19

PAUL gazed after her and the rolls of fat over his collar grew the color of beetroot. Despite the sweetness of his nature, he would not have minded doing to Margot what she suggested doing to him. He wondered who her companion might be, and where Albinus was; he felt sure that that gentleman must be somewhere about, and the thought that the child might suddenly see him was intolerable. He was much relieved when the whistle blew and he could escape with Irma.

They reached home. She looked tired, and in response to her mother’s questions about the match only nodded, smiling that faint mysterious smile which was her most charming peculiarity.

“It’s amazing the way they dash about on the ice,” said Paul.

Elisabeth looked at him thoughtfully and then turned to her daughter. “Time for bed, time for bed,” she said.

“Oh, no,” entreated Irma sleepily.

“Goodness, it’s nearly midnight, you’ve never been up so late.”

“Tell me, Paul,” said Elisabeth, when Irma was safely tucked up, “I’ve a feeling that something happened. I was so restless while you were away. Paul, tell me!”

“But I’ve nothing to tell,” he said, growing very red in the face.

“You didn’t meet anyone?” she ventured. “You really didn’t?”

“What put such an idea into your head?” he muttered, thoroughly disconcerted by the almost telepathic sensibility which Elisabeth had developed since the separation from her husband.

“I’m always fearing it,” she whispered, slowly bending her head.

The next morning Elisabeth was roused by the nurse who came into the room with a thermometer in her hand.

“Irma’s ill, ma’am,” she said briskly. “Her temperature is up to a hundred and one.”

“A hundred and one,” echoed Elisabeth, and she suddenly thought: “That’s why I was so uneasy yesterday.”

She sprang out of bed and flew into the nursery. Irma was lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling with glistening eyes.

“A fisherman and a boat,” she said, pointing up at the ceiling on which the rays of the bedside lamp cast a sort of pattern. It was quite early and snowing.

“Does your throat hurt, my pet?” asked Elisabeth, still struggling with her dressing-gown. Then she bent anxiously over the child’s pointed little face.

“My God, how hot her forehead is!” she exclaimed, stroking back the fine pale hair from Irma’s brow.

“And one, two, three, four reeds,” said Irma softly, still looking up.

“We’d better ring up the doctor,” said Elisabeth.

“Oh, there’s no need for that, ma’am,” said the nurse. “I’ll give her some hot tea with lemon and a nice aspirin. Everybody’s got the ’flu now.”

Elisabeth knocked at Paul’s door. He was shaving and with the lather still on his cheeks he went to Irma’s room. Paul often cut himself when he shaved, even with the safety razor—and now a bright red patch was spreading through the froth on his chin.

“Strawberries and whipped cream,” said Irma softly as he bent over her.

The doctor arrived toward evening, seated himself on the edge of Irma’s bed and, with his eyes fixed on a corner of the room, began to count her pulse-beats. Irma gazed at the white hair in the cavity of his large complicated ear and at the W-shaped vein on his pink temple.

“Good,” said the doctor, looking at her over the rim of his spectacles. Then he told Irma to sit up and Elisabeth drew up the child’s nightdress. Irma’s body was very white and thin, with prominent shoulder blades. The doctor put his stethoscope to her back, breathing heavily, and told her to breathe too.

“Good,” he said again.

Then he tapped her on different parts of the chest and ploughed her stomach with icy-cold fingers. At last he stood up, patted her head, washed his hands, turned down his cuffs, and Elisabeth led him into the study, where he sat down comfortably, unscrewed his fountain pen and wrote out his prescriptions.

“Yes,” he said, “there’s a lot of influenza about. Yesterday a recital had to be canceled because the singer and her accompanist were both down with it.”

Next morning Irma’s temperature was considerably lower. Paul, on the other hand, was very seedy; he wheezed and kept blowing his nose but flatly refused to take to his bed and even went to his office as usual. The Fräulein, too, was sniffling.

That evening when Elisabeth drew out the warm glass tube from under her daughter’s arm, she was delighted to see that the mercury had hardly risen above the red fever line. Irma blinked, the light dazzled her; and presently she turned her face to the wall. The room grew dark again. All was warm, cosy and a little absurd. Soon Irma fell asleep, but she woke up in the middle of the night from a vaguely unpleasant dream. She was thirsty and she felt for the sticky glass of lemonade which was on the bed table, emptied it and carefully set it back again, smacking her lips gently.

