AUTOCRAT'S ISLAND

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 99, 29 April 1933, Page 10 (Supplement)

AUTOCRAT'S ISLAND

By MARY HOWARD.

Author of "Windier Skies."

CHAPTER XII. Brutal Truths.' Roma did not know why she told this mail her story. He wasn't really a man who inspired confidence; indeed, he was quite the opposite, with his abrupt, rather insolent manner, T»3 was somewhat repelling. Afterwards slie thought perhaps it was because he knew Jaime, and unconsciously she wanted anyone who knew Jaime to know the truth, so that perhaps Jaime would be sorry for having used her as his catspaw.

"I see now," she said, as she finished her coffee. "I see now that from daddy's point of view the 'marriage was most effective. It will give immense impetus to his concerns if it is known that he is connected in any way wilfi Jaime."

The man at the next table nodded. "I sa win the paper that the financial expert thinks your father may be able to put things right—that means Avith Jaime's help, I guess."

"Yes," replied Roma, and sat quite silently, not really knowing what else to say.

"You've been rather a fool, I think," said the man morosely. "Strange how one rarely finds beauty and the tiniest smattering of intelligence." He regarded her thoughtfully, but with curious personal interest —not as though he was looking at a person, but at some beautiful inanimate object that pleased hint.

He put out a hand, one of those curious sculptor's hands she had first noticed; it was very strong and powerful, vet curiously unsteady. He put a finger against her forehead and gently traced the curve of her cheek to her chin, his eyes narrowed with concentration.

"The line from here to here is perfect —perfect," he commented. "I would like very much to do a portrait head of you at any time you are to sit for me." • - •

Again that peculiar impersonal interest —as if he were asking her to lend him something quite casually. Roma felt curiously hysterical. The strain of the long journey was still telling on her. although she had slept. She had to try very hard to control her voice as she answered him. "If you had asked me a fortnight ago I might have said yes," she said as lightly as she was able. "And I would have probably paid you two hundred guineas for doing it. To-night I can only thank you for your admiration and decline with thanks." His elbows were on the table and he was busily lighting a foul-smelling pipe through the smoke of which his pale, slanting eyes looked at her, always with the same weary, disinterested air. Roma suddenly understood. Of all the men she had met this man was the first whom she had never got through to as a woman. Even Jaime, who professed he did not care for her (her heart winced at the thought) had always been attracted to her. Inwardly she had known that even at their most antagonistic moments. But with this man it was true. As a woman he didn't care twopence whether she was there or not. As a thing of beauty he admired, her and would, have liked to have' modelled her

head. ' ' Piqued, Roma forgot her tired, hysterical mood and set about to draw him out ... to establish some sort of contact with his strange, aloof personality. "U ith a woman's sure instinct she got liim to talk of Jaime. She wanted him to talk about Jaime herself, but she knew this man admired him and guessed tha* if he would talk at all he would talk about his friend.. "Why talk about me ?" she said. "Tell me about Jaime. What was he like when you knew him?" The man's pale, saturnine face lit up with amusement. , _ , "I thought you were not really so disinterested," he said coldly. "Women don't just run away from Jaime. I have known him since he was nines years old, V and it was always the same. Whether his governess, his mother ... or anyone . . Jaime always held dominion over women . :•:* Roma paled a little, but",continued, for this aloof artist was melting towards in- , terest. Eventually she felt sure those eves would light lyith interest for herself. •' " ; "What was he like as a little boy.?'' she asked curiously. .* ' "Oh, spoilt. His father was ■ dead, ihe 11 was an immensely wealthy, Scottish ship builder, so Jaime had been brought up by his mother in Florence. He was the usual namby-pamby little Italian aristocrat. \JTandsome and as strong as. a young lion . . . but he would go white with°temper "When provoked,' and', would cry and sroim when he <?5d not get hit; own way. Of course, he got hojSfelessly ragged at school . . . mostly by the older boys, because bov-3 of his own eiiaj were afraid of him. He would fight like a tiger-cat with teeth, fists and feet, and had none of our so-called English niceties of fair play. He just wanted to \vin. But as he grew older he conformed . he learned to speak his father's language, he learned to play our games, and to like the boys he lived with. I think he was the best all-round athlete and scholar the school ever had before he left to go to Cambridge . . ." There was a silence, and Roma had forgotten about her intention of drawing this man out. She was so breathlessly absorbed in his story. The cafe was emptying now, for this ( was not a gay, all l'iglit affair, and the head waiter, who was. evidently the proprietor, was eyeing the lingering diners with poorly concealed distaste as they kept him from his armchair on the first floor, his "Figaro" and his cigar. He quickly stripped the empty tables ±o show that it was nearly closing time, and whenever a couple made as though to go, he shot forward with their coats before they had time to change their minds, took the bill, gave them change and bowed them hurriedly out into the the chill, starry September night. His wife, Madame, her pale face with its two black currants of eyes already looking puffy and tired, as indeed she deserved to be, having been almost continually on her feet since the early hours of the morning. She was sitting in her shabby black satin at the desk, counting up the money for the night. Both madamc and m'sieur dislike'd lovers'.' . . artists were nearly as bad, but lovers Were really the limit. They would sit for hours over their coffee" and cigarettes, gazing into one another's eyes' and talking of nothings And what profit could an honest citizen get out of that? No, m'sieur and madarne liked business men . . men who rushed in at lunch'fime, ordered a good meal, paid for it. tipped adequately, and departed as quickly as they came. Now m'sieur regarded Roma and her companion suspiciously. They were eviI dently not lovers . . . indeed it was obvious that they disliked one another i rather than, anything else. It seemed, i too, that they had onlp just got. jnto sttk. r'

conversation. But they were s-pendintr as much time as lovers, talking in that barbaric English to each other over their coffee.

