|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 37
As Frenchmen, they thought little about marrying, but as young
Parisians they led a life into which erotics entered largely.
Alphonse was never really in his element except when in female
society. Then all his exhilarating amiability came into play, and
when he leaned back at supper and held out his shallow champagne-
glass to be refilled, he was as beautiful as a happy god.
He had a neck of the kind which women long to caress, and his
soft, half-curling hair looked as if it were negligently arranged,
or carefully disarranged, by a woman's coquettish hand.
Indeed, many slim white fingers had passed through those locks;
for Alphonse had not only the gift of being loved by women, but
also the yet rarer gift of being forgiven by them.
When the friends were together at gay supper-parties, Alphonse
paid no particular heed to Charles. He kept no account of his own
love-affairs, far less of those of his friend. So it might easily
happen that a beauty on whom Charles had cast a longing eye fell
into the hands of Alphonse.
Charles was used to seeing his friend preferred in life; but there
are certain things to which men can scarcely accustom themselves.
He seldom went with Alphonse to his suppers, and it was always
long before the wine and the general exhilaration could bring him
into a convivial humor.
But then, when the champagne and the bright eyes had gone to his
head, he would often be the wildest of all; he would sing loudly
with his harsh voice, laugh and gesticulate so that his stiff
black hair fell over his forehead; and then the merry ladies
shrank from him, and called him the "chimney-sweep."
--As the sentry paces up and down in the beleaguered fortress, he
sometimes hears a strange sound in the silent night, as if
something were rustling under his feet. It is the enemy, who has
undermined the outworks, and to-night or to-morrow night there
will be a hollow explosion, and armed men will storm in through
the breach.
If Charles had kept close watch over himself he would have heard
strange thoughts rustling within him. But he would not hear--he
had only a dim foreboding that sometime there must come an
explosion.
--And one day it came.
It was already after business hours; the clerks had all left the
outer office, and only the principals remained behind.
Charles was busily writing a letter which he wished to
finish before he left.
Alphonse had drawn on both his gloves and buttoned them. Then he
had brushed his hat until it shone, and now he was walking up and
down and peeping into Charles's letter every time he passed the
desk.
They used to spend an hour every day before dinner in a cafe on
the great Boulevard, and Alphonse was getting impatient for his
newspapers.
"Will you never have finished that letter?" he said, rather
irritably.
Charles was silent a second or two, then he sprang up so that his
chair fell over: "Perhaps Alphonse imagined that he could do it
better? Did he not know which of them was really the man of
business?" And now the words streamed out with that incredible
rapidity of which the French language is capable when it is used
in fiery passion.
But it was a turbid stream, carrying with it many ugly
expressions, upbraidings, and recriminations; and through the
whole there sounded something like a suppressed sob.
As he strode up and down the room, with clenched hands and
dishevelled hair, Charles looked like a little wiry-haired terrier
barking at an elegant Italian grayhound. At last he seized his hat
and rushed out.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|