The room seemed to her darker than usual. In the next room the nurse was snoring violently, almost ecstatically. Irma listened to her, and then she began to wait for the friendly rumble of the electric train which emerged from underground very near the house. But it did not come. Perhaps it was too late, and the trains had stopped running. Irma lay with wide-opened eyes. Suddenly she heard from the street a familiar whistle on four notes. That was exactly how her father whistled, when he used to come home—just to let them know that he would be with them in a moment and that supper could be served. Irma knew perfectly well that it was not he, but a man who had for the last fortnight been visiting the lady on the fourth floor—the porter’s little daughter had told her as much, and had put out her tongue when Irma observed, very reasonably, that it was stupid to come so late. She knew, too, that she must not talk about her father who was living with his little friend: this Irma had gathered from the conversation of two ladies who were walking downstairs in front of her.

The whistle beneath the window was repeated. Irma thought: “Who knows? Perhaps it is father after all? And no one will let him in; perhaps they told me on purpose that it was a strange man?”

She threw off the bedclothes and went on tiptoe to the window. As she did so, she knocked against a chair and something soft (her elephant) fell with a thud and a squeak; but Fräulein snored on unconcernedly. She opened the window and a delicious ice-cold gust of air entered the room. In the street, in darkness, somebody was standing, gazing up at the house. She looked down at him for quite a long time, but to her great disappointment it was not her father. The man stood and stood. Then he turned round and walked away slowly. Irma felt sorry for him. She was so numb with cold that she could scarcely shut the window, and could not get warm again when she went back to her bed. At length she fell asleep and dreamed that she was playing hockey with her father. He laughed, slipped and fell on his bottom, losing his top hat, and she bumped down too. The ice was awful, but she could not get up and her hockey stick walked away like a looping caterpillar.

The next morning her temperature was up to a hundred and four, her face livid, and she complained of a pain in her side. The doctor was summoned immediately.

The patient’s pulse was a hundred and twenty, the chest over the seat of the pain was dull on percussion and the stethoscope revealed fine crepitation. He ordered blistering, phenacetin and a soothing medicine. Elisabeth felt suddenly that she would go out of her mind, that, after all that had happened, fate simply had not the right to torture her like this. With a great effort she pulled herself together as she said good-by to the doctor. Before leaving he had a look at the nurse, who was in a high fever, but in the case of this vigorous woman there was no cause for alarm.

Paul accompanied him to the hall and asked in a hoarse voice—he was trying to whisper through his cold—whether there was any danger.

“I’ll look in again today,” answered the doctor slowly.

“Always the same,” thought old Lampert, as he went downstairs. “Always the same questions, the same imploring glances.” He consulted his notebook and slipped behind the steering wheel of his car, slamming the door as he did so. Five minutes later he was entering another house.

Albinus received him in the silk-braided warm jacket which he put on when at work in his study.

“She hasn’t been feeling very well since yesterday,” he said worriedly. “She complains that she aches all over.”

“Temperature?” asked Lampert, wondering whether he should tell this anxious lover that his daughter had pneumonia.

“No, that’s just it: she doesn’t seem to have a temperature,” said Albinus in a tone of alarm. “And I was told that influenza without feverish symptoms is particularly dangerous.”

(“Why should I tell him?” thought Lampert. “He deserted his family without a qualm. They’ll tell him themselves if they want to. Why should I interfere?”)

“Well,” said Lampert with a sigh, “let’s have a look at our charming invalid.”

Margot was lying on the sofa, cross and flushed, enveloped in a silk wrapper with a great deal of lace. Beside her sat Rex with his legs crossed, sketching her lovely head on the bottom of a cigarette box.

(“A lovely creature, unquestionably,” thought Lampert, “but there is something snakelike about her.”)

Rex retired into the next room, whistling. Albinus hovered close at hand. Lampert proceeded to examine the patient. A slight chill, that was all.

“You’d better stay indoors for two or three days,” said Lampert. “How’s the film going, by the way? Finished?”

“Yes, thank God,” answered Margot, drawing her wrap round her languidly. “And next month there’s to be a private view of it. I must be well by that time, whatever happens.”

(“And moreover,” reflected Lampert irrelevantly, “this little slut is going to be the ruin of him.”)

When the doctor had gone, Rex returned to Margot’s side and went on sketching idly, whistling through his teeth all the time. For some moments Albinus stood near him, his head cocked, following the rhythmic movements of that bony white hand. Then he went off to his study to finish an article about a much-discussed exhibition.

