No need to worry over tailor’s bills;
Down in Mozambique, Mozambique, Mozambique,
You may wear fig-leaves there
When you go a-mashing in the open air
In Mo-zam-bique.”
As they finished men tossed their partners in the air and carried them off the floor. Every one was hot and dishevelled; the air reeked of pachouli and perspiration, and seeing Lorrimer signalling to us we made our escape.
I remember how deliciously pure seemed the outside air. The long tree-clad Avenue de l’Observatoire was blanched with hoar frost and gleamed whitely. The face of the sky was pitted with stars, and the crescent moon seemed to scratch it like the manicured nail-tip of a lovely woman. Across the street amid the trees beaconed the lights of a large corner café, and to this we made our way.
A long room, lined with tables, dim with tobacco smoke, clamorous with conversation. We found a vacant table, and Lorrimer, after consulting us, ordered “ham sandveeches et grog American.” In the meantime I was busy gazing at the human oddities around me. It seemed as if all the freaks of the Quarter had gathered here. Nearly all wore their hair of eccentric length. Some had it thrown back from the brow and falling over the collar in a cascade. Others parted it in the middle and let it stream down on either side, hiding their ears. Some had it cut square to the neck, and coming round in two flaps; with others again it was fuzzy and stood up like a nimbus. Many of the women, on the other hand, had it cut squarely in the Egyptian manner; so that it was difficult to tell them at a distance from their male companions.
“It’s really a fact,” said Lorrimer, “that long hair is an aid to inspiration. Every time I cut mine it’s good-bye work till it grows again. And as I really hate it long my work suffers horribly.”
The centre of attraction seemed to be a tall man whose sallow face was framed in inky hair that detached itself in snaky locks. As if to accentuate the ravenish effect he wore an immense black silk stock, and his pince-nez dangled by a black riband. This was Paul Ford, the Prince of the Poets, the heritor of the mantle of Verlaine.