lead you from the narrow path of virtue.”
Arthur protested that on the contrary the passion of hunger occupied at that moment his heart to the exclusion of all others.
“ Marie, you no longer love me,” cried Warren. “ There was a time when you did not look so coldly upon me when I ordered a bottle of white wine.”
The rest of the party took up his complaint, and all besought her not to show too hard a heart to the bald and rubicund painter.
“ Mais si, je vous aime, Monsieur Warren,” she cried, laughing, “Je vous aime tous, tous.”
She ran downstairs, amid the shouts of men and women, to give her orders.
“The other day the Chien Noir was the scene of a tragedy,” said Susie. “ Marie broke off rela-
32 THE MAGICIAN
tions with her lover, who is a waiter at Lavenue’s, and would have no reconciliation. He waited till he had a free evening, and then came to the next room and ordered dinner. Of course, she was obliged to wait on him, and as she brought him each dish he expostulated with her, and they mingled their tears.”
“‘ She wept in floods,” interrupted a youth, with neatly brushed hair and a fat nose. “‘ She wept all over our food, and we ate it salt with tears. (We besought her not to yield; except for our encourage- ment she would have gone back to him; and he beats her.”
Marie appeared again, with no signs now that so short awhile ago romance had played at game with her, and brought the dishes that had been ordered. Susie seized once more upon Arthur Burdon’s at- tention.
“ Now please look at the man who is sitting next to Mr. Warren.”
‘Arthur saw a tall, dark fellow with strongly- marked features, untidy hair, and a ragged black moustache.
“That is Mr. O’Brien, who is an example of the fact that strength of will and an earnest purpose cannot make a painter. He’s a failure and he knows it, and the bitterness has warped his soul. If you listen to him you'll hear every painter of eminence come under his lash. He can forgive nobody who’s successful, and he never acknowl-
9
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edges merit in anyone till he’s safely dead and
buried,”
“He must be a cheerful companion,” answered Arthur. ‘And who is the stout old lady by his side, with the flaunting hat?”
“ That is the mother of Madame Rouge, the little pale-faced woman sitting next to her. She is the mistress of Rouge, who does all the illustrations for La Semaine. At first it rather tickled me that the old lady should call him mon gendre, my son-in- law, and take the irregular union of her daughter with such a noble unconcern for propriety ; but now it seems quite natural.”
The mother of Madame Rouge had the remains of beauty, and she sat bolt upright, picking the leg of a chicken with a dignified gesture. Arthur looked away quickly, for, catching his eye, she gave him an amorous glance. Rouge had more the appearance of a prosperous tradesman than of an artist; but he carried on with O’Brien, whose French was perfect, an argument on the merits of Cezanne. To one he was a great master and to the other an impudent charlatan. Each hotly repeated his opinion, as though the mere fact of saying the same thing several times made it much more con- vincing.
“Next to me is Madame Meyer,” proceeded Susie. “She was a governess in Poland, but she was much too pretty to remain one, and now she lives with the landscape painter who is by her side.”
34 _ THE MAGICIAN
Arthur’s eyes followed her words and rested on a clean-shaven man with a large quantity of grey, curling hair. He had a handsome face of a de- liberately zesthetic type and was very elegantly dressed. His manner and his conversation had the flamboyance of the romantic thirties. He talked in flowing periods with an air of finality, and what he said was no less just than obvious. The gay little lady who shared his fortunes listened to his wisdom with a profound admiration that plainly flattered him.
Miss Boyd had described everyone to Arthur — except young Raggles, who painted still life with a certain amount of skill, and Clayson, the American sculptor. Raggles stood for rank and fashion at the Chien Noir. Hé was very smartly dressed in a horsey way, and he walked with bow-legs, as though he spent most of his time in the saddle. He alone used scented pomade upon his neat smooth hair. His chief distinction was a greatcoat he wore, with a scarlet lining; and Warren, whose memory for names was defective, could only recall him by that peculiarity. But it was understood that he knew duchesses in fashionable streets, and oc- casionally he dined with them in solemn splen- dour.
