I returned at about half-past five, bright and eager, with vague anticipations. I seemed to have become used to the house. It no longer offended me, and I had no shame in entering it. I put the key into the door of Diaz’ flat with a clear, high sense of pleasure. He had entrusted me with his key; I could go in as I pleased; I need have no fear of inconveniencing him, of coming at the wrong moment. It seemed wonderful! And as I turned the key and pushed open the door my sole wish was to be of service to him, to comfort him, to render his life less forlorn.

‘Here I am!’ I cried, shutting the door.

There was no answer.

In the smaller of the two tiny sitting-rooms the piano, which had been closed, was open, and I saw that it was a Pleyel. But both rooms were empty.

‘Are you still in bed, then?’ I said.

There was still no answer.

I went cautiously into the bedroom. It, too, was empty. The bed was made, and the flat generally had a superficial air of tidiness. Evidently the charwoman had been and departed; and doubtless Diaz had gone out, to return immediately. I sat down in the chair in which I had spent most of the night. I took off my hat and put it by the side of a tiny satchel which I had brought, and began to wait for him. How delicious it would be to open the door to him! He would notice that I had taken off my hat, and he would be glad. What did the future, the immediate future, hold for me?

A long time I waited, and then I yawned heavily, and remembered that for several days I had had scarcely any sleep. I shut my eyes to relieve the tedium of waiting. When I reopened them, dazed, and startled into sudden activity by mysterious angry noises, it was quite dark. I tried to recall where I was, and to decide what the noises could be. I regained my faculties with an effort. The noises were a beating on the door.

‘It is Diaz,’ I said to myself; ‘and he can’t get in!’

And I felt very guilty because I had slept. I must have slept for hours. Groping for a candle, I lighted it.

‘Coming! coming!’ I called in a loud voice.

And I went into the passage with the candle and opened the door.

It was Diaz. The gas was lighted on the stairs. Between that and my candle he stood conspicuous in all his details. Swaying somewhat, he supported himself by the balustrade, and was thus distant about two feet from the door. He was drunk—viciously drunk; and in an instant I knew the cruel truth concerning him, and wondered that I had not perceived it before. He was a drunkard—simply that. He had not taken to drinking as a consequence of nervous breakdown. Nervous breakdown was a euphemism for the result of alcoholic excess. I saw his slow descent as in a vision, and everything was explained. My heart leapt.

‘I can save him,’ I said to myself. ‘I can restore him.’

I was aware of the extreme difficulty of curing a drunkard, of the immense proportion of failures. But, I thought, if a woman such as I cannot by the lavishing of her whole soul and body deliver from no matter what fiend a man such as Diaz, then the world has changed, and the eternal Aphrodite is dead.

‘I can save him!’ I repeated.

Oh, heavenly moment!

‘Aren’t you coming in?’ I addressed him quietly. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

‘Have you?’ he angrily replied. ‘I waited long enough for you.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘come in.’

‘Who is it?’ he demanded. ‘I inzizt—who is it?’

‘It’s I,’ I answered; ‘Magda.’

‘That’s no’ wha’ I mean,’ he went on. ‘And wha’s more—you know it. Who is it addrezzes you, madame?’

‘Why,’ I humoured him, ‘it’s you, of course—Diaz.’

There was the sound of a door opening on one of the lower storeys, and I hoped I had pacified him, and that he would enter; but I was mistaken. He stamped his foot furiously on the landing.

‘Diaz!’ he protested, shouting. ‘Who dares call me Diaz? Wha’s my full name?’

‘Emilio Diaz,’ I murmured meekly.

‘That’s better,’ he grumbled. ‘What am I?’

I hesitated.

‘Wha’ am I?’ he roared; and his voice went up and down the echoing staircase. ‘I won’t put foot ev’n on doormat till I’m told wha’ I am here.’

‘You are the—the master,’ I said. ‘But do come in.’

‘The mas’r! Mas’r of wha’?’

