“He’s oudt, too,” said Schneibel. “Can’t you see, you chump, dere’s no light?”
“My, but he’ll be off on a record bat to-night!”
“Well, you just bet he will.”
They moved away, and in the obscurity, Dangerfield began to laugh, a bitter, gloomy laugh.
“Don’t!” she said sharply.
Across the wall, O’Leary’s powerful hands awoke the piano. Sitting side by side, they heard laughter and the sounds of dancing. The man at Inga’s side was silent again. Music and the shuffling iteration of the dance seemed to act in a soothing way upon his nerves. He began to talk in a low, matter-of-fact voice, with a curious gift he had, even in the most soul-racking moments, of standing off and looking back at himself.
“How extraordinary to be ending the year like this! Last year and this! Up here, marooned, lost—ended! I certainly have seen queer turns in my life. Well, the last phase, and then Bonsoir—
“La vie est brève:
Un peu d’espoir,
Un peu de rêve,
Et puis bonsoir!”
“Do you understand French?”