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Page 3
Diane stamped one little foot, and angry tears rose to her eyes. She
tore off her hat and jacket and dashed them to the floor. She threw
herself on a couch.
"You deceived me!" she cried bitterly. "You promised that I should want
for nothing--that you would always have plenty of money. And this is how
you keep your word! You are selfish, unkind! I hate you!"
She continued to reproach him, growing more and more angry. Words of
the lowest Parisian argot, picked up from her companions of the Folies
Bergere, fell from her lovely lips--words that brought a blush of shame,
a look of horror and repulsion, to Jack's face.
"Diane," he said pleadingly, as he bent over the couch.
Her mood changed as quickly, and she suddenly clasped her arms around
his neck.
"Forgive me, Jack," she whispered.
"I always do," he sighed.
"And, please, please get some money--now."
"You know that I can't."
"Yes, you can. You have lots of friends--they won't refuse you."
"But I hate to ask them. Of course, Jimmie Drexell would gladly loan me
a few pounds--"
"Then go to him," pleaded Diane, as she hung on his neck and stopped his
protests with a shower of kisses. "Go and get the money, Jack, dear--you
can pay it back when your remittance comes. And we will have such a
jolly day! I am sure you don't want to work."
Jack hesitated, and finally gave in; it was hard for him to resist a
woman's tears and entreaties--least of all when that woman was his
fascinating little wife. A moment later he was in the street, walking
rapidly toward the studio of his American friend and fellow-artist,
Jimmie Drexell.
"How Diane twists me around her finger!" he reflected ruefully. "I hate
these rows, and they have been more frequent of late. When she is in a
temper, and lets loose with her tongue, she is utterly repulsive. But I
forget everything when she melts into tears, and then I am her willing
slave again. I wonder sometimes if she truly loves me, or if her
affection depends on plenty of money and pleasure. Hang it all! Why
is a man ever fool enough to get married?"
* * * * *
On a corner of the Boulevard St. Michel and a cross street there is a
brasserie beloved of artists and art students, and slightly more popular
with them than similar institutions of the same ilk in the Latin
Quarter. Here, one hazy October evening, nine months after Mr. Von
Whele's hurried departure from Paris, might have been found Jack Clare.
T�te-�-t�te with him, across the little marble-topped table, was his
friend Victor Nevill, whom he had known in earlier days in England, and
whose acquaintance he had recently renewed in gay Paris. Nevill was an
Oxford graduate, and a wild and dissipated young man of Jack's age; he
was handsome and patrician-looking, a hail-fellow-well-met and a
favorite with women, but a close observer of character would have
proclaimed him to be selfish and heartless. He had lately come into
a large sum of money, and was spending it recklessly.
The long, low-ceilinged room was dim with tobacco smoke, noisy with
ribald jests and laughter. Here and there the waitresses, girls
coquettishly dressed, tripped with bottles and syphons, foaming bocks,
and glasses of brandy or liqueurs. The customers of the brasserie were
a mixed lot of women and men, the latter comprising' numerous
nationalities, and all drawn to Paris by the wiles of the Goddess of
Art. Topical songs of the day succeeded one another rapidly. A group of
long-haired, polyglot students hung around the piano, while others
played on violins or guitars, which they had brought to contribute to
the evening's enjoyment. At intervals, when there was a lull, the click
of billiard balls came from an adjoining apartment. Out on the
boulevard, under the glaring lights, the tide of revelers and
pleasure-seekers flowed unceasingly.
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