I. A. R. Wylie

“ One looks at things sensibly—reasonably. One knows that one must take one's chance of a good time—when it offers itself——”
He leaned nearer to her with his elbow on the counter. He felt a subtle fragrant warmth creeping over his senses, like the breath of an enchantment. ”

“ But it's a hard business for a fellow like me. I'm too generous. Money comes and money goes. And then my work—always on the move—there's no home in the world for me.” The tears came to his eyes. He was deeply moved. “Sometimes it's almost too much for me. Last night, for instance, I felt so alone and friendless. And then this place; it isn't particularly cheerful, if you don't mind my saying so. When I got into that square of yours, as deserted as a desert, I wanted to cut my throat——”
SHE stopped knitting, and again the blank left by those softly chattering needles chilled him. ”

“ She had taken up the card between her thumb and forefinger and was reading it, but he could not see her face. His eyes wandered to the white neck, to where the black, smooth hair melted into two soft curls, delicate and symmetrical as flowers. His voice thickened a little.
“One of the biggest toy-makers in the world, madame. You can take my word for it—what we turn out, sells. But your husband—well, we men are different—I admit it—difficult and prejudiced—old-fashioned. Women are more practical. They know that business is business.” ”

“ In the center a crucifix, mounted on a low, broad pedestal, reared up starkly, throwing a long shadow, and on either hand the houses seemed to shrink back from it—aghast and horror-stricken.
The stout man crossed the square slowly. The cobbles of the street had been replaced by worn slabs of stone which gave out a melancholy echo under his feet. The suitcase had grown intolerably heavy and halfway across he set it down on the pedestal of the crucifix, and stretched his arms in grotesque and unconscious imitation. He was easier now that he had got away from the houses. ”

“ The woman was knitting. She did not look up.
“The bell is under the boards, monsieur.”
“So I gather. It's enough to scare your customers out of their wits, though, if you don't mind my saying so.”
“Most of my customers know about it. They step off at once.”
“I see. So you can tell a stranger a mile away. I call that a good idea.” He set down his suitcase and rubbed his pink face with a large colored handkerchief. “I hope, though, it doesn't mean that strangers aren't welcome,” he added jovially.
“If they bring business, every one is welcome, monsieur. ”

“ I can hear his voice now. 'You're a pretty bit of goods, if you don't mind my saying so.'”
The stout man's voice rose to a scream and broke.
“I was drunk—I was drunk! O my God! I didn't know what I was doing——”
“That was fifteen years ago.”
“You see—fifteen years—fifteen years—” He dropped to his knees. He crawled toward them. “You can't—you can't—you have hearts—you are women—good Christians. Besides, I tell you I was drunk. A man isn't responsible when he's drunk. You know it—you should have pity——”
They did not see him. They did not hear him. Madame Froissart picked up her knitting. ”

“ Really, I cannot help myself. It's more than business—it's a hobby—a sport. Another man, landed at a delightful little place like this without a decent train for the next twelve hours, would have taken a holiday. But I'm not like that. I said to myself: 'My friend, who knows? There may be an opening for you even here.' And so—here I am.” Remembering that he still wore his hat, he removed it, with an awkward flourish. “Pardon, madame. It was that noise—it startled the good manners out of me.”
“It doesn't matter,” she murmured.
The dusk still troubled him. ”

“ She gave it a swift sidelong glance and resumed her knitting.
“That—belongs to my daughter, monsieur."
“A daughter who still plays with dolls, then? That's almost as good. I'll wager she's not more than five years old.”
“Yes—about five——”
“You see? Five! A charming age. I envy you. I love children. Give her Monsieur Jack-in-a-box with my love. Do you know, madame, I have one ambition in life. It is to have a home of my own—a wife—a quiverful of jolly boys and girls to play with. ”

“ The woman behind the counter smiled faintly.
“There are many ways of coming back, monsieur.”
“Are there? Well—perhaps. Nobody could help coming back to you anyhow, madame.” He made her a gallant bow. “But I don't like dismal songs. I'm a lively fellow. There's enough worry in the world without our making a song about it. That's what I say. And that 'Jean François' business—why, everybody seems to sing it here. The girl at the estaminet was at it last night. It gets on my nerves.”
“It's an old village song, monsieur. It comes back to us when we are at work and thinking of other things. ”

“ But no one moved. He sobbed aloud in the agony of their indifference. Like a panic-stricken, tortured animal he flung his soft body against the shutters, passing out with a broken whimper into space and silence. ”

“ The memory, indefinite and haunting, increased his obscure resentment which flung itself on the thought of the woman who waited for him with a kind of hunger. He would show her that he was not the man to be disturbed for nothing. ”

“ I like to have friends—a good time—a pretty woman——”
The little shop seemed to have grown stiflingly hot. The heat blurred his vision—lay thick in his throat. Through the haze he could see her hand shining on the counter—inert and waiting. Before he had time to thick, he had seized it and was kissing it furiously. He could feel the cool, strong fingers tighten on his. He was swept off his feet, drunk with excitement.
“Margarita! Margarita!”
“Hush,” she said quietly, imperatively.
She withdrew her hand. The door had opened, and out of the dusk an old woman came into the shop. ”

“ In the circle of flickering light and spreading into the mist beyond were other crosses, rank upon rank, uniform, dropped from their fantastic dance into a martial rigidity. They stood round the stout man and seemed to wait for him, pathetic and menacing. ”

“ You can't hold me responsible. It isn't fair——”
“Can you remember what happened then, Madame Froissart?”
“They sacked our home. Somehow or other, the mill wouldn't burn, so they made a bonfire of the furniture outside. This table was too big—besides, Christophe had fallen across it—face upward—and even they——”
“And then?”
“One of them remained behind.”
“I deny it—I deny it absolutely! If you have anything against me, say it straight out. I'm a peaceful fellow. I go about my business. I do no harm to any one. You oughtn't to brood over the past like this. ”

“ It's cheap, too.”
“Our people are very poor,” she said.
“Well, of course—if you say so—but the place seemed to me rather prosperous—the houses almost new—as if they had been built yesterday. Never bad a fire here, I suppose?”
She had gone back to her knitting.
“No; not a fire.”
“And your little shop, now— I'll wager you do a nice little business. I can tell, you know. I've got a nose for that sort of thing. Have to have. I've got to know whom I can give credit to and whom I can't.” He looked about him appraisingly. ”

“ I'm a friendly fellow. I like to give people a good time. I'd like to give you a go time, ff you don't mind my saying so. And why not? Life is short. One has to take one's chance when it comes.”
“That is true, monsieur.”
“And perhaps I could do a bit of business as well. I have to think of that, you know. You might tell people about me—sort of introduce me. Country folk are queer—suspicious. ”

“ She took up the toy and pressed the soldier back into his box. The next moment he flew out again, waving frenziedly.
“You see, he is a true Frenchman.” The stout man laughed. “You can't suppress him for long. I tell you. I've sold hundreds——”
“Our people round here wouldn't care for it,” she objected.
“You can't tell. Of course, village folk are slow and conservative—don't I know it?—but, on the other hand, they jump at something really novel. ”