Free House of All Nations by Christina Stead Page B

snapped his fingers, smiled at the woman, cried, ‘Madame.’ He said with a sudden malicious inspiration, half intoxicated and half in anger, ‘Margaret, why didn’t I notice it before? This is Mme.—I forget the name—this is the intimate friend of a friend of mine, a grain merchant: why you know, Achitophelous, Marianne, why this is an old friend of his, poor woman: she had a bad time. He isn’t a nice fellow to his women. Poor girl. Imagine her waiting for men in this café. Madame … ’
    He had left them and energetically gained her side. With mocking and brilliant looks she was splendidly flirting with him and sneering at the others. Aristide had pushed a heavy and irritated look towards her, taken her in and now sat with his head bowed over the table, until he had the presence of mind to say, ‘Marianne, Mrs. Weyman, we need not stay: if you like—’
    Mrs. Weyman dryly replied, ‘I think I will stay. If this is really a friend of Mr. Léon, how can we leave him? He is our host. Wouldn’t we look rather ridiculous, suddenly getting up and scuttling? Let’s wait. He’s only doing it to annoy us … ’
    â€˜Is he?’ asked Aristide sardonically. ‘I hope so. Let us wait and see.’
    But now Léon came towards them, leading the dark-browed houri by the hand. She was dressed in black, low necked with silver fox furs. An exceedingly smart hat with evening veil set off the black brilliants which were her eyes. Her hair appeared to be done by Antoine: she had platinum and diamond bracelets and silver and ebony bracelets on her arms. She was so much better dressed than either of them and so much grander, silkier, and stranger in manner, like polished ebony, that they were at a loss. She seated herself and Léon said, ‘This is the friend of my old friend Achitophelous, Mme. Verneuil.’
    The women, like two clucking schoolgirls, bowed and felt dowdy. As if forcing them against a background by sketching her own personality in more brilliantly, the alleged Mme. Verneuil lit an opium cigarette, after offering one to each of the other women, showed off her carmine nails and diamonds, and said in a saccharine coo, ‘And what shall we do, Mr. Léon?’
    Léon looked round, said, ‘Let’s get another friend: let’s see if we can see another of my friends. There, on the terrasse .’
    Mme. Verneuil gave a faint start, but came quivering back to the leash, like a black greyhound. ‘You have some more friends here, then, Monsieur?’ She laughed.
    â€˜I am looking for more friends. I want all my friends. Eh, Margaret, don’t you want to meet all my friends? I know Paris so well. All my friends have friends in Paris. Let’s take them all out. Poor girls. Such beauties. Such houris. It is practically paradise. You do not mind, dear Madame? Are there any of your friends, here?’
    â€˜No,’ said the black-browed Parisienne, slowly, ‘none of my friends is here. I do not think, in fact, I have any friends living or dead, except you tonight, Mr. Léon.’
    Léon frowned at her for a moment, but she only responded with a salon smile. He sawed the air with his hand. ‘Waiter, hé : bring some more wine.’ The waiter looked faintly pained but hurried away. The headwaiter advanced with a real smile and saw to the nesting of the bottle himself.
    â€˜I can sing,’ said Léon. ‘In the Seven Mountains, where I was born, everyone can sing. But not here. Do you believe I can sing?’ he said turning suddenly to Margaret and quenching the light in the houri’s eyes.
    â€˜I should like to hear you again.’
    â€˜You will, you will: but I must have all my friends. I don’t like this female exclusive game—do you, Aristide? Listen, Marianne: Aristide will have four girls and I will have four. We will take out ten girls and two men. That is a dozen. I feel