When the waiter had withdrawn, he and Cynthia looked at each other aghast. Their breathing-space had been brief. They knew that their having no luggage had made the woman suspicious of them, and that, unless they were to be promptly turned out here as well, the thirty francs must be found. Dinner had to be eaten, lest they should appear discomfited by the message; but the coffee was no sooner swallowed than Kent prepared to go out. Swearing to obtain two or three louis before they slept, and reminding the girl that if Beaufort's expectations had been fulfilled he would now be in a position to let them have much more, he went to search for Billy among his various haunts. The streets were massed, and the slow pace permitted by the mob infuriated him. All Paris seemed to have surged on to the Boulevard, thronging the pavements and the roads, and playing the fool. He pushed forward as best he could, and tried the Grand, in the faint hope that the other might be dining there, or that something could be learnt of his movements, but he was able to learn nothing. After all, he thought, it would have been wiser to inquire at the bar in the rue Saint-Honoré; and retracing his steps, he now pressed through the crowd in the direction of the Madeleine, impeded and pelted with confetti at every yard. At the corner of the rue Caumartin a clown in scarlet satin thrust a pasteboard nose into his face. Kent; cursed him and shoved him aside, and the buffoon spun into the arms of a couple of shop-girls, who received him with shrill screams. The concourse appeared to grow noisier and more impenetrable every moment. It was the first mi-carême celebration that the young man had witnessed, and with fever in his veins, and wretchedness in every fibre of him, this carnival confusion, with its horseplay and hindrance, was maddening. The lamplight sparkled with the rain of coloured discs—they were pitched into his eyes and his ears as he struggled on—the asphalt was soft and heavy with them.
When he reached the Madeleine things were better. But at the buffet Beaufort had not been seen since five o'clock. Somebody there believed that he had an appointment at nine at the Café de la Paix. Kent edged into the throng again, and forged his way until the café was gained. The figure that he sought was in none of the rooms. He squeezed along to all the likeliest cafés on the Boulevard in turn, and in one of them he descried Jordan, whom he buttonholed eagerly. Yes, Jordan had met Beaufort this evening. Beaufort had said that later on he might go to the Moulin Rouge. This was a clue, at least, and Kent tramped wearily until the glittering sails of the windmill revolved in view. The price of admission had been raised to-night, but he could not hesitate. The dancing had already begun, and two-thirds of the assembly ran about in fancy dress. A quadrille was going on, and in different parts of the ballroom three sets were enclosed by vociferous, English spectators, while the band brayed a tuneless measure. His gaze roved among the company vainly, and he thought that he would be able to make his examination better when the sets broke up. The listless dancers, with stuff skirts and elaborate, be-ribboned petticoats lifted to their shoulders, looked like factory hands as they lumped perfunctorily over the floor. Momentarily a mechanical smile alleviated the gloom of their excessive plainness; at long intervals, spurred to energy by the cries of the audience, one of them gave a kick higher than usual, or threw a bit of slang to her vis-à-vis; but for the most part the performers were as spiritless as marionettes; the air of gaiety and interest was confined entirely to those who looked on.
It was midnight when Beaufort was found, and he was partially drunk. Kent caught him by the arm, and heard that his business had not been completed to-day, but was—once more—"certain for next week." Completed or not, however, Kent had to have money, and he made the circumstances clear, a task which, in his companion's condition, was somewhat difficult. He said that they were in new quarters, penniless, and that the woman demanded a deposit; their luggage was detained at the Garins', and could not be recovered unless he paid the bill, or, at all events, a substantial portion of it. In the meanwhile, they possessed literally nothing; a good round sum on account of his claim was absolutely essential. Billy was "tremendously grieved." He answered that he could "manage—twenty francs." And he repeated with emotion that "he never deserted a pal." In the end Kent extracted fifty, and, secretly relieved even by this, but dog-tired, dragged himself down the rue Blanche towards the hotel.
Cynthia was waiting up for him, reading a sheet of an old newspaper that had lined one of the drawers, to keep herself awake. She heard the result of his expedition with gratitude. They could now give the proprietress what she wanted, and would be able to buy a hairbrush and one or two other immediate necessaries. She kissed him, and retired to the next bedroom, where she prayed that the child would allow her a good night. Kent, whose fatigue was so great that it was a labour to undress, bade her call him if he could help her in any way.
It seemed but a few minutes afterwards that he was startled back to consciousness by the baby's crying, and, listening in the darkness, he heard Cynthia moving about. Blundering to the door with half-opened eyes, he found her trying to quiet the boy, and to heat some food at the same time, and the weariness of her aspect made his heart bleed. The fire, which had been built up to last until the chambermaid's entrance, had gone out, and rocking the child on her lap with one hand, the girl, semi-nude, held a saucepan with the other over the flame of a candle. She rebuked him for coming in, for, "poor fellow! he must be so tired." He took the saucepan from her and, fetching the candle from his own room, held the food to warm over both flames, while Maternity paced the floor. A clock in the distance told them that the hour was three.
At last a tremor stirred the placid surface of the milk. The baby was fed, and coaxed to repose again. And, oblivious now of everything but the need for sleep, they dropped upon their beds and slept.
[CHAPTER XIX]
"Good-morning, monsieur. Here is the chocolate."
"Good-morning. And madame, has hers been taken in?"