Theodore Dreiser - The Stoic

“Ah, Mon Dieu! Sacré-bleu! Ah, ladies and gentlemen! This is . . . indeed, this is . . . ah, no linen! No silver! No chairs! Pardon! Pardon! Something must be done about this! Pardon, mesdames and messieurs , something must have gone wrong. Something must be done! Ah!” and clapping his long hands and gazing toward the door, as though troops of servants must immediately respond to his bidding, he waited, without response. Then once more clapping, he waited, one ear cocked toward the door. After which, no sound ensuing, he turned to his audience, who, now comprehending, retreated to the walls to give Harlequin his stage.

Finger to his lips, he tiptoed to the door and listened. Still no sound. After stooping down and peering through the keyhole, his head cocked now this way, now that, he looked back at them, and, with an amazing grimace, again put his finger to his lips and glued one eye to the keyhole. Finally he jumped back, falling flat as he did so, then jumped up and backed away, while the door flew open for a half-dozen waiters bearing linen, dishes, silver, glasses, trays—an orderly and businesslike procession—who proceeded to spread the table, ignoring him completely while he leaped and clattered about, exclaiming:

“So! So! You come, do you? You pigs! You loafers! Put down the plates! Put down the plates, I say!” This to the man who was already swiftly and dexterously laying the plates. And to the waiter who was placing the silver: “Lay the silver, I tell you! And see that you make no noise! Swine!” After which he picked up a knife and re-laid it in exactly the same position. To the waiter who was arranging the glasses, he exclaimed: “No, no, no! Dunce! Will you never learn? See!” and taking up the glasses replaced them precisely as they had been. Then stepping aside to survey them, he knelt down and squinted, then moved one small liqueur glass a thousandth of an inch.

Of course, during all this folderol, everyone, with the exception of Ibrihim—who simply stared queerly at all this—smiled or laughed by turns, especially when Harlequin proceeded to follow closely upon the heels of the headwaiter, actually stepping on them at times, while the waiter pretended not to see him. As he went out, Harlequin followed him, looking back as he shouted: “Bah! Conspiracy! Bah!”

“A good show!” remarked Cowperwood to Madame Rezstadt.

“That is Grelizan, of the Trocadero, the cleverest clown in Europe,” she said.

“No!” exclaimed Marigold, whose estimate of his humor was rapidly heightened by the news of his fame.

At first fearful, but now elated by the success of this adventure, Aileen beamed with pleasure. Since Cowperwood chose to praise her ingenuity, and that of Tollifer, there was nothing Grelizan could do now that did not seem amusing to her, though he did produce a momentary chill when he stumbled and fell while bearing a large silver tureen filled with what appeared to be bright red tomato soup. The brilliant orange confetti was deftly hurled into the air and fell all over the guests, to the accompaniment of gasps, screams and laughter.

Again he hurried back to the pantry, this time to bring no more than a single croûton held in a pair of sugar tongs, and again and again to follow the incoming waiters with exaggerated supervision, while they scrupulously served the courses.

Imitation ices were served last. Beneath the surface of each was a frail inflated balloon, which, when pierced with a fork, revealed, in Cowperwood’s case, the key to the city of London; in Aileen’s, a bowing and smiling figure of Monsieur Richard, scissors in hand; for Madame Rezstadt, a small world globe, with a dotted line touching all of the places she had traveled to; for Ibrihim, a tiny horse with a sheik astride; for Tollifer, a small roulette wheel, with the indicator at zero; for Marigold, a handful of toy figures of men: a soldier, a king, a dandy, an artist, a musician. There was much laughter over these, and after the coffee, Grelizan bowed himself out, to the applause of all, Cowperwood and Madame Rezstadt calling: “Bravo! Bravo!”

“Delightful!” she exclaimed. “I shall write him a note.”

Afterward, at Le Grand Guignol which began at midnight, they saw the celebrated Laloute impersonate the celebrities of the day. Later Tollifer suggested Sabinal’s. And by dawn they were all fully satisfied that this night in Paris had been wonderful.

Cowperwood concluded from all this that in Tollifer he had picked someone even more resourceful than he had hoped for. The man was gifted, decidedly. With the least encouragement, and, of course, financial aid, he could certainly make a world for Aileen with which, in the event of their separation, she might reasonably be satisfied. This was a situation requiring some thought. For, of course, if she were to find out about Berenice, she would probably turn to Tollifer for advice. And then it would be a matter of having to buy them off. A pretty kettle of fish! Also, with Aileen in a social limelight of her own, and with her husband rarely present, there would be increased speculation as to where he was, speculation which could lead but in one direction: Berenice. Best to persuade Aileen to go back to New York with him and leave Tollifer behind. It would, for the time being, modify the ascendancy which obviously he had already achieved, and prevent it from being too obvious to others.

It developed that Aileen, on her part, was entirely willing. There were various reasons. She feared that otherwise Cowperwood might take another woman along with him, or that he might meet one in New York. And there was the effect on Tollifer and his friends. For just now Cowperwood was more of a public figure than ever, and it was among the highest of distinctions to be his acknowledged wife. Her chief curiosity was whether Tollifer would follow her or not. For this was a visit that was likely to last for six months, may be longer.

Immediately, therefore, she informed him of her forthcoming departure. His reactions were rather complicated, for in the background there was Marigold, who wanted him to cruise with her to the North Cape. By now, he had seen enough of her to feel that if he continued his suit, she might actually arrange a divorce and marry him, and she possessed considerable money of her own. He did not really love her; he was still dreaming of a romance with a younger girl. Then, there was the matter of immediate and continued income. Any interruption of that would at once end his butterfly existence. He felt that Cowperwood, though having given no hint, would prefer him to return to New York. But whether he went or stayed, it had come to the point, he felt, when continued pursuit of Aileen, without some declaration of affection, would not seem to her reasonable. He was satisfied that she would yield nothing, but it would flatter her. And this, in itself, was excuse enough for the approach.

“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, on hearing the news from her. “This throws me all out!” He paced nervously back and forth, having dropped in to see her after a luncheon with Marigold at Madame Gemy’s bar. His face simulated grave concern and disappointment.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Aileen, seriously. “What has gone wrong?” She noticed that he had been drinking, not enough to unbalance him in any way but sufficient to darken his mood.

“This is too bad,” he said, “and just when I was thinking that something might come out of it all for both of us.”

Aileen stared at him, not a little puzzled. To be sure, this more or less anomalous relationship had been growing on her. In an unformulated way, she was attracted to him more than she had acknowledged to herself. Yet having observed him with Marigold and others, she was convinced, as she had said more than once, that a woman could not trust him from one end of the room to the other.