I cut him short. “Rabnon, you are talking of love, and I am writing of it. Does either of us know anything about it? I have heard that the God of the mystics is perhaps only the effect of psychological actions. Something comes welling up in a man: it is the love of God, whom he sees, as the days go on, more and more clearly through the mists of his own consciousness. Suddenly the idea—is it really God from outside? we wonder—takes the predominant position in his mind; he is in love with God, and he cannot help this. Men have been in love also with other ideas than God. Is it not thus that love of woman comes? Doesn’t it explain ‘love at first sight’? If you had been obsessed by an idea, and it had been forming and churning in your mind for days and days, and suddenly—presto!—there it is in the flesh—” I waved my hand, and turned back to my scrutiny of my lady. “Some day, I am going to remember and write that face,” I finished.
While we were talking, the escort of the lady had risen and advanced to the waitress, who stood before the fire. Everyone in the room could conjecture his intent, and everyone could see that she was frightened; he was big and burly, fitter for battle than for love. Rabnon put his hand on my arm to call my attention to the movement, and we watched silently, with the rest of the room, this sudden dramatic turn of events. It was evident that the man was drunk.
The two by the fire had stood whispering a moment, when the girl, who was strong and buxom, hit her assailant resoundingly across the face. He replied by taking her in his arms, and a struggle ensued for his punitive kiss. The waiting audience roared and clapped, with a great pounding of pottery and dishes. For myself, I was disgusted thoroughly, and I saw Rabnon’s great fist close tightly where it lay upon the table. “I don’t like this atmosphere,” he said presently. “Let’s get out upon our way again.”
But as we got up, the sad lady who had been with the attacker of waitresses rose too, and we stood by our benches, interested in this new complication. She had been watching, I had noticed, with more active distaste than ourselves, her escort’s proceedings. Now she ran lightly to the struggling pair, and laid her hand on the man’s shoulder. “Come Camereau,” she said, “you are attracting a great deal too much attention, and we are late. I did not agree to accompany you on any such doings as these. Let us get on, or I shall go without you.”
I am not fully conscious to what passed during the next few moments. I know that the brute struck her, with an oath, and that she fell back, supporting herself against the table. Rabnon told me later that the maid screamed. I did not hear it; I found myself across the room, with the gallant by the throat. “Were you not so drunk,” I was saying, “I should wad you up the chimney flue with the rest of the waste.”
The man shook himself free, and we stood glaring a moment, while he poured out torrents of abusive threats to me of a more eternal sort of flame. Then he seemed to recollect himself and drew up, straightening the prettiness of his attire. “You should think twice, friend friar,” he said, “before interfering in other people’s affairs. Do you know who I am?”
I stood facing him, my hands on my hips. “I ought to,” I replied. “But you do not know me, Sir Guy.”
“You ought. I am the Guy of Camereau, and my soldiers are everywhere in the village. And why, then, should I be interested in your identity?”
“It seems always necessary,” I said, “to reiterate that I am the author of all these adventures, and that I am the Creator of you all, for am I not dreaming and writing you even as we speak? Great gingoes, man! I notice now that I have forgotten to give you a face, and you prate to me of soldiers and sovereignty! Come now, I shall need to put a physiognomy on you so as to have the pleasure of marring it.”