He Who Fights

Manawatu Times, Volume LIV, Issue 6622, 7 August 1931, Page 5

He Who Fights

CHAPTER I. The Boa Constrictor’s Dsn. The rumble of a passing motor-lorry converted into insignificance lire slight creak ol' the uplifted floor-board. That was within the calculation of the precise, angular, unemotional old lady whose hand was upon it. She had made persistent attempts at various times to remove the cause of the creak, but without success. She was a person who owed such success as had befallen her lot in life mainly, ir not solely, to the existence of that quality in her which made her difficult to circumvent. Great as was her husband’s admiration for some parts of her character, her domestic economy and shredwness in all the normal affairs of daily existence, for example, he had no extensive love for her acquisitiveness. It was harmless, lie was sure; on occasion it had even proved of value; but it was not under his control, lie was unable to set definite bounds to it and be the .judge of what it should cover and what it should leave alone. Therefore lie feared it. His fear was for himself, both directly and indirectly—directly because it is a matter of serious concern to any man to have his wife possessed of greater knowledge of his affairs than he has decided to share with her; that gives her an undesirable superiority at once; indirectly because his affairs had not been his concern alone, and his wife's myslerious intimacy with them had tended always to plr f ce him under suspicion with his colleagues. For that in itself he cared little; with the principle he was obliged to feel in agreement. A week previously she had become convinced that he was up to something that he was desirous of keeping from her. His carelessness of manner was admirably done, but even so it was not merely a failure, but worse—a pointer in exactly tire opposite direction to that intended. It is difficult to deceive a shrewd, old wife of nearly forty years’ standing; the attempt is never free from risk. In this case all his efforts only resulted, in the redoubling of her vigilance. She asked no questions: that was not her way. If something were not volunteered to her, so she argued within herself, that was by intention, not Ly inadvertence. Questioning would not only show that her curiosity was aroused; it would also lead to evasions, if not downright lies. . They were sometimes necessary, of course, but, like everything else in this world, were to be used with strict regard to economy; they were in the armoury of the mind for emergencies, and only the fool paraded them needlessly. Madame Anatole was averse to giving herself the pain of hearing her husband lie to her without avail: the whole success of her married life had been built up upon that principle. She knew well enough that Pierre would have felt at ease immediately if she had stooped to asking him questions, and a husband at ease was not her ideal of conjugal felicity. She had listened, therefore, to his random talk in silence, even with a supercilious air of indifference, and, was filled with satisfaction at the success of her tactics. Pierre was troubled; there could be no doubt at all; not with the plan that he was maturing, whatever tha>, might be—however timid domestically, he was bold to rashness in all outside matters, as she had often occasion to discover and to reprehend—but with the consciousness that, did she know of the plan, she would not approve it. He had increased his carelessness of manner; she had intersifled her vigilance. It had been a week characteristic of many in their lives, the prelude to some activity temporarily concealed from her.

At the approach of the hour which would in some measure resolve the tension, Madame Anatole could afford herself the satisfaction of an internal chuckle; Pierre was so obviously desirous to be rid of her, so patently anxious to conceal that desire. He was a good man, was Pierre —with his violence to others she was unconcerned; he had learned better than to be violent to her. Had he not Riore than once owed success to her from whom, if he could, he would have withheld all information? It was the usual hour for her marketing, as Pierre knew'. Never, as far as he knew’, had she varied or omitted it. She had devoted much time and care oyer many years to fostering that implicit belief in his brain. He had watched her start, her heavy basket on her arm, with a conjugal solicitude that by itself was sufficient to have betrayed him to her. “She’s suspicious,” he muttered to himself, “but she always is. What matters it? She’s out of the way now’. She would plague me with all her little devilries, to stop me if she knew, and it is not in my mind to be stopped; no.”

With that he turned and sauntered back into the house, and, once inside, went briskly to his den, a frowsy, airless, little room behind the bar, and began with an air of preoccupation to straighten the chairs and sot out tho absinthe and glasses for his expected companions. He was a tall, looselimbed, heavy man, of about 60 years of age, well-preserved and with great moustachios, of which he was inordinately proud, lending an air of distinction to a face in all other respects undeniably lacking in attraction. Apart from his moustachios he was chiefly remarkable for the length of his arms and the pair of unusually large and powerful hands at the end of them, ilis eyes were small arjd rather close together, and they had a curious trick of narrowing themselves to slits in moments of anger or emotion, changing his whole appearance to one of latent ferocity. But at the moment they looked out self-complacently from his round face, and he seemed to be, as his setting declared him, a fairly typical innkeeper with a small, yet prosperous, business, cunning and perhaps not yet respectable enough, an item of no particular importance in the great life of the world, but nevertheless of some not-to-be-despised influence in the little corner of Paris' where he lived and was known. He had hardly finished his simple preparations when, with an air of familiarity with their

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surroundings, three rather overdressed men Jounged in, one after another at short intervals, and after casual greetings drew up chairs, mixed llieir drinks, and so soon as all were assembled began to talk together and with him in low tones. Madame Anatole, a little out of breath, took her place in the little room above, and composedly drew out of her marketing basket the knitting she had concealed in it. Then she sat down with circumspection on the floor, raised one of the floor-boards as a lorrv lumbered by, and was divided from her husband and his associates by only a thin partition, through whoa the conversation was perfectly audible to her acute ears. After an intervaj, during which it seemed as though the men beneath her were concentrated upon liquid meditation, her husband’s deep voice camo to her again.

