The relations between these four people had now been strained to the breaking-point. That month of debauch had exacted a stern tribute from them. Their exhausted bodies and frayed nerves cried out for rest, a period of curative repose when the well of their drained energy could be filled up again. But like creatures hopelessly addicted to a drug, they could not break the bonds of this tyranny of pleasure which held them. Starwick seemed to be completely enslaved by this senseless and furious quest, this frantic seeking after new sensations, this hopeless pursuit of a happiness, a fulfilment, that they never found. He seemed unable or unwilling to break the evil spell. Rather, as if a poisonous hunger was feeding on his vitals — a hunger that grew constantly from the food it fed upon, and that could not be assuaged by any means — the evil inertia of his will, the ugly impassivity of his resignation became every day more marked.
Of all of them, he alone preserved the appearance of calm. And that cold, impassive calm was maddening: he met the storms of anger, protests, reproaches, and persuasions of the others with an air of sad humility, a kind of sorrowful acceptance, a quiet agreement to every accusation or indictment, a grand manner of sweet, sorrowful contrition that was more hateful than any deliberate insult could have been. For behind this impenetrable armour of humility, this air of mysterious fatality, there was evident a hateful arrogance which said that words were useless because no words could express the fatal wisdom of his soul, and which, with a stubborn and abominable perversity, seemed deliberately resolved on ruin.
His conduct became daily more absurd, extravagant, ridiculous. He was acting like a melodramatic fool, but it was impossible to laugh at his folly because of the desperate fatality that attended it. He did unbelievable things, contrived unbelievable situations that seemed fitting only in a world of opera but were shamefully unreal and unnecessary in the real one. What was really shameful and unworthy in his conduct was this — his fatality served no purpose, his reckless and deliberate pursuit of danger did no good except to dignify the melodramatic unreality of a comic opera situation with the realities of blood and death.
He was constantly and deliberately involving himself and others in these ridiculous but perilous situations. One night, in one of the Montmartre resorts, he had a quarrel with a man that would have been farcical save for the ugly consequences it produced, the painful and shameful memory it would later evoke. The man, an unpleasant, wizened-looking little Frenchman, a creature of the night, with obscene eyes, a yellowed skin, and a pointed beard half covering the features of a rodent, had not been able to keep his ugly eyes off Ann, had measured the noble proportions of her beauty with a kind of foul leering appraisal that had in it something almost as palpable and sensual as a naked touch, and now, as the orchestra struck up another tune, he approached the table, bowed, and asked her, courteously enough, for a dance.
Ann reddened furiously in the face, looked down sullenly at the tablecloth and, before she was able to think of a reply, Starwick said:
“Mademoiselle does not care to dance. Please go away.”
The cold arrogance of Starwick’s tone, and his curt dismissal, enraged the Frenchman. When he replied, his lips were bared in an ugly smile that showed unpleasant fangs of yellowed teeth; he said:
“Is the lady not allowed to speak for herself? Is Monsieur perhaps her guardian?”
“Will you please go away now?” Starwick said again, with a cold and weary impassivity. “You are boring us.”
“But, it’s marvellous!” The little Frenchman cast back his yellowed face and bared his fangs in a laugh of envenomed mockery. “It’s Monsieur D’Artagnan come to life again, and a lady so shy and modest that she can’t speak for herself! But, it’s superb!” he cried again, and with an ironic bow, concluded: “Monsieur, with all my heart I thank you for this wonderful diversion! You are very droll!”
Starwick’s reply to this was to pick up the seltzer bottle on the table and, without for a moment altering his air of cold impassivity, to squirt the siphon straight in the little Frenchman’s yellow face.
In a moment, the place was a seething maelstrom of excitement. People all over sprang up from their tables, the dancers stopped dancing, the orchestra stopped with a crash, and the proprietor and the waiter came towards them on the run.
They were at once surrounded by an excited group of gesticulating, chattering people, all trying to talk at once. Starwick was standing up now, facing his antagonist, cold and impassive save for a deeper flush of excitement on his ruddy face. As for the little Frenchman, the look of murderous hatred on his face was horrible. Without stopping to dry his dripping face with the napkin which an excited and persuasive waiter was offering him, he thrust aside the manager, who was trying to restrain him, and coming close to Starwick, snarled:
“Your name, monsieur? I demand to know your name. My representatives will call upon you in the morning.”
“Good,” said Starwick coldly. “I shall wait for them. Monsieur shall have whatever satisfaction he desires.”
And taking a card from his purse, he wrote the studio address below his name and gave it to the man.
“Ah, good!” the Frenchman cried harshly, glancing at it. “Until tomorrow!”
And calling for his bill, and silent to all the apologies and cajoleries of the proprietor, he departed.
“But Frank, darling!” Elinor cried, when they had seated themselves again. “What do you intend to do? Surely you’re not going to —” She did sot finish, but stared at him with a troubled and astonished face.
“Yes,” said Starwick coldly and quietly. “He has asked me to fight a duel, and if he wants it, I shall meet him.”
