That evening at dinner he came up to my table, with an air of tremendous excitement. Indeed the whole Café aux Oranges seemed curiously alert, almost explosive. Mademoiselle Julie and her mother were there in their corner, sipping petits verres—mademoiselle’s cheeks the color of jacqueminots, to be sure, and madame’s with more corners than ever—if possible. But what caught my attention was—heaven of heavens!—Roger Elmont sitting directly opposite them, between Margot and Suzette! the two madcaps of the Quarter! James Stuart was not in the café.
“But, m’sieu, listen—listen while I tell you,” old Marcel’s words tumbled over themselves in his eagerness—“M’sieu has dined, hein? M’sieu takes only coffee and his liqueur? Listen, then, m’sieu: these ladies, they come in alone. They order dinner—which mademoiselle will scarcely touch. She is miserable, she is without herself. At last she says with a bitterness that is to break the heart, ‘If it’s only the money, Roger has plenty; and I am going to tell him to-night that if it’s true, what he says about his life this last year, and if he can prove to you that it’s true, I will marry him. Chames Stuart,’ says mademoiselle—but with a calm—‘can go back to America.’
“Madame is furious. ‘But,’ she repeats, ‘he cannot prove it—Roger can never prove it, that he has been good this last year.’
“‘I can,’ flashes mademoiselle with a defiance, mon Dieu, divine! ‘We can prove it. Only wait and——’
“M’sieu, at this heart-rending moment, I ask you does not Monsieur Roger come in! Monsieur Roger and” (Marcel groaned in anguish) “that mad Suzette!—arm in arm, singing, laughing—m’sieu, I, the old garçon de café, Marcel, want to perish! And, can you believe me, they do not see those ladies, no! But—nom de Dieu!—another sees them! Margot—the vixen—who was mad for Monsieur Roger all last year; Margot sees them. She makes a rush—she leaves her escort—she insults Suzette—tears her hat off. They scream! they pull each other’s hair—the café is of a furore! And Monsieur Roger, he only laughs—he just laughs, and teases those girls to wilder and wilder rage.
“Still he does not see mademoiselle—pauv’ petite, so white, suddenly!—who begs to go; but madame will not permit her. Hard as iron she holds mademoiselle’s arm and makes her see. ‘Now will you prove?’ she demands, with triumph. ‘Now can you prove?—this scandal!’ Mademoiselle answers nothing. She looks very little and very white. Now the patron has come in, peace is ruled, and Monsieur Roger with good nature promises to give both those girls dinner. But ciel! m’sieu, at the instant, he has seen mademoiselle! It is tragedy. What will happen? It is just at the moment of m’sieu’s entrance that he perceived this—oh, poor young man! Is he desolated!—what he feels one can but imagine. I am bringing m’sieu’s liqueur.”
I glanced about. Mademoiselle Julie was indeed abject; nor did madame and her shopping-bag look too happy in their triumph. As for Roger Elmont—dark, gloomy-eyed, between the two now chattering girls—he looked, if anything, the most wretched of the three. All at once he rose, walked swiftly over to mademoiselle. They were sitting quite near me, to-night, and I heard him say in a firm voice, “Julie, I want to explain.”
“Sir!” said madame, indignantly. (One could have sworn she would say, ‘Sir!’)
Roger beautifully disregarded her. “What I told you was true, Julie,” he concentrated all the conviction of his black eyes on mademoiselle. “I have been this afternoon to the studio of a friend for whom Suzette poses. I was sad—God knows I had reason—she suggested we should come here. Margot—the other girl—came across us. And—you saw the rest. If you do not believe me, others will tell you—what I told you was true! And there is nothing else to tell—nothing.”
The girl looked at him—straight in the eyes. Then suddenly she stood up. “I believe you,” she said—with a smile for which I would give all the philosophy of forty and a bald head.