“So there it is. Ah, Grcgoire, he is what you call the scoundrel, tor myself I care nothing. I lot him go. But for my little blossom, my Antoinette, I care much; and I say, no. It is not right, and I, Pierre Anatole, will tell him so.” The little blossom in the room above was insensible, it appeared, to this expression of generous devotion. The self-applauding smile faded from her thin lips; she nodded her head slowly, but in acknowledgement of the intention announced by her husband, not of the complimentary motive by which it was supported, and a sardonic twist of her mouth explained the process of her thought to the emptiness of the room. “That is well, then,” drifted up to her after a pause; the laconic comment of one of her husband’s companions. “It is very well,’" asserted Pierre, with a certain sinister emphasis at variance with the words* “You do not like it, no? Well, that is all one to me. You should have told me in that case, but I should have found it out all the same. I am good-natured, as you know, but I do not like little tricks of that kind. I wait and watch, and 1 ” “Now, Pierre,” broke in another of the men uncomfortably, "go easy. Gregoiro has a vvay of his own, and “it is not my way,” Interrupted Pierre with cold decision. “1 do not understand that way. He is with us; we trust him, and then one fine day we wake up and are the fools, and he is laughing to himself. I will have a little laugh with him. Is that not so?” “As you like,” said the first who had spoken. “1 wash my hands of it, that's all.”

“Y’ou are a great cow'ard, Paul Tomboillet 1” exclaimed Pierre with the calmness of concentrated anger. “Y'ou will not help me, eh?” “Coward!” reiterated the other with a deep oath. There was the sound of a chair being hastily pushed back as though a man had risen in wrath. “Hold, hold!” exclaimed the third man. “Let us not quarrel, my chickens. Pierre is right and Paul is right.”

“How so?” demanded both. “This is Pierre’s affair—at least, he lias the mind that it is,” explained the mediator suavely. “Go and have your laugh with Gregoire, Pierre. It is your wish; you have said so; and, as for me, I will m\t risk having my neck twisted by those big Angers of yours through trying to stop you. When did anyone stop you when you had a mind ■to laugh? But Paul, he is solemn, he is; he does not want to laugh, nor I, nor Jaques. We are not laughers like yoji. Go and laugh by yourself.” There was a murmur of acclamation; then a brief silence fell. It seemed as though all parties were taking slock of the situation and of one another. It was evident that Pierre was in a minority of one; equally evident, a moment later, that this fact stimulated rather than deterred him. His voice rose to the listener in high indignation and resolve. “Sol I se.e. I am not blind; I have the eyes, have I? Very well. 1 am Pierre Anatole, am I not? That is no! the name of a poor little rat, is it? You shall see, too. ■ I have decided.” “What have you decided, Pierre?” inquired Jaques ingratiatingly. “I know you are not called the boa-con-strictor for nothing, but Gregoire ” “Poof I Gregoire I I snap my fingers at him 1 Is he to play with me, Pierre? I will have with him the little argument, that is all.” “I suppose Madame’s at the bottom of it,” interjected Paul sourly. “Madame, my little blossom, she knows nothing,” corrected Pierre with hauteur. “You think ine a fool indeed jf you think I tell her anything. She is adorable, she is my wife, but she is of the very devil. I say so and I know. Thirty-nine years has she been trying to discover what goes on in this brain of mine. But no, I tell her nothing, nothing at all. And she ask no questions. I have given her the education.” The sardonic twist on Madame Anatole’s mouth deepened. Pierre would have occasion deeply to rue an offence of which he would remain wholly in ignorance. Madame registered it as one that called for prolonged expiation. “Have you told anyone?” lazily inquired the third man, who had intervened at mediator earlier. “Sacre nom d’un chlen. Ho; I work alone.” “So.” “Yes, I tell you; I work not with you any more, or anyone. I am for myself, since I alone have courage. I do what I do—alone.” “Good. That is understood, then. We will not interfere.” “Interfere 1 Fich me bien la paix!” The argot came out with a terrifying hiss of wrathful indignation. “So, so,” repeated his companion unemotionally. “We leave you to it. Bon voyage, eh, my friends?’” There was a snigger, followed by a shuffling of feet. “That is all, then. I will go out first,” announced Pierre. “We do not want any little weasel poking about. Follow me in a minute if I make no sign. Do not be long, and”—here his deep voice vibrated with the intensity of the passion he had kept in partial control—“do not come backt” (To bo aonUauco.)