“Oh, but don’t be absurd!” cried Elinor with an impatient laugh. “What on earth do you know about fighting duels? My poor child, how can you be so ridiculous! This is the twentieth century, darling. Don’t you know that people don’t act that way any longer?”
“Quite!” said Starwick, with a stony calm. “Nevertheless, I shall meet him if he wants me to.” He looked at her with quiet eyes for a moment, and then said gravely: “I’ve GOT to do that. I really have, you know.”
“Got to!” Elinor cried impatiently. “Why, the child is MAD!” Her tone immediately became crisp, incisive, authoritative: she began to speak to him quietly, kindly, but in a peremptory tone, as one might speak to a child:
“Francis,” she said quietly. “Listen to me! Don’t be an idiot! What does it matter about that wretched little man? It’s all over now! A duel! Good heavens! Don’t be such a child! Whoever heard of such a thing?”
His face reddened a little from her ridicule, but he answered, in a cold impassive tone:
“Quite! Nevertheless, I shall meet him if he wants it!”
“Meet him!” Elinor cried again. “Oh, Francis, how can you be so stupid! Meet him with what?”
“With whatever weapon he wants to use,” Starwick replied. “Pistols or swords — it doesn’t matter!”
“Pistols or swords!” Elinor shrieked faintly, and began to laugh. “Why, you idiot, what do you know about pistols or swords? You’ve never had a sword in your hand in your life — and as for pistols, you wouldn’t even know how to point the thing and press the trigger!”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said in a very quiet and fatal way. “I shall fire into the air.”
In spite of the ridiculous and melodramatic quality of these foolish words, no one laughed. They saw suddenly what fatal consequences this farcical situation might have, and having felt the desperation of his soul — that terrible despair which now seemed to be driving him on to seek ruin everywhere — they knew he would do exactly as he said, if given the opportunity.
Elinor started to go: she beckoned to a waiter and called for the bill, and said persuasively:
“Come on! Let’s get out of this place! You’ve had too much to drink! I think your head needs clearing — a little fresh air will do you good. You’ll feel different about all this tomorrow!”
“But not at all!” he said patiently, and then, as she started to get up: “Will you please sit down. We’re not going yet.”
“But why, darling? Aren’t you ready? Haven’t you raised enough hell for one evening — or do you want to fight a duel with someone else? Besides, I do think you might think of Ann. I know she’s wanted to go for some time.”
“But WHY?” he said, turning to Ann with an air of fine surprise. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself? It’s a VERY good place, and the music is awfully good — it really is, you know.”
“Oh, charming, charming!” she muttered sarcastically. She had been staring at the table-cloth sullenly, with a flaming face, ever since the quarrel had begun, and now looking up suddenly, with a short and angry laugh, she said:
“God! I don’t know whether to walk out of here or CRAWL! I feel all — UNDRESSED!”
At these words, his face really did flush crimson with embarrassment. He looked at her for a moment, and then said sharply, with a note of stern reproof and anger in his voice:
“Ann! It’s VERY bad and VERY wrong — and — and — very MEAN of you to talk like that.”
“That’s how I feel,” she muttered.
“Then,” he said quietly but with two deep and angry spots of colour flaming in his cheeks, “I’m THOROUGHLY ashamed of you. It’s QUITE unworthy of you. At a time like this, a person of your quality has got to show more —” he paused, choosing the word carefully, “more FIBRE. You really must, you know!”
“Oh, fibre my eye!” she flared up, looking at him with flushed, lovely and angry eyes. “You don’t lack fibre simply because you don’t want to be made a fool of! Frank, you make me tired, the way you talk! Everywhere we go now someone’s always showing ‘fibre’— and everyone is having a rotten, awful time. For God’s sake, let’s not talk so much about showing fibre and let’s try to enjoy ourselves and get some pleasure and some happiness from life, and act like decent, natural people for a change. I had looked forward so much to coming on this trip with Elinor — and now —” Tears of anger and disappointment glittered in her eyes, she looked down at the table sullenly in an effort to conceal them, and then muttered: “Playing the fool and making scenes and starting rows everywhere we go! Getting into trouble everywhere, making people hate us, never having any fun! Squirting siphons at some wretched little man —” she made a sudden impulsive gesture of disgust and turned away. “God! It makes me sick!”
“I’m sorry to know you feel that way,” he said quietly. “I’ll try to see it doesn’t happen again — but, after all, Ann — the reason it did happen is because I like you so VERY much, and have so much respect for you and won’t stand for anyone insulting you!”
“Ah-h! Insulting me!” she said angrily. “Good heavens, Francis, do you think I need protection from a wretched little man like that? When I’ve been a nurse, and had to go alone to every rotten slum in Boston, and learned to handle people twice his size! Protect me!” she said bitterly. “Thank you for nothing! I didn’t come over here to be protected — I don’t need it. I can take care of myself. Just try to act and feel like a decent human being — let’s try to be friends together and to show some consideration for each other — and don’t worry about protecting me!”