VI
Three weeks passed.
“To-night’s the night,” he cried, rushed from his apartment, plunged recklessly between automobiles going in four different directions at once—obviously Fords—sprang upon the roof of a passing taxicab and told the man to drive like hell for Park Avenue.
He charged up the steps, assaulted the door with his fists, leap-frogged over the impassive butler. He found her in the library and forced the fighting from the start.
It seemed to her that her entire body was encircled by flexible hot bars of iron and that her face, her mouth, were being flagellated.
“Break away!” she managed to gurgle. “No biting in the clinches!”
“Who are you?” he cried. “I don’t want to know! Will you marry me? Don’t answer!”
Again she was submerged. When she was coming up for the third time, he pushed her head under once more. A left hook to the jaw and he collapsed under a table.
When he came to, his voice was weak.
“A typewriter, please!” he gasped. “It’s stuff for the column.” His news sense rarely failed him.
“Tuesday, October 29th—I to M. Zattiany’s, the toast of the town, and a mighty mystery, whether she be in truth Zattiany or a mischievous impostor, and did kiss and clip her mightily, but the baggage handed me a slapp on the mapp, as a trunk had fallen on me. So I to the mat.”
“What next?” he added feebly.
“Have a drink,” she said.
He took three.
“Who are you, woman? Is your real name Zattiany or Firpo?”
“I am Mary Ogden Zattiany,” she answered quietly; “I married Zattiany forty-five years ago. I was twenty-five at the time. Do your own arithmetic.”
“Five from thirty is twenty and carry two—twice two is five divided by forty—double it and subtract the cube root—think of a number, add a dash of bitters—shake well before using”—his voice trailed to silence and his jaw dropped.
“I hated Zattiany but his position appealed to my love of power and intrigue—especially the latter. I was besieged by men—and surrendered at discretion.”
He got suddenly to his feet. “Think I’ll take few more drinks.” He did so and then sat down on the floor, a full glass in either hand.
“I had many lovers—many—many—many—” she went on.
“Bow-wow-wow!” he barked a short laugh.
He gazed at her with relaxing features. His steel-blue eyes goggled sardonically.
“Of all my lovers, I loved but one, Prince Haffanauer, the last. But he married and left me flat.”
“Lef’ your flat? Thought you lived in palazzo.”
“That’s so,” she echoed. “I did until the war came.”
“’Scuse me pers’nal queshion, Mis’ Zattiany, but have you sat in any these genelmen’s laps lately?”
“Not since Haffanauer,” she answered pleadingly.
“Tha’s long time—thirty minutes,” he ruminated. “That’s all ri’. Proceed!”
“I was sixty-five when Haffanauer—elapsed, so to speak.”
“But you’re young woman now. Please ’splain that—simple queshion—how do you did it?”
“Coué!”
“No, I won’ go ’way—not tell you till me—till you tell me.”
“Coué! Coué! Emile Coué!”
“Are you singin’ song or jes’ making funny noises?”
“Oh, you know! Every day in every way—younger and younger.”
“Sure, I know! Every day Coee, Cooay, he chortled in his joy! Alice Swunderland. S’Lewis Carroll—great columnist—my cousin—same ’nitials.”
“I was sixty-eight when I took the cure. Every day I’ve been getting younger and younger—in every way.”
“Better stop, lady!” he said solemnly. “Some kid now, but—much younger—police in’erfere.”
“Well—that is my story. Do you—do you love me still?” she faltered.
“’Scuse me, ’nother pers’nal queshion. D’you make zis hooch?”
“I did.”
“’En I do love your still. Old as you are, your still’s mos’ beautiful thing in N’York. In hooch signo vinces. With all thy faults, I love thy still—now an’ forever—one insepar’ble—death us do part!”
And then he slept as quietly as a child.