‘Master of the pianoforte,’ I answered at once.

He smiled, suddenly appeased, and put his foot unsteadily on the doormat.

‘Good!’ he said. ‘But, un’stan’, I wouldn’t ev’n have pu’ foot on doormat—no, not ev’n on doormat—’

And he came in, and I shut the door, and I was alone with my wild beast.

‘Kiss me,’ he commanded.

I kissed him on the mouth.

‘You don’t put your arms roun’ me,’ he growled.

So I deposited the candle on the floor, and put my arms round his neck, standing on tip-toe, and kissed him again.

He went past me, staggering and growling, into the sitting-room at the end of the passage, and furiously banged down the lid of the piano, so that every cord in it jangled deafeningly.

‘Light the lamp,’ he called out.

‘In one second,’ I said.

I locked the outer door on the inside, slipped the key into my pocket, and picked up the candle.

‘What were you doing out there?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I had to pick the candle up.’

He seized my hat from the table and threw it to the floor. Then he sat down.

‘Nex’ time,’ he remarked, ‘you’ll know better’n to keep me waiting.’

I lighted a lamp.

‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘Won’t you go to bed?’

‘I shall go to bed when I want,’ he answered. ‘I’m thirsty. In the cupboard you’ll see a bottle. I’ll trouble you to give it me, with a glass and some water.’

‘This cupboard?’ I said questioningly, opening a cupboard papered to match the rest of the wall.

‘Yes.’

‘But surely you can’t be thirsty, Diaz?’ I protested.

‘Must I repea’ wha’ I said?’ he glared at me. ‘I’m thirsty. Give me the bottle.’

I took out the bottle nearest to hand. It was of a dark green colour, and labelled ‘Extrait d’Absinthe. Pernod fils.’

‘Not this one, Diaz?’

‘Yes,’ he insisted. ‘Give it me. And get a glass and some water.’

‘No,’ I said firmly.

‘Wha’? You won’t give it me?’

‘No.’

He jumped up recklessly and faced me. His hat fell off the back of his head.

‘Give me that bottle!’

His breath poisoned the room.

I retreated in the direction of the window, and put my hand on the knob.

‘No,’ I said.

He sprang at me, but not before I had opened the window and thrown out the bottle. I heard it fall in the roadway with a crash and scattering of glass. Happily it had harmed no one. Diaz was momentarily checked. He hesitated. I eyed him as steadily as I could, closing the while the window behind me with my right hand.

‘He may try to kill me,’ I thought.

My heart was thudding against my dress, not from fear, but from excitement. My situation seemed impossible to me, utterly passing belief. Yesterday I had been a staid spinster, attended by a maid, in a hotel of impeccable propriety. Today I had locked myself up alone with a riotous drunkard in a vile flat in a notorious Parisian street. Was I mad? What force, secret and powerful, had urged me on?... And there was the foul drunkard, with clenched hands and fiery eyes, undecided whether or not to murder me. And I waited.

He moved away, inarticulately grumbling, and resumed with difficulty his hat.

‘Ver’ well,’ he hiccupped morosely, ‘ver’ well; I’m going. Tha’s all.’

He lurched into the passage, and then I heard him fumbling a long time with the outer door. He left the door and went into his bedroom, and finally returned to me. He held one hand behind his back. I had sunk into a chair by the small table on which the lamp stood, with my satchel beside it.

‘Now!’ he said, halting in front of me. ‘You’ve locked tha’ door. I can’t go out.’

‘Yes,’ I admitted.

‘Give me the key.’

I shook my head.

‘Give me the key,’ he cried. ‘I mus’ have the key.’

I shook my head.

Then he showed his right hand, and it held a revolver. He bent slightly over the table, staring down at me as I stared up at him. But as his chin felt the heat rising from the chimney of the lamp, he shifted a little to one side. I might have rushed for shelter into some other room; I might have grappled with him; I might have attempted to soothe him. But I could neither stir nor speak. Least of all, could I give him the key—for him to go and publish his own disgrace in the thoroughfares. So I just gazed at him, inactive.

