The Wages of Virtue Part 31

"Pouf!" replied Madame, bridling.... (What a way he had with him, and what a fine figure of a man he was, but "_beards_" quotha!) Raising the flap of the zinc-covered bar, Luigi, as usual, pa.s.sed within and poured himself a b.u.mper of wine. Raising the gla.s.s--

"To the brightest eyes and sweetest face that I ever looked upon," he toasted, and drank.

Madame simpered. Her wrath had, to some extent, evaporated.... Not that she would ever _dream_ of marrying him. No! that "beard" would be ever between them. No! No! He had dished himself finally. He had, as it were, hanged himself in that beard as did Absalom in the branches of a tree. The price he should pay for that insult was the value of her Canteen and income. There was balm and satisfaction in the thought.

Still--until his successor were chosen, or rather, the successor of the late-lamented, so cruelly, if skilfully, carved by those _sacrepans_ and _galopins_ of Arabs--the a.s.sistance of the big man as waiter and chucker-out should certainly not be refused. By no means.

"And what is this tale I hear of you and le Legionnaire Jean Boule?"

enquired Madame. "They say that the Neapolitan trollop of Le Cafe de la Legion (_sous ce nom-la!_) has begged your life of him."

The drunken man slowly opened his eyes and Rivoli put down his gla.s.s with a fierce frown.

"And who invented that paltry, silly lie?" he asked, and laughed scornfully. Madame pointed a fat forefinger at the Bucking Bronco who leant, head on fist, regarding Rivoli with a sardonic smile.

"Sure thing, Loojey. I'm spreadin' the glad joyous tidin's, as haow yure precious life has been saved, all over the whole caboodle," and proceeded to translate.

"Oh, is _that_ the plot?" replied the Italian. "Is _that_ the best lie the gang of you could hatch? Corpo di Bacco! It's a poor one.

Couldn't the lot of you think of a likelier tale than that?"

The Bucking Bronco opined as haow thar was nuthin' like the trewth.

"Look you," said the Italian to Madame, and the a.s.sembled loungers.

"This grey English cur--pot-valiant--comes yapping at me, being in his cups, and challenges me, _me_, Luigi Rivoli, to fight. I say: 'Go dig your grave, dog,' and he goes. I have not seen him since, but on all hands I hear that he has arranged with this strumpet of the Cafe to say that she has begged my life of him," and Luigi Rivoli roared with laughter at the idea. "Now listen you, and spread this truth abroad....

Madame will excuse me," and he turned with his stage bow to Madame....

"I am no plaster saint, I am a Legionnaire. Sometimes I go to this Cafe--I admit it," and again turning to Madame, he laid his hand upon his heart. "Madame," he appealed, "I have no home, no wife, no fireside to which to be faithful.... And as I honestly admit I visit this Cafe.

The girl is glad of my custom and possibly a little honoured--of that I would say nothing.... Accidents will happen to the bravest and most skilful of men in duels. The girl begged me not to fight. 'You are my best customer,' said she, 'and the handsomest of all my patrons,' and carried on as such wenches do, when trade is threatened. 'Peace, woman,' said I, 'trouble me not, or I go to Zuleika across the way.' ...

She then took another line. 'Look you, Signor,' said she, 'this old fool, Boule, comes to me when he has money; and he drinks here every night. Spare his miserable carcase for what I make out of it,' and with a laugh I gave the girl my franc and half-promise.... Still, what is one's word to a wanton? I may shoot the dog yet, if he and his friends be not careful how they lie."

The drunken man had turned his face on to his arms. No one but the American and 'Erb noticed that his body was shaken convulsively.

Perhaps with drunken laughter?

"Tole yer so, c.o.c.ky," bawled 'Erb in his ear. "You'll be sick as David's sow in a minnit, 'an' we'll all git blue-blind, paralytic drunk,'" and rising to his feet 'Erb lifted up his voice in song to the effect that--

"White wings they never grow whiskers, They kerry me cheerily over the sea To ye Banks and Braes o' Bonny Doon Where we drew 'is club money this mornin'.

Witin' to 'ear the verd.i.c.k on the boy in the prisoner's dock When Levi may I menshun drew my perlite attenshun To the tick of 'is grandfarver's clock.