“Rather nice, being the friend of the house,” said Rex with a snort of laughter.

Margot looked at him and said angrily:

“Yes, I do love you, ugly—but there’s nothing doing, you know that yourself.”

He twisted the cigarette box round and then sent it spinning onto the table.

“Listen, my dear, you’ve got to come to me some day, that’s plain. My visits here are very exhilarating, of course, and all that, but I’m getting sick of this kind of fun.”

“In the first place—please don’t shout. You won’t be satisfied until we’ve done something idiotically rash. At the least provocation, at the least suspicion, he’ll kill me or turn me out of the house, and we shall neither of us have a penny.”

“Kill you,” chuckled Rex, “that’s rich.”

“Do, please, wait a little. Don’t you understand? Once he has married me, I shall be less nervous and freer to act as I choose. A wife can’t be got rid of so easily. Besides, there’s the film. I’ve all sorts of plans.”

“The film,” laughed Rex again.

“Yes, you’ll see. I’m certain it’s going to be a great hit. We must wait. I’m just as impatient as you are, my love.”

He seated himself on the edge of her sofa and laid his arm round her shoulder.

“No, no,” she said, shivering and half-closing her eyes already.

“Just one tiny little kiss.”

“Very tiny,” she said in a smothered voice.

He bent over her, but suddenly a door clicked in the distance and they heard Albinus approaching: carpet, floor, carpet, floor again.

Rex was about to raise himself, but at the same moment he noticed that a button of his coat was caught in the lace on Margot’s shoulder. Margot tried to disentangle it swiftly. Rex tugged, but the lace refused to give way. Margot grunted in dismay, as she pulled at the knot with her sharp shiny nails. At that moment Albinus swept into the room.

“No, I’m not embracing Fräulein Peters,” said Rex coolly. “I was only making her comfortable and got entangled, you see.”

Margot was still worrying the lace without raising her lashes. The situation was farcical in the extreme and Rex was enjoying it hugely.

Albinus silently drew out a fat penknife with a dozen blades and opened what turned out to be a small file. He tried again and broke his nail. The burlesque was developing nicely.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t stab her,” said Rex ecstatically.

“Hands off,” said Albinus—but Margot screamed:

“Don’t you dare cut the lace; cut off the button!”

“Stop—it’s my button!” yelled Rex.

For a moment it looked as if both men were falling on top of her. Rex gave a final tug, something snapped, and he was free.

“Come to my study,” said Albinus to him darkly.

“Now let’s be smart,” thought Rex; and he recalled a dodge which had helped him once before to fool a rival.

“Please, sit down,” said Albinus with a heavy frown. “What I want to tell you is rather important. It’s about this White Raven exhibition. I was wondering whether you’d care to help me. You see, I’m just finishing a rather involved and—well—subtle article, and several exhibitors are receiving rather rough treatment at my hands.”

(“Oho!” thought Rex. “So that’s why you looked so lugubrious. Gloom of the learned mind? Throes of inspiration? Gorgeous.”)

“Now, what I’d like you to do,” Albinus went on, “is to illustrate my article by throwing in little caricatures—stressing the things I criticize, lampooning both color and line—as you once did with Barcelo.”

“I’m your man,” said Rex. “But I, too, have a little request. You know what I mean—expecting various fees and being rather short of ready money. Could you make me an advance? Just a trifle—five hundred marks, shall we say.”

“Why, of course. More, if you like. Anyway, you must fix the fee for the drawings.”

“Is this a catalogue?” asked Rex. “May I have a look at it? Girls, girls, girls,” he continued with marked disgust, as he considered the reproductions. “Square girls, slanting girls, girls with elephantiasis …”

“And why, pray,” asked Albinus slyly, “do girls bore you so?”

Rex explained quite frankly.

“Well, that’s only a matter of taste, I suppose,” said Albinus, who prided himself on his broad-mindedness. “Of course, I don’t condemn you. It’s a thing widely spread, I believe, among men of artistic temperament. In a shopkeeper, it would repel me, but in a painter, it’s quite different—quite likeable, in fact, and romantic—romance coming from Rome. Nevertheless,” he added, “I can assure you that you lose a great deal.”

“No, thank you. A woman for me is only a harmless mammal, or a jolly companion—sometimes.”

Albinus laughed. “Well, as you are so outspoken about it, let me, in my turn, confess something to you. That actress woman, Karenina, said as soon as she saw you that she was sure you were indifferent to the gentler sex.”

(“Oh, did she?” thought Rex.)