Conrad Aiken: The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

Wheeeee—wheeeeee—said the train again. More lights sliding past, whole thick constellations of them, triangles, oblongs, circles and squares, Cassiopeia, the Pleiades, and Charles’ Wagon. They must be getting close to Paris—closer than they thought. Perhaps they were almost there. Perhaps he ought to wake up poor Charlotte. No, let the poor child sleep. How pathetic she looked, snuggled up there in the corner with the blue cape over her knees and the green bottle getting ready to slip from her pale little hand. Here she was, almost at Paris, and still suffering, while he—while he—made his plans for a nice little party. Too bad, too bad. Was it Montmartre that one went to? Well, he would just go out and walk around, and if he got lost he could always take one of those taxis you were always hearing about. Hotel Angleterre, s’il vous plaît . Or was it d’Angleterre? No matter. Avenue Victoria. Châtelet . The train gave a jerk, a series of jerks, and began stopping. Henry sprang up, electrified. No, it was going on again. Suburban stations. He sat down, sighed, then reached across and gently, gently, removed the green bottle from poor Charlotte’s sleeping hand. Even in her sleep she seemed to be grateful to him. And what for? For his perpetual sympathy and kindness? But could he do less for one who suffered so, one whom he loved so? Too bad, too bad.… Nevertheless, it was a fact that she had aged very fast, while he—ah, it was most unfair, most unfair. Just a little prowl, a drink of bock, to see the foreign crowds and the Parisian lights. Just that, or perhaps—if poor Charlotte felt up to it, of course, they would go together and sit in a café and have a coffee. Garçon! Deux cafés au lait, deux . How was it possible to begrudge her that simple pleasure? He removed the stopper, the little green coronet, and sniffed, once, twice, three times; the green flame licked a corner at the very back of his brain. Whoof!… like a little snake. Strange, how the odor seemed to tickle the very medulla oblongata and to permeate one’s whole consciousness. And think of having to do that all the time, day after day, year after year, till one was—

They were in the station, they were really stopping. He must have fallen asleep himself.

“Charlotte! Charlotte!”

Charlotte opened bewildered and adoring eyes. Pandemonium. Cape, steamer-rug, umbrellas, and three bags. He was holding up six fingers to the porter who slung the bags one by one on his strap. Then they were in the taxi, a garishly lighted stone-paved square, they were passing sidewalk cafés, and green trees imprisoned in cages. He took Charlotte’s hand in his and patted it.

“Darling! How do you feel?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Henry dear, to spoil it all for you!… I’ll have to go to bed.… Will you forgive me?”

“Of course I’ll forgive you.”

Oh! The hotel was too gorgeous, far too gorgeous. A brilliantly illuminated glass canopy, officials in green uniforms, more officials in dress suits, obsequious porters, and a haughty young woman at the desk who gave them their keys. Two adjoining rooms, but they regretted that there was no adjoining bath. If there had been more warning … Madame would like to see the menu? Certainly. The tray would be sent up at once. A little vol-au-vent and some coffee. For two? No, monsieur would come down to dinner. The dining room was just there, and he would find a table reserved. Oh, damn—he would have to dress for it. Far too gorgeous, far far too gorgeous.

However, the dinner passed off well enough. Eight-forty-five. It would now only take a jiffy to change back into ordinary clothes. Was poor Charlotte asleep?… He tiptoed to the door and opened it softly. Dark, and not a sound. The four-poster bed pale in the gloom, and slotted light coming through the French blinds, which swayed a little in the air that came from the Seine. Tap-tap went the blinds, and he closed the door again. Just as well he had changed in the dark—the light through the transom might have waked her. Where had he put his hat? On the bed, of course. An umbrella? No, the stars were out. A warm starlit evening in Paris, an evening in May. He began humming to himself—

“On a warm day in the spring

Auntie sent me marketing;

Birds were twittering, tra-la-la …

Gaily twittering—”

So this was Paris. And all these crowds in the street were French, and all these lights were the lights of Paris. Too bad poor Charlotte wasn’t with him to share in the excitement. And there was the Châtelet theater, with a huge sign announcing the Ballet Russe. Too bad, too bad. He turned away from the river, and came to a broad boulevard—what could it be? Ah—the rue de Rivoli. He had heard of that, often. A famous street, a street known all over the world. To walk along the rue de Rivoli was almost ipso facto to become a distinguished person. Everybody looked well-dressed, especially the women—French women certainly knew how to dress. Charming hats! Delicious shoes! And they seemed to walk with such gaiety and joie de vivre! He fancied that one or two of them just faintly smiled at him—just faintly, but flatteringly. He too was well-dressed, a distinguished person—probably they recognized him to be a foreigner, an American, and very likely they were thinking him some very famous or wealthy man, or a diplomat. He straightened himself a little, and walked with a joyful insouciance —that was the word, insouciance . And here, just at the right moment was a café. He would have coffee.

“Café noir,” he said, holding up one finger. And then, when it had been brought, “Combien?”

All very simple and nice, though it couldn’t say very much for the coffee. But what next? A bus was stopping by the kerb and without the slightest hesitation he jumped on and went inside. He seated himself, and found that the bus would take him to the Etoile. Nothing could be better. The fare paid, he turned to look out at the crowded sidewalk, also regarding for a second his own reflection. Heavens! Good Lord! He had on no necktie! What could have—how could he—he remembered laying it out—it was changing in the dark that had done it! Was it possible? Yes—there was the stand-up collar, but no tie. A naked white expanse, which, even in the dim reflection afforded by the bus window, looked extremely silly. No—he mustn’t put up his hand to feel it—that would draw attention to the disaster. How awful, how incredibly awful and humiliating! And what was he to do? Not even an overcoat he could put on! It was like one of those dreams in which you find yourself at a tea-party with no clothes on, and on the point of shaking hands with a duchess! All very well in a dream, but in real life! Not so funny. Shops? No. The shops were all closed at this hour. No wonder all those people had smiled at him. Flatteringly, indeed! No such luck. And that girl across the aisle was looking at him now. Good lord, how simply frightful. Impossible to stay here—he must get off, dive into a side street, preferably a dark and shabby one, and get time for reflection.

He did so, first turning up his coat lapels, and clutching them together against his throat. The conductor looked at him, astonished, frankly and physically astonished. These French had no reticences at all. Perhaps, if he kept his hand up like this, they would merely think that he had a sore throat. He walked toward the river again, along a street none too dark, and at the corner came to another café. A drink would do no harm. And there was a table behind a lattice, where he would be partially screened. Good idea. He sat down and lifted a finger toward the waiter.

“Whisky,” he said.

“Large or small?” said the waiter.