The little dog barked furiously at Andrews, a shrill bark like a child squalling.
“He knows he ought to be suspicious of soldiers.... I imagine most soldiers would change with him if they had a chance.... Viens Santo, viens Santo.... Will you change lives with me, Santo?”
“You look as if you'd been quarrelling with somebody,” said Genevieve Rod lightly.
“I have, with myself.... I'm going to write a book on slave psychology. It would be very amusing,” said Andrews in a gruff, breathless voice.
“But we must hurry, dear, or we'll be late to the tailor's,” said Mme. Rod. She held out her black-gloved hand to Andrews.
“We'll be in at tea time this afternoon. You might play me some more of the 'Queen of Sheba,'” said Genevieve.
“I'm afraid I shan't be able to, but you never can tell.... Thank you.”
He was relieved to have left them. He had been afraid he would burst out into some childish tirade. What a shame old Henslowe hadn't come back yet. He could have poured out all his despair to him; he had often enough before; and Henslowe was out of the army now. Wearily Andrews decided that he would have to start scheming and intriguing again as he had schemed and intrigued to come to Paris in the first place. He thought of the white marble building and the officers with shiny puttees going in and out, and the typewriters clicking in every room, and the understanding of his helplessness before all that complication made him shiver.
An idea came to him. He ran down the steps of a metro station. Aubrey would know someone at the Crillon who could help him.
But when the train reached the Concorde station, he could not summon the will power to get out. He felt a harsh repugnance to any effort. What was the use of humiliating himself and begging favors of people? It was hopeless anyway. In a fierce burst of pride a voice inside of him was shouting that he, John Andrews, should have no shame, that he should force people to do things for him, that he, who lived more acutely than the rest, suffering more pain and more joy, who had the power to express his pain and his joy so that it would impose itself on others, should force his will on those around him. “More of the psychology of slavery,” said Andrews to himself, suddenly smashing the soap-bubble of his egoism.