M'sicur approached the cash desk and spoke to his wife. "Will they stay all night talking of nothing?" he demanded in rapid French. "Do they think that no one eke wishes to rest and talk? Ah, mon Dieu—it is impossible."

The artist rose to his full, lanky height. He was as tall as Jaime, but thin, with huge, stooping, bony shoulders.

"All right, mon ami," he said easily to the astonished proprietor, "we hear anf" obey ... the lady will pay for herself."

He p.aid his own bill and Roma did likewise with a queer misgiving. The few francs that the dinner had cost did not amount to much, and £50 was quite a bit of money. But still they ate into one's Capital, these small amounts. There would be a hotel bill at the end of the week, and there would be meals to pay for. She tried to think how long £50 would last and failed- miserably. She had never had to make money last before.

They stood outside the little cafe under a plane tree. It w T as not too warm. Indeed, a chestnut vendor had anticipated the season with his ruddy brazier at the corner. Yet the trees were still in leaf an<} the September stars were brilliant in the deep blue cloak of the sky . . . and Paris was filled With that eternal spring that she always carries in her heart.

The man stood with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the silver dusted sky, at the gleaming lights that shone up to the heavens from the more fashionable parts of the city. He made a quaint silhouette with his wide-brimmed black hat, and his small pointed beard tipped heavenwards.

"I think," he said, "you must be all wrong about Jaime. He wouldn't have married you unless he saw something in you . . . though what he saw beyond your good looks beats me. You seem quite useless."

Roma gave way to tears . . . she knew it was stupid, but she felt very tired and lonely. Jaime had called her a silly child —and so had Randal Tharke. Now this man was despising her. Against her will she was beginning to believe it . . . and it is a painful realisation when one steps out of selfsufficient egotism and stands unarmed in all one's faults and failings.

The artist man was not in the least perturbed'or even sympathetic.

"You look tired," he commented. "I'd go to bed if I were you. If ever you are bored, or broke, my name is Alastair Madden, 3, Rue Bressarde, on the top floor, four flights up. With your profile and chin line' I'll always pay you 30 francs a sitting. That's about five bob. Au'voir."

And, taking'his hand laconically from his pocket, he'tipped his hat to her with a brief gesture and strolled casually away into the shadows.

The district was quiet, with practically. no night life, the shops and cafes by this hour being all shuttered. Actually she was in a network of small streets near Montparnasse. A tired working man' in overalls passed her without glancing her way, and under a street lamp at the corner of an alley opposite her a man and woman were quarrelling bitterly. She heard the snarl of the .man's voice, and saw the woman's bright and beautiful red hair gleam under the light. Tales she had heard about apaches came back to her, and she glanced' apprehensively at her' bag, in which reposed' all her worldly wealth, and remembered that the diamond clip carelessly fastened on the side of her smart little hat was worth twice as much as the money she had on her. She had walked without noticing the way, and as she had never been alone in Paris before at night, or for that matter, in any big city, she felt helpless . .' . like a singing bird which, has always longed foi" freedom, and, escaping from its golden cage, finds the sunshine too blinding'and then world too wide and longs for the safety of imprisonment again. ~■ / t'• s

She, walked hurriedly along towards some distant lights, keeping well in the middle of-the Toad and away from the dark side alleys. • In- -the midst of' her loneliness and terror tha thought ; came back to her that if elie had-stayed she would *haVe now been back in Paradiso, among the sunshine and the palms, alone with Jaime . . . his wife . '*. '. and .a sob- caught her throat as she hurried onwards, glancing fearfully from side to side when people passed her. They were mostly quite innocent working people on their way home from their work or from local cafes . . . but Roma did not know this. All the crime tales she had/ ever read came back to her, and 'she' only knew she was alone in this large, indifferent world, and like a moth she struggled onwards. towards the light.

Presently the thoroughfares she came to %vere better lighted, and cafes were

open, glittering all night cafes jewelled with electric lights. The streets were thronged with people, laughing and talking as they moved along. When she had started oiit she had been drunk with her own independence, and when any promenader had glanced her way she simply had not noticed it. But now, when, fear had her in its grip, menace- seemed to shine in the most casual glance. She could not know that her essential air of well-bfing, her clothes, her manner were all a protection, she looked what she was, a leisured young lady hurrying home from a quiet restaurant.

The theatres had just opened their doors, so that Roma found it impossible to get' a taxi . . . she stopped outside one of the big, glittering restaurants and caught the magnificently uniformed commissionaire by the arm. "Could you get me a taxi ?" she asked, desperately, in English. It seems absolutely impossible here." "A taxi? mademoiselle . . ." began the man—he was jusl; about to call one when a magnificent car drew up to the kerb . a ear that was somehow vaguely familiar to Roma. The commissionaire hesitated, his duty to his employers coming before politeness to any stray lady that demanded a taxi, and went to open the door of the car first. To Roma's sudden relief she recognised the solidly built figure in immaculate ..evening clothes as Randal .Tharke, her admirer of tlio train journey from Mont Allasso. Throwing discretion to tli'e winds she ran up and took his arm. "Oh, Mr. Tharke," she said pleadingly, "Please help me to get back to the hotel. I can't get a taxi anywhere." ba-coniinued Saturday next.)]