Ninety years wivaht stumblin', Tick, Tick, Tick,-- Ninety years wivaht grumblin', gently does the trick, When it stopped short, never to go agine Till the ole man died.

An' ef yer wants ter know the time, git yer 'air cut."

For the moment 'Erb was the centre of interest, though not half a dozen men in the room understood the words of what the vast majority supposed to be a wild lament or dirge.

John Bull entered the Canteen, and 'Erb was forgotten. All near the counter, save the drunken man, watched his approach. He strode straight up to the oar, his eyes fixed on Rivoli.

"I wish to withdraw my challenge to you," he said in a clear voice. "I am not going to fight you after all."

"_But, Mother of G.o.d, you are!_" whispered the drunken man.

"Oho!" roared Rivoli. "Oho!" and exploded with laughter. "Sober to-night are you, English boaster? And how do you know that I will not fight you, _flaneur_?"

"That rests with you, of course," was the reply.

"Oho, it does, does it, Monsieur Coup Manque? And suppose I decide _not_ to fight you, but to punish you as little barking dogs should be punished? By the Wounds of G.o.d you shall learn a lesson, little vur...."

The drunken man moved, as though to spring to his feet, but the big American's arm flung round him pressed him down, as he lurched his huge body drunkenly against him, pinning him to the table.

"'Ere," expostulated 'Erb. "'E wants ter be sick, I tell yer. Free country ain't it, if 'e _is_ a bloomin' Legendary.... Might as well be a bleed'n drummerdary if 'e carn't be sick w'en 'e wants to.... 'Ope 'e ain't got seven stummicks, eny'ow," he added as an afterthought, and again applied himself to the business of the evening.

John Bull turned, without a word, and left the Canteen. The knot about the bar broke up and Luigi was alone with Madame save for two drunken men and one who was doing his best to achieve that blissful state.

"Have you forgiven me, Beloved of my Soul?" asked Rivoli of Madame, as she mopped the zinc surface of the bar.

"No," snapped Madame. "I have not."

"Then do it now, my Queen," he implored. "Forgive me, and then do one other thing."

"What is that?" enquired Madame.

"Marry me," replied Rivoli, seizing Madame's pudgy fist.

The eyes of the drunken man were on him, and the American watching, thought of the eyes of the snake that lies with broken back watching its slayer. There was death and the hate of h.e.l.l in them, and while he shuddered, his heart sang with hope.

"Marry me, Veronique," he repeated. "Have pity on me and end this suspense. See you, I grow thin," and he raised his mighty arms in a pathetic gesture.

Madame glanced at the poor man's stomach. There was no noticeable _maigreur_.

"And what of the Neapolitan hussy and your goings on in the Cafe de la Legion?" she asked.

"To h.e.l.l with the _putain_," he almost shouted. "I am like other men--and I have been to her dive like the rest. Marry me and save me from this loose irregular soldier's life. Do you think I would stray from _thee_, Beloved, if thou wert mine?"

"Not twice," said Madame.

"Then away with this jealousy," replied the ardent Luigi. "Let me announce our nuptials here and now, and call upon my comrades-in-arms to drink long life and happiness to my beauteous bride--whom they all so chastely love and revere. Come, little Star of my Soul! Come, carissima, and I will most solemnly swear upon the Holy Cross that never, never, never again will I darken the doors of the _ca.s.se-croute_ of that girl of the Bazaar. I swear it, Veronique--so help me G.o.d and all the Holy Saints--your husband will die before he will set foot in Carmelita's brothel."

"Come," said the drunken man, with a little piteous moan. "Could you carry me out, Signor? I am going to faint."

The Bucking Bronco gathered Carmelita up in his arms and strode toward the door.

"'Ere 'old on," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 'Erb. "'Arf a mo'! I'll tike 'is 'oofs...."

"Stay whar yew are, 'Erb," said the American sternly, over his shoulder.

"Right-o, ole bloke," agreed 'Erb, always willing to oblige. "Right-o!

Shove 'im in 'is kip[#] while I 'soop 'is bare.'"[#]

[#] Bed.

[#] Drink his beer.