‘I s’ll kill you!’ he muttered, and raised the revolver.

My throat became suddenly dry. I tried to make the motion of swallowing, and could not. And looking at the revolver, I perceived in a swift revelation the vast folly of my inexperience. Since he was already drunk, why had I not allowed him to drink more, to drink himself into a stupor? Drunkards can only be cured when they are sober. To commence a course of moral treatment at such a moment as I had chosen was indeed the act of a woman. However, it was too late to reclaim the bottle from the street.

I saw that he meant to kill me. And I knew that previously, during our encounter at the window, I had only pretended to myself that I thought there was a risk of his killing me. I had pretended, in order to increase the glory of my martyrdom in my own sight. Moreover, my brain, which was working with singular clearness, told me that for his sake I ought to give up the key. His exposure as a helpless drunkard would be infinitely preferable to his exposure as a murderer.

Yet I could not persuade myself to relinquish the key. If I did so, he would imagine that he had frightened me. But I had no fear, and I could not bear that he should think I had.

He fired.

My ears sang. The room was full of a new odour, and a cloud floated reluctantly upwards from the mouth of the revolver. I sneezed, and then I grew aware that, firing at a distant of two feet, he had missed me. What had happened to the bullet I could not guess. He put the revolver down on the table with a groan, and the handle rested on my satchel.

‘My God, Magda!’ he sighed, pushing back his hair with his beautiful hand.

He was somewhat sobered. I said nothing, but I observed that the lamp was smoking, and I turned down the wick. I was so self-conscious, so irresolute, so nonplussed, that in sheer awkwardness, like a girl at a party who does not know what to do with her hands, I pushed the revolver off the satchel, and idly unfastened the catch of the satchel. Within it, among other things, was my sedative. I, too, had fallen the victim of a habit. For five years a bad sleeper, I had latterly developed into a very bad sleeper, and my sedative was accordingly strong.

A notion struck me.

‘Drink a little of this, my poor Diaz!’ I murmured.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘It will make you sleep,’ I said.

With a convulsive movement he clutched the bottle and uncorked it, and before I could interfere he had drunk nearly the whole of its contents.

‘Stop!’ I cried. ‘You will kill yourself!’

‘What matter!’ he exclaimed; and staggered off to the darkness of the bedroom.

I followed him with the lamp, but he had already fallen on the bed, and seemed to be heavily asleep. I shook him; he made no response.

‘At any cost he must he roused,’ I said aloud. ‘He must be forced to walk.’

There was a knocking at the outer door, low, discreet, and continuous. It sounded to me like a deliverance. Whoever might be there must aid me to waken Diaz. I ran to the door, taking the key out of my pocket, and opened it. A tall woman stood on the doormat. It was the girl that I had glimpsed on the previous night in the large hat ascending the stairs with a man. But now her bright golden head was uncovered, and she wore a blue peignoir, such as is sold ready made, with its lace and its ribbons, at all the big Paris shops.

We both hesitated.

‘Oh, pardon, madame,’ she said, in a thin, sweet voice in French. ‘I was at my door, and it seemed to me that I heard—a revolver. Nothing serious has passed, then? Pardon, madame.’

‘Nothing, thank you. You are very amiable, madame,’ I replied stiffly.

‘All my excuses, madame,’ said she, turning away.

‘No, no!’ I exclaimed. ‘I am wrong. Do not go. Someone is ill—very ill. If you would—’

She entered.

‘Where? What is it?’ she inquired.

‘He is in the bedroom—here.’

We both spoke breathlessly, hurrying to the bedroom, after I had fetched the lamp.

‘Wounded? He has done himself harm? Ah!’

‘No,’ I said, ‘not that.’

And I explained to her that Diaz had taken at least six doses of my strong solution of trional.