Clayson had a vinous nose and a tedious habit of saying brilliant things. With his twinkling eyes, red cheeks, and fair, pointed beard, he looked exactly like a Franz Hals; but he was dressed like
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the caricature of a Frenchman in a comic paper. He spoke English with a Parisian accent.
Miss Boyd was beginning to tear him gaily limb from limb, when the door was flung open, and a large person entered. He threw off his cloak with a dramatic gesture.
“Marie, disembarrass me of this coat of frieze. Hang my sombrero upon a convenient peg.”
He spoke execrable French, but there was a gran- diloquence about his vocabulary which set every- one laughing.
“Here is somebody I don’t know,” said Susie.
“ But I do, at least, by sight,” answered Burdon. He leaned over to Dr. Porhoét, who was sitting opposite, quietly eating his dinner and enjoying the nonsense which everyone talked. “Is not that your magician?”
“ Oliver Haddo,” said Dr. Porhoét, with a little nod of amusement.
The new arrival stood at the end of the room with all eyes upon him. He threw himself into an attitude of command and remained for a moment perfectly still.
* You look as if you were posing, Haddo,” said Warren huskily.
“He couldn’t help doing that if he tried,” laughed Clayson.
Oliver Haddo slowly turned his glance to the painter.
“T grieve to see, oh most excellent Warren, that
36 THE MAGICIAN
the ripe juice of the apéritif has glazed your spar- kling eye.”
“ Do you mean to say I’m drunk, sir?”
“In one gross, but expressive, word, drunk.”
The painter grotesquely flung himself back in his chair as though he had been struck a blow, and Haddo looked steadily at Clayson.
“ How often have I explained to you, O Clayson, that your deplorable lack of education precludes you from the brilliancy to which you aspire?”
For an instant Oliver Haddo resumed his effec- tive pose; and Susie, smiling, looked at him. He was a man of great size, two or three inches more than six feet high; but the most noticeable thing about him was a vast obesity. His paunch was of imposing dimensions. His face was large and fleshy. He had thrown himself into the arrogant attitude of Velasquez’s portrait of Del Borro in the Museum of Berlin; and his countenance bore of set purpose the same contemptuous smile. He ad- vanced and shook hands with Dr. Porhoét.
“Hail, brother wizard! I greet in you, if not a master, at least a student not unworthy my es- teem.~
Susie was convulsed with laughter at his pom- pousness, and he turned to her with the utmost gravity.
“Madam, your laughter is more soft in mine
ears than the singing of Bulbul in a Persian gar- den.”
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Dr. Porhoét interposed with introductions. The magician bowed solemnly as he was in turn made known to Susie Boyd, and Margaret, and Arthur Burdon. He held out his hand to the grim Irish painter.
“Well, my O’Brien, havé you been mixing as usual the waters of bitterness with the thin claret of Bordeaux?”
“Why don’t you sit down and eat your dinner?” returned the other, gruffly.
“Ah, my dear fellow, I wish I could drive the fact into this head of yours that rudeness is not synonymous with wit. I shall not have lived in vain if I teach you in time to realise that the rapier of irony is more effective an instrument than the bludgeon of insolence.’’
O’Brien reddened with anger, but could not at once find a retort, and Haddo passed on to that faded, harmless youth who sat next to Margaret.
“Do my eyes deceive me, or is this the Jagson whose name in its inanity is so appropriate to the bearer? J am eager to know if you still devote upon the ungrateful arts talents which were more profitably employed upon haberdashery.”
The unlucky creature, thus brutually attacked, blushed feebly without answering, and Haddo went on to the Frenchman, Meyer, as more worthy of his mocking.
“T’m afraid my entrance interrupted you in a discourse. Was it the celebrated harangue on the
38 THE MAGICIAN
greatness of Michael Angelo, or was it the search- © ing analysis of the art of Wagner?”
“We were just going,” said Meyer, getting up with a frown.
“T am desolated to lose the pearls of wisdom that habitually fall from your cultivated lips,” re- turned Haddo, as he politely withdrew Madame Meyer’s chair.
