The Carpet From Bagdad | Page 9

of yours didn't yank it taut as a
hangman's? You heard the codicil; into one ear and out the other. Even
then you had your chance; patience for two short years, and a million.
No, a thousand times no. You knew what you were about,
empty-headed fool! And to-day, two pennies for a dead man's eyes."
He dropped his fist dejectedly. Where had the first step begun? And
where would be the last? In some drab corner, possibly; drink,
morphine, or starvation; he'd never have the courage to finish it with a
bullet. He was terribly bitter. Everything worth while seemed to have
slipped through his fingers, his pleasure-loving fingers.
"Come, come, Horace; buck up. Still the ruby kindles in the vine. No
turning back now. We'll go on till we come bang! against the wall.
There may be some good bouts between here and there. I wonder what
Gioconda would say if she knew why I was so eager for this game?"
He went down to dinner, and they gave him a table in an obscure corner,
as a subtle reminder that his style was passŽ. He didn't care; he was
hungry and thirsty. He could see nearly every one, even if only a few
could see him. This was somewhat to his vantage. He endeavored to
pick out Percival Algernon; but there were too many high collars, too
many monocles. So he contented himself with a mild philosophical
observance of the scene. The murmur of voices, rising as the wail of the
violins sank, sinking as the wail rose; the tinkle of glass and china, the
silver and linen, the pretty women in their rustling gowns, the delicate
perfumes, the flash of an arm, the glint of a polished shoulder: this was

the essence of life he coveted. He smiled at the thought and the sure
knowledge that he was not the only wolf in the fold. Ay, and who
among these dainty Red Riding Hoods might be fooled by a vulpine
grandmother? Truth, when a fellow winnowed it all down to a handful,
there were only fools and rogues. If one was a fool, the rogue got you,
and he in turn devoured himself.
He held his glass toward the table-lamp, moved it slowly to and fro
under his nose, epicureanly; then he sipped the wine. Something like! It
ran across his tongue and down his throat in tingling fire, nectarious;
and he went half way to Olympus, to the feet of the gods. For weeks he
had lived in the vilest haunts, in desperate straits, his life in his open
hands; and now once more he had crawled from the depths to the outer
crust of the world. It did not matter that he was destined to go down
into the depths again; so long as the spark burned he was going to crawl
back each time. Damnable luck! He could have lived like a prince.
Twenty-four hundred, and all in two nights, a steady stream of gold
into the pockets of men whom he could have cheated with consummate
ease, and didn't. A fine wolf, whose predatory instincts were still
riveted to that obsolete thing called conscience!
"Conscience? Rot! Let us for once be frank and write it down as
caution, as fear of publicity, anything but the white guardian-angel of
the immortality of the soul. Heap up the gold, Apollyon; heap it up,
higher and higher, till not a squeak of that still small voice that once
awoke the chap in the Old Testament can ever again be heard. Now, no
more retrospection, Horace; no more analysis; the vital question
simmers down to this: If Percival Algernon balks, how far will four
sovereigns go?"

CHAPTER III
THE HOLY YHIORDES
George drank his burgundy perfunctorily. Had it been astringent as the
native wine of Corsica, he would not have noticed it. The little nerves

that ran from his tongue to his brain had temporarily lost the power of
communication. And all because of the girl across the way. He couldn't
keep his eyes from wandering in her direction. She faced him
diagonally. She ate but little, and when the elderly gentleman poured
out for her a glass of sauterne, she motioned it aside, rested her chin
upon her folded hands, and stared not at but through her vis-à-vis.
It was a lovely head, topped with coils of lustrous, light brown hair; an
oval face, of white and rose and ivory tones; scarlet lips, a small,
regular nose, and a chin the soft roundness of which hid the resolute lift
to it. To these attributes of loveliness was added a perfect form, the
long, flowing curves of youth, not the abrupt contours of maturity.
George couldn't recollect when he had been so impressed by a face.
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