Somerset maughan

Mais si, je vous aime, Monsieur Warren,
' she cried, laughing, '
Je vous 
aime tous, tous.
' 
She ran downstairs, amid the shouts of men and women, to give her 
orders. 
'The other day the Chien Noir was the scene of a tragedy,' said 
Susie. 'Marie broke off relations with her lover, who is a waiter at 
Lavenue's, and would have no reconciliation. He waited till he had a 
free evening, and then came to the room downstairs and ordered 
dinner. Of course, she was obliged to wait on him, and as she 
brought him each dish he expostulated with her, and they mingled 
their tears.' 
'She wept in floods,' interrupted a youth with neatly brushed hair 
and fat nose. 'She wept all over our food, and we ate it salt with 
tears. We besought her not to yield; except for our encouragement 
she would have gone back to him; and he beats her.' 

---

Marie appeared again, with no signs now that so short a while ago 
romance had played a game with her, and brought the dishes that 
had been ordered. Susie seized once more upon Arthur Burdon's 
attention. 
'Now please look at the man who is sitting next to Mr Warren.' 
Arthur saw a tall, dark fellow with strongly-marked features, untidy 
hair, and a ragged black moustache. 
'That is Mr O'Brien, who is an example of the fact that strength of 
will and an earnest purpose cannot make a painter. He's a failure, 
and he knows it, and the bitterness has warped his soul. If you listen 
to him, you'll hear every painter of eminence come under his lash. 
He can forgive nobody who's successful, and he never 
acknowledges merit in anyone till he's safely dead and buried.' 
'He must be a cheerful companion,' answered Arthur. 'And who is 
the stout old lady by his side, with the flaunting hat?' 
'That is the mother of Madame Rouge, the little palefaced woman 
sitting next to her. She is the mistress of Rouge, who does all the 
illustrations for 
La Semaine
. At first it rather tickled me that the old 
lady should call him 
mon gendre
, my son-in-law, and take the 
irregular union of her daughter with such a noble unconcern for 
propriety; but now it seems quite natural.' 
The mother of Madame Rouge had the remains of beauty, and she 
sat bolt upright, picking the leg of a chicken with a dignified 
gesture. Arthur looked away quickly, for, catching his eye, she gave 
him an amorous glance. Rouge had more the appearance of a 
prosperous tradesman than of an artist; but he carried on with 
O'Brien, whose French was perfect, an argument on the merits of 
Cézanne. To one he was a great master and to the other an 
impudent charlatan. Each hotly repeated his opinion, as though the 
mere fact of saying the same thing several times made it more 
convincing. 
'Next to me is Madame Meyer,' proceeded Susie. 'She was a 
governess in Poland, but she was much too pretty to remain one, 
and now she lives with the landscape painter who is by her side.' 

---

Arthur's eyes followed her words and rested on a cleanshaven man 
with a large quantity of grey, curling hair. He had a handsome face 
of a deliberately aesthetic type and was very elegantly dressed. His 
manner and his conversation had the flamboyance of the romantic 
thirties. He talked in flowing periods with an air of finality, and 
what he said was no less just than obvious. The gay little lady who 
shared his fortunes listened to his wisdom with an admiration that 
plainly flattered him. 
Miss Boyd had described everyone to Arthur except young Raggles, 
who painted still life with a certain amount of skill, and Clayson, the 
American sculptor. Raggles stood for rank and fashion at the Chien 
Noir. He was very smartly dressed in a horsey way, and he walked 
with bowlegs, as though he spent most of his time in the saddle. He 
alone used scented pomade upon his neat smooth hair. His chief 
distinction was a greatcoat he wore, with a scarlet lining; and 
Warren, whose memory for names was defective, could only recall 
him by that peculiarity. But it was understood that he knew 
duchesses in fashionable streets, and occasionally dined with them 
in solemn splendour. 
Clayson had a vinous nose and a tedious habit of saying brilliant 
things. 
With his twinkling eyes, red cheeks, and fair, pointed beard, he 
looked 
exactly like a Franz Hals; but he was dressed like the caricature of a 
Frenchman in a comic paper. He spoke English with a Parisian 
accent. 
Miss Boyd was beginning to tear him gaily limb from limb, when 
the door was flung open, and a large person entered. He threw off 
his cloak with a dramatic gesture. 
'Marie, disembarrass me of this coat of frieze. Hang my sombrero 
upon a convenient peg.' 
He spoke execrable French, but there was a grandiloquence about 
his vocabulary which set everyone laughing. 
'Here is somebody I don't know,' said Susie. 

---

'But I do, at least, by sight,' answered Burdon. He leaned over to Dr 
Porhoët who was sitting opposite, quietly eating his dinner and 
enjoying the nonsense which everyone talked. 'Is not that your 
magician?' 
'Oliver Haddo,' said Dr Porhoët, with a little nod of amusement. 
The new arrival stood at the end of the room with all eyes upon him. 
He threw himself into an attitude of command and remained for a 
moment perfectly still. 
'You look as if you were posing, Haddo,' said Warren huskily. 
'He couldn't help doing that if he tried,' laughed Clayson. 
Oliver Haddo slowly turned his glance to the painter. 
'I grieve to see, O most excellent Warren, that the ripe juice of the