The Spenders Part 25

Hemmed in the corner by this board and by the gas-range, seated at a table covered by the oilcloth that simulates the marble of Italy's most famous quarry, sat, undoubtedly, the Baron Ronault de Palliac. A steaming plate of spaghetti _a la Italien_ was before him, to his left a large bowl of salad, to his right a bottle of red wine.

For a s.p.a.ce of three seconds the entire party behaved as if it were being photographed under time-exposure. Philippe and the baby stared, motionless. Celine stared, resting no slight weight on the hot flat-iron. The Baron Ronault de Palliac stared, his fork poised in mid-air and festooned with gay little streamers of spaghetti.

Then came smoke, the smell of scorching linen, and a cry of horror from Celine.

"_Ah, la seule chemise blanche de Monsieur le Baron!_"

The spell was broken. Philippe was on his feet, bowing effusively.

"Ah! it is Madame Bines. _Je suis tres honore_--I am very honoured to welcome you, madame. It is madame, _ma femme_, Celine,--and--Monsieur le Baron de Palliac--"

Philippe had turned with evident distress toward the latter. But Philippe was only a waiter, and had not behind him the centuries of schooling that enable a gentleman to remain a gentleman under adverse conditions.

The Baron Ronault de Palliac arose with unruffled aplomb and favoured the caller with his stateliest bow. He was at the moment a graceful and silencing rebuke to those who aver that manner and attire be interdependent. The baron's manner was ideal, undiminished in volume, faultless as to decorative qualities. One fitted to savour its exquisite finish would scarce have noted that above his waist the n.o.ble gentleman was clad in a single woollen undergarment of revolutionary red.

Or, if such a one had observed this trifling circ.u.mstance, he would, a.s.suredly, have treated it as of no value to the moment; something to note, perhaps, and then gracefully to forget.

The baron's own behaviour would have served as a model. One swift glance had shown him there was no way of instant retreat. That being impossible, none other was graceful; hence none other was to be considered. He permitted himself not even a glance at the s.h.i.+rt upon whose fair, defenceless bosom the iron of the overcome Celine had burned its cruel brown imprimature. Mrs. Bines had greeted him as he would have wished, unconscious, apparently, that there could be cause for embarra.s.sment.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE SPELL WAS BROKEN."]

"Ah! madame," he said, handsomely, "you see me, I unfast with the fork.

You see me here, I have envy of the simple life. I am content of to do it--_comme ca_--as that, see you," waving in the direction of his unfinished repast. "All that magnificence of your grand hotel, there is not the why of it, the most big of the world, and suchly stupefying, with its 'infernil rackit' as you say. And of more--what droll of idea, enough curious, by example! to dwell with the good Philippe and his _femme aimable_. Their hotel is of the most littles, but I rest here very volunteerly since longtime. Is it that one can to comprehend liking the vast hotel American?"

"Monsieur le Baron lodges with us; we have so much of the chambers,"

ventured Celine.

"Monsieur le Baron wishes to retire to his apartment," said Philippe, raising the ironing-board. "Will madame be so good to enter our _pet.i.t salon_ at the front, _n'est-ce-pas?_"

The baron stepped forth from his corner and bowed himself graciously out.

"Madame, my compliments--and to the adorable Mademoiselle Bines! _Au revoir_, madame--to the soontime--_avant peu_--before little!"

On the farther side of his closed door the Baron Ronault de Palliac swore--once. But the oath was one of the most awful that a Frenchman may utter in his native tongue: "Sacred Name of a Name!"

"But the baron wasn't done eating," protested Mrs. Bines.

"Ah, yes, madame!" replied Philippe. "Monsieur le Baron has consumed enough for now. _Paul, mon enfant, ne touche pas la robe de madame!_ He is large, is he not, madame, as I have told you? A monster, yes?"

Mrs. Bines, stooping, took the limp and wide-eyed Paul up in her arms.