I seized the lamp and held it aloft over the form of the sleeper, which lay on its side cross-wise, the feet projecting a little over the edge of the bed, the head bent forward and missing the pillow, the arms stretched out in front—the very figure of abandoned and perfect unconsciousness. And the girl and I stared at Diaz, our shoulders touching, in the kennel.

‘He must be made to walk about,’ I said. ‘You would be extremely kind to help me.’

‘No, madame,’ she replied. ‘He will be very well like that. When one is alcoholic, one cannot poison one’s self; it is impossible. All the doctors will tell you as much. Your friend will sleep for twenty hours—twenty-four hours—and he will waken himself quite re-established.’

‘You are sure? You know?’

‘I know, madame. Be tranquil. Leave him. He could not have done better. It is perfect.’

‘Perhaps I should fetch a doctor?’ I suggested.

‘It is not worth the pain,’ she said, with conviction. ‘You would have vexations uselessly. Leave him.’

I gazed at her, studying her, and I was satisfied. With her fluffly locks, and her simple eyes, and her fragile face, and her long hands, she had, nevertheless, the air of knowing profoundly her subject. She was a great expert on males and all that appertained to them, especially their vices. I was the callow amateur. I was compelled to listen with respect to this professor in the professor’s garb. I was impressed, in spite of myself.

‘One might arrange him more comfortably,’ she said.

And we lifted the senseless victim, and put him on his back, and straightened his limbs, as though he had been a corpse.

‘How handsome he is!’ murmured my visitor, half closing her eyes.

‘You think so?’ I said politely, as if she had been praising one of my private possessions.

‘Oh yes. We are neighbours, madame. I have frequently remarked him, you understand, on the stairs, in the street.’

‘Has he been here long?’ I asked.

‘About a year, madame. You have, perhaps, not seen him since a long time. An old friend?’

‘It is ten years ago,’ I replied.

‘Ah! Ten years! In England, without doubt?’

‘In England, yes.’

‘Ten years!’ she repeated, musing.

‘I am certain she has a kind heart,’ I said to myself, and I decided to question her: ‘Will you not sit down, madame?’ I invited her.

‘Ah, madame! it is you who should sit down,’ she said quickly. ‘You must have suffered.’

We both sat down. There were only two chairs in the room.

‘I would like to ask you,’ I said, leaning forward towards her, ‘have you ever seen him—drunk—before?’

‘No,’ she replied instantly; ‘never before yesterday evening.’

‘Be frank,’ I urged her, smiling sadly.

‘Why should I not be frank, madame?’ she said, with a grave, gentle appeal.

It was as if she had said: ‘We are talking woman to woman. I know one of your secrets. You can guess mine. The male is present, but he is deaf. What reason, therefore, for deceit?’

‘I am much obliged to you,’ I breathed.

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Decidedly he is alcoholic—that sees itself,’ she proceeded. ‘But drunk—no!... He was always alone.’

‘Always alone?’

‘Always.’

Her eyes filled. I thought I had never seen a creature more gentle, delicate, yielding, acquiescent, and fair. She was not beautiful, but she had grace and distinction of movement. She was a Parisienne. She had won my sympathy. We met in a moment when my heart needed the companionship of a woman’s heart, and I was drawn to her by one of those sudden impulses that sometimes draw women to each other. I cared not what she was. Moreover, she had excited my curiosity. She was a novelty in my life. She was something that I had heard of, and seen—yes, and perhaps envied in secret, but never spoken with. And she shattered all my preconceptions about her.

‘You are an old tenant of this house?’ I ventured.

‘Yes,’ she said; ‘it suits me. But the great heats are terrible here.’

‘You do not leave Paris, then?’

‘Never. Except to see my little boy.’

I started, envious of her, and also surprised. It seemed strange that this ribboned and elegant and plastic creature, whose long, thin arms were used only to dalliance, should be a mother.