He sat down with a smile.
“T saw the place was crowded, and with Napo- leonic instinct decided that I could only make room by insulting somebody. It is cause for congratula- tion that my gibes, which Raggles, a foolish youth, mistakes for wit, have caused the disappearance of a person who lives in open sin; thereby vacating two seats, and allowing me to eat a humble meal with ample room for my elbows.”
Marie brought him the bill of fare, and he looked at it gravely.
“T will have a vanilla ice, oh well-beloved, ant the wing of a tender chicken, a fried sole, and some excellent pea-soup.”
“ Bien, un potage, une sole, one chicken, and an ice.”
“But why should you serve them in that order rather than in the order I gave you?”
Marie and the two Frenchwomen who were still in the room, broke into exclamations at this extrava- gance, but Oliver Haddo waved his fat hand.
“I shall start with the ice, O Marie, to cool the
yo Ts
TPR Se on re
>
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passion with which your eyes inflame me, and then without hesitation I will devour the wing of a chicken in order to sustain myself against your smile. I shall then proceed to a fresh sole, and with the pea-soup I will finish a not unsustaining meal.”
Having succeeded in capturing the attention of
_ everyone in the room, Oliver Haddo proceeded to
eat these dishes in the order he had named. Mar- garet and Burdon watched him with scornful eyes, but Susie, who was not revolted by the vanity which sought to attract notice, looked at him curiously. He was clearly not old, though his corpulence added to his apparent age. His features were good, his ears small, and his nose delicately shaped. He had big teeth, but they were white and even. His mouth was large, with heavy, moist lips. He had the neck of a bullock. His dark, curling hair had retreated from the forehead and temples in such a way as to give his clean-shaven face a disconcerting nudity. The baldness of his crown was vaguely like a ton- sure. He had the look of a very wicked, sensual priest. Margaret, stealing a glance at him as he ate, on a sudden violently shuddered; he affected her with an uncontrollable dislike. He lifted his eyes slowly, and she looked away, blushing as though she had been taken in some indiscretion. These eyes were the most curious thing about him. They were not large, but of an exceedingly pale blue, and they looked at you in a way that was singularly embarrassing. At first Susie could not
40 THE MAGICIAN
discover in what precisely their peculiarity lay, but in a moment she found out: the eyes of most per- sons converge when they look at you, but Oliver Haddo’s, naturally or by a habit he had acquired for effect, remained parallel. It gave the impres- sion that he looked straight through you and saw the wall beyond. It was quite uncanny. But another strange thing about him was the impossi- bility of telling whether he was serious. There was a mockery in that queer glance, a sardonic smile upon the mouth, which made you hesitate how to take his outrageous utterances. It was irritating to be uncertain whether, while you were laughing at him, he was not really enjoying an elaborate joke at your expense.
His presence cast an unusual chill upon the party. The French members got up and left. Warren reeled out with O’Brien, whose uncouth sarcasms were no match for Haddo’s bitter gibes. Raggles put on his coat with the scarlet lining and went out with the tall Jagson, who smarted still under Haddo’s insolence. The American sculptor paid his bill silently. When he was at the door Haddo stopped him.
“You have modelled lions at the Jardin des Plantes, my dear Clayson. Have you ever hunted them on their native plains?”
“ No, I haven't.”
Clayson did not know why Haddo asked the question, but he bristled with incipient wrath.
Om, .
t
TPS ee ee
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“Then you have not seen the jackals, gnawing at a dead antelope, scamper away in terror when the King of Beasts stalked down to make his meal.”
Clayson slammed the door behind him. Haddo was left with Margaret, and Arthur Burdon, Dr.
_ Porhoét, and Susie. He smiled quietly.
“By the way, are you a lion-hunter?” asked
_ Susie flippantly.
He turned on her his straight uncanny glance.
“T have no equal with big game. I have shot more lions than any man alive. I think Jules Gé- rard, whom the French of the nineteenth century called Le Tueur de Lions, may have been fit to compare with me, but I can call to mind no other.”