Whereupon he began to talk so fast to her in French that she set him quickly down again, with the slightly helpless air of one who has picked up an innocent-looking clock only to have the clanging alarm go suddenly off.

"Madame will honour our little salon," urged Philippe, opening the door and bowing low.

"_Quel dommage!_" sighed Celine, moving after them; "_la seule chemise blanche de Monsieur le Baron. Eh bien! il faut lui en acheter une autre!_"

At dinner that evening Mrs. Bines related her adventure, to the unfeigned delight of her graceless son, and to the somewhat troubled amazement of her daughter.

"And, do you know," she ventured, "maybe he isn't a regular baron, after all!"

"Oh, I guess he's a regular one all right," said Percival; "only perhaps he hasn't worked at it much lately."

"But his sitting there eating in that--that s.h.i.+rt--" said his sister.

"My dear young woman, even the n.o.bility are prey to climatic rigours; they are obliged, like the wretched low-born such as ourselves, to wear--pardon me--undergarments. Again, I understand from Mrs.

Cadwallader here that the article in question was satisfactory and fit--red, I believe you say, Mrs. Terwilliger?"

"Awful red!" replied his mother--"and they call their parlour a saloon."

"And of necessity, even the n.o.ble have their moments of _deshabille_."

"They needn't eat their lunch that way," declared his sister.

"Is _deshabille_ French for underclothes?" asked Mrs. Bines, struck by the word.

"Partly," answered her son.

"And the way that child of Philippe's jabbered French! It's wonderful how they can learn so young."

"They begin early, you know," Percival explained. "And as to our friend the baron, I'm ready to make book that sis doesn't see him again, except at a distance."

Sometime afterwards he computed the round sum he might have won if any such bets had been made; for his sister's list of suitors, to adopt his own lucent phrase, was thereafter "shy a baron."

CHAPTER XXIII.

The Summer Campaign Is Planned

Winter waned and spring charmed the land into blossom. The city-pent, as we have intimated, must take this season largely on faith. If one can find a patch of ground naked of stone or asphalt one may feel the heart of the earth beat. But even now the shop-windows are more inspiring. At least they copy the outer show. Tender-hued s.h.i.+rt-waists first push up their sprouts of arms through the winter furs and woollens, quite as the first violets out in the woodland thrust themselves up through the brown carpet of leaves. Then every window becomes a summery glade of lawn, tulle, and chiffon, more lavish of tints, shades, and combinations, indeed, than ever nature dared to be.

Outside, where the unspoiled earth begins, the blossoms are clouding the trees with a mist of pink and white, and the city-dweller knows it from the bloom and foliage of these same windows.

Then it is that the spring "get away" urge is felt by each prisoner, by those able to obey it, and by those, alike, who must wear it down in the groomed and sophisticated wildness of the city parks.

On a morning late in May Mrs. Bines and her daughter were at breakfast.

"Isn't Percival coming?" asked his mother. "Everything will be cold."

"Can't say," Psyche answered. "I don't even know if he came in last night. But don't worry about cold things. You can't get them too cold for Perce at breakfast, nowadays. He takes a lot of ice-water and a little something out of the decanter, and maybe some black coffee."

"Yes, and I'm sure it's bad for him. He doesn't look a bit healthy and hasn't since he quit eating breakfast. He used to be such a hearty eater at breakfast, steaks and bacon and chops and eggs and waffles. It was a sight to see him eat; and since he's quit taking anything but that cold stuff he's lost his colour and his eyes don't look right. I know what he's got hold of--it's that 'no-breakfast' fad. I heard about it from Mrs. Balldridge when we came here last fall. I never did believe in it, either."

The object of her solicitude entered in dressing-gown and slippers.

"I'm just telling Psyche that this no-breakfast fad is hurting your health, my son. Now do come and eat like you used to. You began to look bad as soon as you left off your breakfast. It's a silly fad, that's what it is. You can't tell _me!_"