It put the cover upon it. No, that is not the phrase. The lid. It put the lid upon it. All my smothered 'atred of the animal burst forth. I could no longer conceal my 'atred.
I rose. I was terrible. I seized 'im by the tail. I flung him-I did not know where. I did not care. Not then. Afterwards, yes, but not then.
Your Longfellow has a poem. 'I shot an arrow into the air. It fell to earth, I know not where.' And then he has found it. The arrow in the 'eart of a friend. Am I right? Also was that the tragedy with me. I flung the cat Alexander. My uncle, on whom I am dependent, is passing at the moment. He has received the cat in the middle of his face.
My companion, with the artist's instinct for the 'curtain,' paused. He looked round the brightly-lit restaurant. From every side arose the clatter of knife and fork, and the clear, sharp note of those who drank soup. In a distant corner a small waiter with a large voice was calling the cook names through the speaking- tube. It was a cheerful scene, but it brought no cheer to my companion. He sighed heavily and resumed.
I 'urry over that painful scene. There is blooming row. My uncle is 'to-tempered man. The cat is 'eavy cat. I 'ave thrown 'im very hard, for my nerves and my toothache and my 'atred 'ave given me the giant's strength. Alone is this enough to enrage my 'ot-tempered uncle. I am there in his hotel, you will understand, as cashier, not as cat- thrower. And now, besides all this, I have insulted valuable patron. She 'ave left the hotel that day.
There are no doubts in my mind as to the outcome. With certainty I await my conge. And after painful scene I get it. I am to go. At once. He 'ave assured the angry American woman that I go at once.
He has called me into his private office. 'Jean,' he has said to me, at the end of other things, 'you are a fool, dolt, no-good imbecile. I give you good place in my hotel, and you spend your time flinging cats. I will 'ave no more of you. But even now I cannot forget that you are my dear brother's child. I will now give you one thousand francs and never see you again.'
I have thanked him, for to me it is wealth. Not before have I ever had one thousand francs of my own. I go out of the hotel. I go to a cafe and order a bock. I smoke a cigarette. It is necessary that I think out plans. Shall I with my one thousand francs rent a studio in the Quarter and commence my life as artist? No. I have still the genius, the ent'usiasm, but I have not the training. To train myself to paint pictures I must study long, and even one thousand francs will not last for ever. Then what shall I do? I do not know. I order one other bock, and smoke more cigarettes, but still I do not know.
And then I say to myself, 'I will go back to my uncle, and plead with him. I will seize favourable opportunity. I will approach him after dinner when he is in good temper. But for that I must be close at hand. I must be-what's your expression?-'Johnny-on-the-spot.' '
My mind is made up. I have my plan.
I have gone back to my uncle's hotel, and I have engaged not too expensive bedroom. My uncle does not know. He still is in his private office. I secure my room.
I dine cheaply that night, but I go to theatre and also to supper after the theatre, for have I not my thousand francs? It is late when I reach my bedroom.
I go to bed. I go to sleep.
But I do not sleep long. I am awakened by a voice.
It is a voice that says, 'Move and I shoot! Move and I shoot!' I lie still. I do not move. I am courageous, but I am unarmed.
And the voice says again, 'Move and I shoot!' Is it robbers? Is it some marauder who has made his way to my room to plunder me?
I do not know. Per'aps I think yes.
'Who are you?' I have asked.
There is no answer.
I take my courage in my 'ands. I leap from my bed. I dash for the door. No pistol has been fire. I have reached the passage, and have shouted for assistance.
Hotel officials run up. Doors open. 'What is it?' voices cry.
'There is in my room an armed robber,' I assure them.
And then I have found-no, I am mistaken. My door, you will understand, is open. And as I have said these words, a large green parrot comes 'opping out. My assassin is nothing but a green parrot.
'Move and I shoot!' it has said to those gathered in the corridor. It then has bitten me in the 'and and passed on.
I am chagrined, monsieur. But only for a moment. Then I forget my chagrin. For a voice from a door that 'as opened says with joy, 'It is my Polly, which I 'ave this evening lost!'
I turn. I gasp for admiration. It is a beautiful lady in a pink dressing-gown which 'ave spoken these words.
She has looked at me. I 'ave looked at her. I forget everything but that she is adorable. I forget those who stand by. I forget that the parrot has bitten me in the 'and. I forget even that I am standing there in pyjamas, with on my feet nothing. I can only gaze at her and worship.
I have found words.
Mademoiselle,' I have said, 'I am rejoiced that I have been the means of restoring to you your bird.'
She has thanked me with her eyes, and then with words also. I am bewitched. She is divine. I care not that my feet are cold. I could wish to stand there talking all night.
She has given a cry of dismay.
'Your 'and! It is wounded!'
I look at my 'and. Yes, it is bleeding, where the bird 'ave bitten it.
