Crowded Out! and Other Sketches | Page 8

for life. Giuseppe was nowhere visible. "Now then where's the other?" demanded the policeman who had just entered behind us, "There's always two at this business. Show him up, now." But Madame at first would deign no explanation. Presently on the entry of policeman No. 2 she admitted there had been a quarrel. Yes, she had quarrelled with her dear Giuseppe, (the officers grinned) and had driven him away. Yes, he had gone--gone forever, he had said so, never to come back, never, never!
"And leave this fine business to you, eh? No fear of that. I guess Mr. Martinetti'll turn up all right in the morning, however, let us make a search, Joe." But Giuseppe was not found; there were no traces of a struggle, and the policemen having done all they could retired. My friend and I, by what right I know not were the last to leave the room. De Kock stood for some moments looking out of the window. I approached the parrot who was still screaming.
"If throwing a cloth over your head would stop you, I'd do it, my dear," said I. To my surprise, it ceased its noise directly, and became perfectly quiet. Madame Martinetti looked around with a contemptuous smile.
"You have the secret as well," said she. The bird turned to her and then returned to me. I became quite interested in it. "Pretty Poll, pretty bird; would you like a cracker?"
De Kock laughed softly at the window. "A cracker to such a bird as that! Ask it another." I actually, though with a timid air, opened the door of the cage and invited Polly to perch on my finger. She came, looking at me intensely all the while. I petted her little, which she took resignedly and with a faint show of wonder, then in answer to De Kock's summons put her back in the cage.
"I have the honour to wish madame a bonsoir," said he, but the lady was still sulky and vouchsafed no answer.
We were soon out in the street.
"Do you know," said De Kock slowly, lighting a cigar and looking up at the house, "Do you know, I thought something had happened."
"And don't you now."
"I am not sure," answered my friend.



CHAPTER II.
We were pardonably curious to see the papers next morning. The affair was dismissed in three lines, and although as De Kock swore, the case was one for Gaboriau, it certainly was not our business to look into it and in fact in a week's time I was back in Canada, and he up to his eyes in commercial pursuits. The main point remained clear, however, that Martinetti did not come back, nor was he found, or traced or ever heard of again. Somebody took the business out of hand, as they say, and De Kock would occasionally write a P. S. to his letters like this--"Dined at poor Martinetti's, Chiante as usual. Ever yours." Or it would be--"Drank to the production of your last new comedy at Martinetti's." Once he stated that shortly after that memorable night Madame disappeared also, taking the parrot along. "I begin to think they are a pair of deep ones and up to some big game" he wrote. For myself, I never entirely forgot the circumstance, although it was but once vividly recalled to my mind and that was in a theatre in Montreal. An American company from one of the New York theatres was performing some farcical comedy or other in which occurred the comic song, admirably sung and acted by Miss Kate Castleton, "For goodness sake don't say I told you!" The reminiscences forced upon me quite spoiled my enjoyment; I could see that pale, nervous woman, hear her screams, and hear too the fearful voice of the poor parrot. Where is it now, thought I? That same winter I was much occupied in making studies of the different classes of people among the French-Canadians. The latter turn up everywhere in Montreal, and have a distinct "local color" about them which I was curious to get and hope to preserve for use some future day. I went everywhere and talked to everybody who might be of use to me; cabmen, porters, fruit dealers and tobacconists. I found much to interest me in the various Catholic institutions, and I was above all very fond of visiting the large, ugly gray building with the air of a penitentiary about it called the Grey Nunnery. Going through its corridors one day I took a wrong turning and found I was among some at least quasi-private rooms. The doors being open I saw that there were flowers, books, a warm rug on the floor of one and a mirror on the wall of another. The third I ventured to step inside of, for a really