New Arabian Nights | Page 3

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New Arabian Nights by Robert Louis Stevenson Scanned and proofed
by David Price [email protected]

NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS

Contents:
The Suicide Club The Rajah's Diamond The Pavilion on the Links A
Lodging for the Night - a Story of Francis Villon The Sire de
Maletroit's Door Providence and the Guitar

THE SUICIDE CLUB

STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN WITH THE CREAM TARTS

During his residence in London, the accomplished Prince Florizel of
Bohemia gained the affection of all classes by the seduction of his
manner and by a well-considered generosity. He was a remarkable man
even by what was known of him; and that was but a small part of what
he actually did. Although of a placid temper in ordinary circumstances,
and accustomed to take the world with as much philosophy as any
ploughman, the Prince of Bohemia was not without a taste for ways of
life more adventurous and eccentric than that to which he was destined
by his birth. Now and then, when he fell into a low humour, when there
was no laughable play to witness in any of the London theatres, and
when the season of the year was unsuitable to those field sports in
which he excelled all competitors, he would summon his confidant and
Master of the Horse, Colonel Geraldine, and bid him prepare himself
against an evening ramble. The Master of the Horse was a young
officer of a brave and even temerarious disposition. He greeted the
news with delight, and hastened to make ready. Long practice and a
varied acquaintance of life had given him a singular facility in disguise;
he could adapt not only his face and bearing, but his voice and almost
his thoughts, to those of any rank, character, or nation; and in this way
he diverted attention from the Prince, and sometimes gained admission
for the pair into strange societies. The civil authorities were never taken
into the secret of these adventures; the imperturbable courage of the
one and the ready invention and chivalrous devotion of the other had
brought them through a score of dangerous passes; and they grew in
confidence as time went on.
One evening in March they were driven by a sharp fall of sleet into an
Oyster Bar in the immediate neighbourhood of Leicester Square.
Colonel Geraldine was dressed and painted to represent a person
connected with the Press in reduced circumstances; while the Prince
had, as usual, travestied his appearance by the addition of false
whiskers and a pair of large adhesive eyebrows. These lent him a
shaggy and weather-beaten air, which, for one of his urbanity, formed
the most impenetrable disguise. Thus equipped, the commander and his

satellite sipped their brandy and soda in security.
The bar was full of guests, male and female; but though more than one
of these offered to fall into talk with our adventurers, none of them
promised to grow interesting upon a nearer acquaintance. There was
nothing present but the lees of London and the commonplace of
disrespectability; and the Prince had already fallen to yawning, and was
beginning to grow weary of the whole excursion, when the swing doors
were pushed violently open, and a young man, followed by a couple of
commissionaires, entered the bar. Each of the commissionaires carried
a large dish of cream tarts under a cover, which they at once removed;
and the young man made the round of the company, and pressed these
confections upon every one's acceptance with an exaggerated courtesy.
Sometimes his offer was laughingly accepted; sometimes it was firmly,
or even harshly, rejected. In these latter cases the new-comer always ate
the tart himself, with some more or less humorous commentary.
At last he accosted Prince Florizel.
"Sir," said he, with a profound obeisance, proffering the tart at the same
time between his thumb and forefinger, "will you so far honour an
entire stranger? I can answer for the quality of the pastry, having eaten
two dozen and