The Little Moment of Happiness

by Clarence Budington Kelland

Kendall was more anxious to see Marty’s than he would have admitted to Bert; as soon as Bert mentioned the fact that its habitués were actors he wanted to go to the place very badly. He wanted to see what French actors were like—and actresses. In his whole life he had never seen an actor off the stage, had never been especially curious about them, but now it was different. Andree was going to be an actress if she could, and he wanted to see for himself what sort of creature she would be when she came to be one.

Since he left Andree the night before he had been filled with uneasiness. Again and again he reviewed his conversation with her and found it disturbing. He had rather lost his head, he perceived. He had told her he loved her when, so he declared to himself, he did not love her in the least, and the fact that she had made light of his declaration and had refused to believe in the possibility of a so-sudden affection helped the situation very little. What troubled him most was that he had made a start of some kind, to travel some sort of path. He didn’t know what sort of path it was nor whither it led, but he was vaguely apprehensive of it. He fancied that half-meant declaration of his had altered the status of himself and Andree altogether, and placed them on a different basis. But he was wrong.... He remembered that he wanted to kiss her, but was not inclined to take himself to task for that. What could be more natural than to want to kiss Andree? He never saw anybody who was more kissable.... Again and again he consoled himself by conjuring up her face and studying it, and by remembering her modesty, her reserve, her sweetness and goodness. Of course it was all right. There wasn’t the slightest danger with a girl like Andree—if, of course, they didn’t actually fall in love with each other. He didn’t want to do that. Andree was a foreigner. She was not American, but of another race, speaking another language. This may sound droll, but how many Americans are there who would have felt exactly as Kendall felt!

Therefore the idea of marriage did not occur to him as of the possibilities. He could not imagine himself marrying a foreigner. Here his mother functioned without hindrance. She had been against all foreigners. To her a foreigner had been a sort of freak of nature, a distressing accident. Anybody who was not English had been guilty of some sort of obscure offense against nature. Of course there were degrees of foreignness—some, as the Chinese, were more guilty than others—but it was a difference in degree and that was all. This was a basic fact to her, a part of her, and, without consciously instructing Kendall, she had impressed her way of thinking upon him until it was his own. He did not think of marriage with Andree any more than he would have thought of eating a rose....

As a matter of fact, he didn’t know just what he did think of in connection with her. He had no definite hopes. She had occurred in his life and now he was drifting along, letting matters take care of themselves. He simply was without intentions of any sort.... But he was vaguely uneasy.

At seven-thirty Kendall and Bert entered Marty’s a bit diffidently, as young men do who go to a place where they are uncertain of just how to behave. It was a dingy little café, poorly lighted and rather crowded with things. One passed a sort of bar upon which were piled langoustes and melons, and behind which was madame, very fat and capable, surrounded by bottles of various kinds, and keeping an efficient eye on her patrons and upon the finances of the institution. A half-partition of glass separated the bar from the rest of the room, which was filled with tables in parallel rows, with a narrow aisle down the middle. When filled to capacity the café might contain as many as thirty persons.

Madame bade them welcome with a smile and a bon soir, and motioned them to proceed to a table. They seated themselves and looked about. Only a few persons were present, but before a stout waitress dressed in black had taken their order a considerable party entered and took seats directly opposite. There were four men and two women. Almost simultaneously a fifth young man entered noisily. He waved his cane in the air as he hobbled in, for he had an artificial leg, and shouted greetings to everybody. He was rather tall and very thin and pale, but exceedingly jaunty. His felt hat, a disreputable affair, was askew on his head, and there was something rakish about even his limp. With many gestures and apparent great excitement he rushed from one table to the other, shaking hands with everybody, and once in a while stooping to kiss a girl on the cheek. Everybody laughed with him and at him. At last his eyes perceived Kendall and Bert and he came lunging across to them.

“Ha!” he shouted, throatily. “Americans! Welcome! I shall sit at your table and we shall be acquainted, is it not? You see I spik Engleesh ver’ fine. Behol’! I shall sit here.”

“Have nothing to do with him,” a handsome young man called to Kendall in French. “He thinks you have sugar.” And everybody laughed.

The young man leaped to his feet, waved his arms above his head, and glared at his accuser. “Bah!” he shouted, explosively. “You are nothing ...” and sat down very suddenly, apparently forgetting the whole incident, for he leaned over the table to Kendall and said: “It is an argument—yes. You shall decide, is it not? A foolish argument. Behol’—if there is a king in Siam—eh, you observe?—and he is rich, oh, ver’, ver’ rich. You onderstand? Yes? Also, if there is a—what you call—a electric button here”—he turned wildly and shoved his thumb against the partition as if he were ringing an electric bell—“if I could press this button—do you understand?—and thees king in Siam is dead—oh, queek, sudden, like thees”—he caught a long thumb-nail against his upper teeth and snapped it—“so.... Now, then, if I can so to push the button and thees king is dead, and all his money is mine—the argument, messieurs, is—shall I do it. Voilà!...” He leaned back and regarded them gravely.

“Give it a push,” said Bert.