"If you should go back yourself, you'll come to see me? You know where I live."
"Thank you; I shall be very glad."
But as he went down the stairs Kent was surprised to perceive that he felt suddenly mournful. The noise of the door closing behind him was charged with ridiculous melancholy, and there appeared to him something sad in this conventional ending that had the semblance of estrangement. The sentiment and impression of the hour that he had spent in the room after the Variétés recurred to him, and contrasted with it their adieu became full of pathos. He questioned reproachfully if, in his determination not to be more than a friend, he might not have repaid her own friendship by ingratitude, and so have wounded her. He first decided that he would send her a letter, and then that he would not send her a letter. He made his way through the Champ Elysées reflectively, and once half obeyed a violent temptation to turn back. He would have obeyed it wholly but that he felt its indulgence would be laughable, or that Mrs. Deane-Pitt would be likely to look upon it in that light. So he restrained the impulse. But he could not laugh himself.
[CHAPTER XVII]
The respite afforded by the mont-de-piété was brief, and all that Kent received from Beaufort in the next three weeks was twenty francs. The Garins' faces in the hall were very glum, now, and the sum against "Notes remises" at the top of the bills that came up to the bedroom on Monday mornings had swelled to such disheartening dimensions that the debtor no longer gave himself the trouble to decipher the various items. In addition to this, the affairs of The World and his Wife had reached a crisis, and he learnt from the Editor that it was doomed. An interval of restored hope ensued. The life of the paper hung in the balance—then they went to press no more.
Beaufort declared that Kent's claim would be discharged without delay, and, knowing the ex-proprietor's position, Humphrey could not believe that he would be allowed to suffer. That the Baronet was ignorant of his claim's existence and that it was Billy Beaufort who had to find, the money for him, he had no idea; no more had he suspected, when he took Cynthia to the Nouveau Cirque and applauded the contortions of "Mlle. Veronique," that the artiste who stood on her head, and kissed her toes to them, was in part responsible for their plight. Billy, realising that the matter must be squared somehow, if things weren't to become more unpleasant, spoke reassuringly of Sir Charles being momentarily in tight quarters; and Humphrey, in daily expectation of a cheque, made daily promises of a settlement to the Garins, while he discussed with Cynthia what should be their next move.
To remain in Paris would be useless, and they decided that they would go back to England as soon as the cheque was cashed. Perhaps it was fortunate, after all, that No. 64 had not been let! In London he must advertise again, and a post might be easier to find now that he could call himself an "assistant-editor" in the advertisement. The days went by, however, and Beaufort, whom he awoke, like an avenging angel, at early morning and tracked in desperation from bar to bar until he ran him to earth at night, still remained "in hourly expectation of the money." Both Cynthia and Kent feared that their inability to pay was known to everybody in the house; and they imagined disdain on the face of the Italian who waited on them at meals, and indifference in the bearing of Etienne when he laid the fire. The chambermaid's "Bonjour, m'sieur et madame," had a ring of irony to their ears, and on Mondays, in particular, they were convinced that she sneered when she put down their tray.
The thought made the girl so miserable that Kent took an opportunity of asking mademoiselle Garin if it was so, and she informed him that he was mistaken.
"Nobody 'as been told, monsieur," she said; "oh, not at all! But, monsieur, it is impossible that you remain, you know, if your affairs do not permit of a settlement. Your intentions are quite honourable—well understood; but my mother cannot wait. Her expense is terrible 'eavy 'ere; vraiment, c'est épouvantable, je vous assure, et—and—and my mother 'as an offer for your rooms, and she asks that you and madame locate yourselves elsewhere, monsieur, on Saturday."