Sylvia & Michael: The later adventures of Sylvia Scarlett. Compton MackenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.
I've arranged to meet some count with an unpronounceable name, who will probably open at least twenty-four bottles. I get my week's salary to-night also. I shall have, with what I have saved, enough to travel back as I came, third class. It has been a thoroughly third-class adventure, mon vieux. A thousand thanks for your kindness, but I must pay my pride the little solace of earning enough to get me home again."
Carrier shrugged his shoulders.
"It must be as you feel. That I understand. But it gives me much pleasure that you are going to be wise. I wish you de la veine to-night."
He pressed upon her a mascot to charm fortune into attendance; it was a little red devil with his tongue sticking out.
Sylvia went down to the cabaret that evening with the firm intention of its being the last occasion; her headache had grown worse all the afternoon and the gloom upon her spirit was deepening. What a fool she had been to run away with so much assurance of having the courage to endure this life, what a fool she had been! For the first time the thought of suicide presented itself to her as a practical solution of everything. In her present state she could perceive not one valid argument against it. Who had attacked existence with less caution than she, and who had deserved more from it in consequence? Had she once flinched? Had she once taken the easier path? Yes, there had been Arthur; that was the first time she had given way to indecision, and how swiftly the punishment had followed. Was it really worth while to seek now to repair that mistake? Was anything worth while? Except to go suddenly out of it all, passing as abruptly from life to death as she had passed from one society to another, one tour to another, one country to another. She would abide by to-night's decision; if fortune put it into the head of the count with the unpronounceable name to buy enough bottles of champagne to make up what was still wanting to her fare, she would return to England, devote herself to her work, turn again to books, watch over her godchildren, and live at Mulberry Cottage. If, on the other hand, the fare should not be made up on this night, why, then she should kill herself. To-night should be a night of hell. How her body was burning; how vile the people smelled in this tram; how wearisome was this garish sunset. She took from her velvet bag the red devil that Carrier had given her; in this feverish atmosphere it had a certain fitness, a portentousness even; one could almost believe it really was a tribute to fate.
The cabaret was crowded that evening; never before had there been such a hurly-burly of greed and thirst. Sylvia, by good luck, was feeling thirsty; for the dust from the tram had parched her mouth, and her tongue was like cork; so much the better, because if she was going to win that champagne she must be able herself to drink. The tintamarre of plates, knives, and forks; the chickerchack as of multitudinous apes; the blare and glare would have prevented the loudest soprano in the world from sounding more than the squeak of a slate-pencil; and Sylvia sang with gestures alone, forming with her lips mute words. "I'm paid for my body, not for my voice; so let my body play the antic," she muttered, angrily.
When her turn was over, Sylvia came down and joined the two young Russians, who were waiting for her with another girl at a table on which already the bottles of champagne were standing like giant pawns.
"Ils ont la cuite," the girl whispered to Sylvia. "Alors, il faut briffer, chérie; autrement ils seront trop soûlés."
This seemed good advice, because if their hosts were too drunk too soon they might get tired of the entertainment; and Sylvia proposed an adjournment to eat, though she had little enough appetite. As a matter of fact, the men wanted to drink vodka when supper was proposed, and not merely to drink it themselves, but to make Sylvia and the other girl keep them company glass by glass. In Sylvia's condition to drink vodka would have been to drink liquid fire, and she managed to plead thirst with such effect that the count benevolently ordered twenty-four bottles of champagne to be brought immediately for her to quench it. The other girl was full of admiration for Sylvia's strategy; if the worst came to the worst, they would have earned seventy-five francs each and could boast of a successful evening. Sylvia, however, wanted a hundred and fifty francs for herself, and invoking the little red devil she showed a way of breaking a bottle in half by filling it with hot water, saturating a string in methylated spirits, tying the string round the bottle, setting light to it, and afterward tapping the bottle gently with a knife until it broke. The count was delighted with this trick, but thought, as Sylvia hoped he would think, that the trick would be much better if practised on an unopened bottle of champagne. In this way twenty-six bottles were broken in childish rage by the count, because the trick only worked with the help of hot water. He was by now in a state of drunken obstinacy, and, being determined to show the superiority of the human mind over matter, he ordered twenty-four more bottles of champagne, as a Roman emperor might have ordered two dozen slaves to test an empirical method of execution. By a fluke he managed to succeed with the twenty-fourth bottle, and having by now gathered round him an audience, he challenged the onlookers to repeat the trick. Other women were anxious for their hosts to excel, particularly with such profit to themselves; soon at every table in the cabaret champagne-bottles were being cracked like eggs. The count was afraid that there might not be enough wine left to carry them through the evening, and ordered another two dozen bottles to be held in reserve for his table.
Sylvia, though she was feeling horribly ill by now, was nevertheless at peace, for she had earned her fare back to England. Unluckily, she could not quit the table and go home, because, unless she waited until three, she would not be paid her commission on the champagne. She felt herself receding from the noise of breaking glass all round her, and thought she was going to faint, but with an effort she gathered the noise round her again and tried to believe that the room still existed. She seemed to be catching hold of the great chandelier that hung from the middle of the ceiling, and fancied that it was only her will and courage to maintain her hold that was keeping the cabaret and everybody in it from destruction.
"Tu es malade, chérie?" the other girl was asking.
"Rien, rien," she was whispering. "Le chaleur."
"Oui, il fait très-chaud."
The laughter and shouts of triumph rose higher; the noise of breaking glass was like the waves upon a beach of shingle.
"Pourquoi il te regarde?" she found herself asking.
"Personne ne me regarde, chérie," the other girl replied.
But somebody was looking at her, somebody seated in one of the boxes for private supper-parties that were fixed all round the hall, somebody tall with short fair hair sticking up like a brush, somebody in uniform. He was beckoning to her now and inviting her to join him in the box. He had slanting eyes, cruel eyes that glittered and glittered.
"Il te regarde. Il te regarde," said Sylvia, hopelessly. "Il te veut. Oh, mon Dieu, il te veut! Quoi faire? Il n'y a rien à faire. Il n'y a rien à faire. Il t'aura. Tu seras perdue. Perdue!" she moaned.
"Dis, Sylvie, dis, qu'est-ce que tu as? Tu me fais peur. Tes yeux sont comme les yeux d'une folle. Est-ce que tu as pris de l'ethère ce soir?"
It seemed to Sylvia that her companion was being dragged to damnation before her eyes, and she implored her to flee while there was still time.
Somebody stood up on a table and shouted at the top of his voice:
"Il n'y a plus de champagne!"
The count was much excited by this and demanded immediately how they were going to spend the money they had brought with them. If there was no more champagne, they should have to drink vodka, but first they must play skittles with the empty bottles that were not already broken to pieces. He picked a circular cheese from the table and bowled it across the room.
"Encore du fromage! Encore du fromage!" everybody was shouting, and soon everywhere crimson cheeses were rolling along the floor.
"The cheeses belong to me," the count cried. "Nobody else is to order cheeses. Garçon! garçon! bring me all the cheeses you have. The cheeses are mine. Mine! Mine!"
His voice rose to a scream.
"Mon Dieu! ils vont se battre à cause du fromage" cried the other girl, holding her hand to her eyes and cowering