confide to Sarah. Sarah looked up and smiled: ‘Good morning, good morning,’ she said.
Mathieu returned her smile: he looked down upon that flat, ill-favoured countenance, marred by much benevolence, and beneath it, the large slack breasts, half-emerging from the kimono. And he hurried down.
‘What good wind brings you here?’ asked Sarah.
‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ said Mathieu.
Sarah’s face flushed greedily, ‘Anything you like,’ she said. And she added, gleefully: ‘See who is here!’
Mathieu turned to Brunet and shook his hand. Sarah sat looking at them with a brooding, sentimental eye.
‘How are you, my old Social-traitor?’ said Brunet.
Mathieu was glad to hear that voice. Brunet was vast and solid, with a slow, bucolic face. He did not look particularly amiable.
‘How are you?’ said Mathieu. ‘I thought you were dead.’
Brunet laughed, but did not reply.
‘Sit down here beside me,’ said Sarah eagerly. She was going to do him a service, she knew that: for the moment, he was her property. Mathieu sat down. Little Pablo was playing with building blocks under the table.
‘And Gomez?’ asked Mathieu.
‘Just the same as usual. He’s at Barcelona,’ said Sarah.
‘Have you had any news of him?’
‘Last week. A full account of his exploits,’ said Sarah ironically.
Brunei’s eyes gleamed.
‘You know he’s a Colonel now?’
Colonel. Mathieu thought of the man of yesterday, and his heart contracted. Gomez had actually gone. One day he had read of the fall of Irun, in Paris Soir . He had paced up and down the studio for a long while, running his fingers through his black hair. And then he went out, bare-headed and without an overcoat, as though he were going to buy cigarettes at the Dôme: and he had not returned. The room had remained exactly as he had left it: an unfinished canvas, a half-cut copperplate on the table, among phials of acid. The picture and the etching were of Mrs Stimson. In the picture she was naked. Mathieu saw her in his mind’s eyes, resplendently tipsy on Gomez’s arm and singing raucously. And he thought: ‘He was a beast to Sarah all the same.’
‘Did the Minister let you in?’ asked Sarah gaily.
She did not want to talk about Gomez. She had forgiven him everything, his treacheries, escapades, and cruelty. But not that. Not his departure to Spain: he had gone away to kill men: he had killed men by now. For Sarah, human life was sacred.
‘What Minister?’ asked Mathieu in astonishment.
‘The little red-eared mouse is a Minister,’ said Sarah with naïve pride. ‘He was a member of the Socialist Government in Munich in ’22. At present he is down and out’
‘And you rescued him, of course.’
Sarah began to laugh.
‘He came along here with his suitcase. No; seriously,’ said she, ‘He has nowhere else to go. He was turned out of his hotel because he couldn’t pay the bill.’
Mathieu reckoned on his fingers: ‘Annia, Lopez, and Santi, that makes four pensioners for you,’ said he.
‘Annia is leaving soon,’ said Sarah, with an apologetic air. ‘She’s got a job.’
‘It’s ridiculous,’ said Brunet.
Mathieu started, and turned towards him. Brunet’s indignation was ponderous and placid; he eyed Sarah with his most bucolic air and repeated: ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘What? What is ridiculous?’
‘Ah,’ said Sarah briskly laying her hand on Mathieu’s arm. ‘You must stand by me, my dear Mathieu!’
‘But what’s the trouble?’
‘It doesn’t concern Mathieu,’ said Brunet to Sarah, with a look of annoyance.
She was no longer listening.
‘He wants me to turn my Minister out,’ she said pathetically.
‘Turn him out?’
‘He says it’s criminal of me to keep him.’
‘Sarah exaggerates,’ said Brunet mildly.
He turned to Mathieu and explained with something of an effort. ‘The fact is that we have had disquieting reports about the fellow. It seems that six months ago he was to
Mathieu returned her smile: he looked down upon that flat, ill-favoured countenance, marred by much benevolence, and beneath it, the large slack breasts, half-emerging from the kimono. And he hurried down.
‘What good wind brings you here?’ asked Sarah.
‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ said Mathieu.
Sarah’s face flushed greedily, ‘Anything you like,’ she said. And she added, gleefully: ‘See who is here!’
Mathieu turned to Brunet and shook his hand. Sarah sat looking at them with a brooding, sentimental eye.
‘How are you, my old Social-traitor?’ said Brunet.
Mathieu was glad to hear that voice. Brunet was vast and solid, with a slow, bucolic face. He did not look particularly amiable.
‘How are you?’ said Mathieu. ‘I thought you were dead.’
Brunet laughed, but did not reply.
‘Sit down here beside me,’ said Sarah eagerly. She was going to do him a service, she knew that: for the moment, he was her property. Mathieu sat down. Little Pablo was playing with building blocks under the table.
‘And Gomez?’ asked Mathieu.
‘Just the same as usual. He’s at Barcelona,’ said Sarah.
‘Have you had any news of him?’
‘Last week. A full account of his exploits,’ said Sarah ironically.
Brunei’s eyes gleamed.
‘You know he’s a Colonel now?’
Colonel. Mathieu thought of the man of yesterday, and his heart contracted. Gomez had actually gone. One day he had read of the fall of Irun, in Paris Soir . He had paced up and down the studio for a long while, running his fingers through his black hair. And then he went out, bare-headed and without an overcoat, as though he were going to buy cigarettes at the Dôme: and he had not returned. The room had remained exactly as he had left it: an unfinished canvas, a half-cut copperplate on the table, among phials of acid. The picture and the etching were of Mrs Stimson. In the picture she was naked. Mathieu saw her in his mind’s eyes, resplendently tipsy on Gomez’s arm and singing raucously. And he thought: ‘He was a beast to Sarah all the same.’
‘Did the Minister let you in?’ asked Sarah gaily.
She did not want to talk about Gomez. She had forgiven him everything, his treacheries, escapades, and cruelty. But not that. Not his departure to Spain: he had gone away to kill men: he had killed men by now. For Sarah, human life was sacred.
‘What Minister?’ asked Mathieu in astonishment.
‘The little red-eared mouse is a Minister,’ said Sarah with naïve pride. ‘He was a member of the Socialist Government in Munich in ’22. At present he is down and out’
‘And you rescued him, of course.’
Sarah began to laugh.
‘He came along here with his suitcase. No; seriously,’ said she, ‘He has nowhere else to go. He was turned out of his hotel because he couldn’t pay the bill.’
Mathieu reckoned on his fingers: ‘Annia, Lopez, and Santi, that makes four pensioners for you,’ said he.
‘Annia is leaving soon,’ said Sarah, with an apologetic air. ‘She’s got a job.’
‘It’s ridiculous,’ said Brunet.
Mathieu started, and turned towards him. Brunet’s indignation was ponderous and placid; he eyed Sarah with his most bucolic air and repeated: ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘What? What is ridiculous?’
‘Ah,’ said Sarah briskly laying her hand on Mathieu’s arm. ‘You must stand by me, my dear Mathieu!’
‘But what’s the trouble?’
‘It doesn’t concern Mathieu,’ said Brunet to Sarah, with a look of annoyance.
She was no longer listening.
‘He wants me to turn my Minister out,’ she said pathetically.
‘Turn him out?’
‘He says it’s criminal of me to keep him.’
‘Sarah exaggerates,’ said Brunet mildly.
He turned to Mathieu and explained with something of an effort. ‘The fact is that we have had disquieting reports about the fellow. It seems that six months ago he was to
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