‘So you have a little boy?’

‘Yes; he lives with my parents at Meudon. He is four years old.

‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Be frank with me once again. Do you love your child, honestly? So many women don’t, it appears.’

‘Do I love him?’ she cried, and her face glowed with her love. ‘I adore him!’ Her sincerity was touching and overwhelming. ‘And he loves me, too. If he is naughty, one has only to tell him that he will make his petite mÈre ill, and he will be good at once. When he is told to obey his grandfather, because his grandfather provides his food, he says bravely: “No, not grandpapa; it is petite mÈre!” Is it not strange he should know that I pay for him? He has a little engraving of the Queen of Italy, and he says it is his petite mÈre. Among the scores of pictures he has he keeps only that one. He takes it to bed with him. It is impossible to deprive him of it.’

She smiled divinely.

‘How beautiful!’ I said. ‘And you go to see him often?’

‘As often as I have time. I take him out for walks. I run with him till we reach the woods, where I can have him to myself alone. I never stop; I avoid people. No one except my parents knows that he is my child. One supposes he is a nurse-child, received by my parents. But all the world will know now,’ she added, after a pause. ‘Last Monday I went to Meudon with my friend Alice, and Alice wanted to buy him some sweets at the grocer’s. In the shop I asked him if he would like dragÉes, and he said “Yes.” The grocer said to him, “Yes who, young man?” “Yes, petite mÈre,” he said, very loudly and bravely. The grocer understood. We all lowered our heads.’

There was something so affecting in the way she half whispered the last phrase, that I could have wept; and yet it was comical, too, and she appreciated that.

‘You have no child, madame?’ she asked me.

‘No,’ I said. ‘How I envy you!’

‘You need not,’ she observed, with a touch of hardness. ‘I have been so unhappy, that I can never be as unhappy again. Nothing matters now. All I wish is to save enough money to be able to live quietly in a little cottage in the country.’

‘With your child,’ I put in.

‘My child will grow up and leave me. He will become a man, and he will forget his petite mÈre.‘

‘Do not talk like that,’ I protested.

She glanced at me almost savagely. I was astonished at the sudden change in her face.

‘Why not?’ she inquired coldly. ‘Is it not true, then? Do you still believe that there is any difference between one man and another? They are all alike—all, all, all! I know. And it is we who suffer, we others.’

‘But surely you have some tender souvenir of your child’s father?’ I said.

‘Do I know who my child’s father is?’ she demanded. ‘My child has thirty-six fathers!’

‘You seem very bitter,’ I said, ‘for your age. You are much younger than I am.’

She smiled and shook her honey-coloured hair, and toyed with the ribbons of her peignoir.

‘What I say is true,’ she said gently. ‘But, there, what would you have? We hate them, but we love them. They are beasts! beasts! but we cannot do without them!’

Her eyes rested on Diaz for a moment. He slept without the least sound, the stricken and futile witness of our confidences.

‘You will take him away from Paris soon, perhaps?’ she asked.

‘If I can,’ I said.

There was a sound of light footsteps on the stair. They stopped at the door, which I remembered we had not shut. I jumped up and went into the passage. Another girl stood in the doorway, in a peignoir the exact counterpart of my first visitor’s, but rose-coloured. And this one, too, was languorous and had honey-coloured locks. It was as though the mysterious house was full of such creatures, each with her secret lair.

‘Pardon, madame,’ said my visitor, following and passing me; and then to the newcomer: ‘What is it, Alice?’

‘It is Monsieur Duchatel who is arrived.’

‘Oh!’ with a disdainful gesture. ‘Je m’en fiche. Let him go.’

‘But it is the nephew, my dear; not the uncle.’

‘Ah, the nephew! I come. Bon soir, madams, et bonne nuit.’

The two peignoirs fluttered down the stairs together. I returned to my Diaz, and seeing his dressing-gown behind the door of the bedroom, I took it and covered him with it.