He hurried back with it, and stood anxiously mixing my salad dressing—though his sharp old eyes strayed sometimes to the trio in the orangier opposite. “After that,” he went on triumphantly, “Monsieur Roger is bold—but of a boldness! He takes mademoiselle’s hand—they have no shame whatever over the tea which is still in the pot!—and says to her with a simplicity that alarms, ‘tell me—do you love this Chames Stuart?’
“‘Love him?’ almost screams mademoiselle. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
“‘Then,’ says Monsieur Roger, with the air of a King of France, ‘I’m going to marry you. It is decided. You have nothing more to say about it.’
“Mademoiselle blushes divinely—leans a suspicion towards him. They sigh—ah, youth enchanting! What they feel one can but imagine. He kisses her hand—of me they are oblivious; until—I cough like one in the throes of sudden death. They start apart. Madame has entered! And Chames Stuart!
“I wring my hands and babble Holy Mary’s. In such a case what can one do that is practical? Nothing. I wait—in terror for Monsieur Roger and mademoiselle. But Monsieur Roger speaks, with a calm supernal, ‘Will you not have tea, madame?’ he demands, offering her his place all politely. But she—madame—sweeps by him. Catches mademoiselle by the arm. ‘I thought this,’ she cries—‘when I missed you! I suspected it, you ungrateful girl! Perhaps when you hear that you are to be married next week at the Consulate, and to Chames Stuart’—then she does look at Monsieur Roger, and with scorn. Chames Stuart looks at Monsieur Roger too—and gives a little smile. It is like his shoulders, that smile, m’sieu—made up and put on. When I see this Chames Stuart, I feel like Bibi, our café dog, who shows her teeth at him. Madame says he is a good man—tant pis! For myself, if it is true, I prefer a devil.
“The three go out, mademoiselle looks at Monsieur Roger not at all. She looks very far away from him. And Monsieur Roger is left with the pot of tea—that has grown cold. When I ask him shall I renew it, he says ‘to be married next week! And to Chames Stuart!’ And then he laughs one laugh—very short—‘Indeed!’ he says—throwing back his head like he does—‘indeed!’ And he marches out of the café, with two steps—but he has legs, Monsieur Roger!—forgetting to pay—everything. But I do not worry, m’sieu. I know, when he comes to-morrow, he will give me the two francs fifty—and something more. He is very good for me, Monsieur Roger.
“Enfin, that was two weeks ago. And still mademoiselle is not married. But hèlas, it approaches. Yesterday when madame came with her alone, I heard madame say, ‘Monday—not a day later.’ And I know that it is because of money difficulties that she is anxious. Chames Stuart has much money. So has Monsieur Roger, but not so much as Chames Stuart, and, as madame insists to mademoiselle, Monsieur Roger is not good. One day—yesterday—mademoiselle cried out, ‘Oh, how do you know what is good and what is not good? What matters is what is true!’ Madame is shocked—horrified at this temper. And after an instant mademoiselle apologizes—with meekness—Pauv’ petite! What she feels, one can but imagine.”
He gave me my cheese, and stared gloomily at the back of Chames Stuart’s sandy head. “Monday!” I heard him mutter, belligerently. Then to me—“But where then is Monsieur Roger? Only now does mademoiselle whisper to me if he has been here—Monsieur Roger. Since that day when he comes to pay for the tea, he is not here. I think he tries somewhere to console himself, but I do not tell mademoiselle. A young girl cannot understand such things.”
“Then she should,” I declared with a warmth that surprised myself—forty, and inclined to take young girls and the rest of life negligently. “It is because young girls don’t understand such things better, that they let themselves be overruled by James Stuarts and mammas with empty shopping-bags,” I snapped, to the wonder of old Marcel.
My eyes just then had met the troubled blue of the girl’s—the three were leaving. James Stuart took her arm, always with that thin, satisfied smile. I glared at him. I do not like good young men with padded shoulders, and a smile for features. I grumbled as much to Marcel, who shook his head astonished (delighted, too) at my vehemence. “Madame tells mademoiselle there is nothing in his life which this Chames Stuart might not tell to her,” he said scornfully. “That no one has seen him or heard of him doing anything to be condemned. Eh! la! la!” The Frenchman rolled his eyes. “C’est un drôle d’idéale, hein m’sieu? These Americans!—pardon, m’sieu! M’sieu’s hat? À ce soir, alors, m’sieu.”