III
About five o'clock that afternoon, the little sad-eyed woman who fills theposition of concierge at the Hotel du Senat held up her hands in amazementto see a wagon-load of flower-bearing shrubs draw up before the doorway.She called Joseph, the intemperate garcon, who, while calculating thevalue of the flowers in _petits verres_, gloomily disclaimed any knowledgeas to their destination.
"_Voyons_," said the little concierge, "_cherchons la femme_!"
"You?" he suggested.
The little woman stood a moment pensive and then sighed. Joseph caressedhis nose, a nose which for gaudiness could vie with any floral display.
Then the gardener came in, hat in hand, and a few minutes later Selbystood in the middle of his room, his coat off, his shirt-sleeves rolledup. The chamber originally contained, besides the furniture, about twosquare feet of walking room, and now this was occupied by a cactus. Thebed groaned under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, the lounge wascovered with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a speciesof young tree warranted to bear flowers at some time or other.
Clifford came in a little later, fell over a box of sweet peas, swore alittle, apologized, and then, as the full splendour of the floral _fete_burst upon him, sat down in astonishment upon a geranium. The geranium wasa wreck, but Selby said, "Don't mind," and glared at the cactus.
"Are you going to give a ball?" demanded Clifford.
"N--no,--I'm very fond of flowers," said Selby, but the statement lackedenthusiasm.
"I should imagine so." Then, after a silence, "That's a fine cactus."
Selby contemplated the cactus, touched it with the air of a connoisseur,and pricked his thumb.
Clifford poked a pansy with his stick. Then Joseph came in with the bill,announcing the sum total in a loud voice, partly to impress Clifford,partly to intimidate Selby into disgorging a _pourboire_ which he wouldshare, if he chose, with the gardener. Clifford tried to pretend that hehad not heard, while Selby paid bill and tribute without a murmur. Then helounged back into the room with an attempt at indifference which failedentirely when he tore his trousers on the cactus.
Clifford made some commonplace remark, lighted a cigarette and looked outof the window to give Selby a chance. Selby tried to take it, but gettingas far as--"Yes, spring is here at last," froze solid. He looked at theback of Clifford's head. It expressed volumes. Those little perked-up earsseemed tingling with suppressed glee. He made a desperate effort to masterthe situation, and jumped up to reach for some Russian cigarettes as anincentive to conversation, but was foiled by the cactus, to whom again hefell a prey. The last straw was added.
"Damn the cactus." This observation was wrung from Selby against hiswill,--against his own instinct of self-preservation, but the thorns onthe cactus were long and sharp, and at their repeated prick his pent-upwrath escaped. It was too late now; it was done, and Clifford had wheeledaround.
"See here, Selby, why the deuce did you buy those flowers?"
"I'm fond of them," said Selby.
"What are you going to do with them? You can't sleep here."
"I could, if you'd help me take the pansies off the bed."
"Where can you put them?"
"Couldn't I give them to the concierge?"
As soon as he said it he regretted it. What in Heaven's name wouldClifford think of him! He had heard the amount of the bill. Would hebelieve that he had invested in these luxuries as a timid declaration tohis concierge? And would the Latin Quarter comment upon it in their ownbrutal fashion? He dreaded ridicule and he knew Clifford's reputation.
Then somebody knocked.
Selby looked at Clifford with a hunted expression which touched that youngman's heart. It was a confession and at the same time a supplication.Clifford jumped up, threaded his way through the floral labyrinth, andputting an eye to the crack of the door, said, "Who the devil is it?"
This graceful style of reception is indigenous to the Quarter.
"It's Elliott," he said, looking back, "and Rowden too, and theirbulldogs." Then he addressed them through the crack.
"Sit down on the stairs; Selby and I are coming out directly."
Discretion is a virtue. The Latin Quarter possesses few, and discretionseldom figures on the list. They sat down and began to whistle.
Presently Rowden called out, "I smell flowers. They feast within!"
"You ought to know Selby better than that," growled Clifford behind thedoor, while the other hurriedly exchanged his torn trousers for others.
"_We_ know Selby," said Elliott with emphasis.
"Yes," said Rowden, "he gives receptions with floral decorations andinvites Clifford, while we sit on the stairs."
"Yes, while the youth and beauty of the Quarter revel," suggested Rowden;then, with sudden misgiving; "Is Odette there?"
"See here," demanded Elliott, "is Colette there?"
Then he raised his voice in a plaintive howl, "Are you there, Colette,while I'm kicking my heels on these tiles?"
"Clifford is capable of anything," said Rowden; "his nature is souredsince Rue Barree sat on him."
Elliott raised his voice: "I say, you fellows, we saw some flowers carriedinto Rue Barree's house at noon."
"Posies and roses," specified Rowden.
"Probably for her," added Elliott, caressing his bulldog.
Clifford turned with sudden suspicion upon Selby. The latter hummed atune, selected a pair of gloves and, choosing a dozen cigarettes, placedthem in a case. Then walking over to the cactus, he deliberately detacheda blossom, drew it through his buttonhole, and picking up hat and stick,smiled upon Clifford, at which the latter was mightily troubled.