CHAPTER XXIII
"Who is the old woman?" Spike asked. "Where did she come from? Where did she get the ring? Why did she let you have it? Why did you...?"
"Not so fast!"
Spike covered her hand with his in an impulsive gesture of contrition. For a moment the touch of her hand made his heart beat so furiously he could not speak.
"You don't mind telling me?"
She shook her head.
"Tell me first who is the old woman and where did she come from." He passed her his packet bleu. They both took cigarettes, and when he had lit hers she blew out the match so that he might light his from hers. The tousled red head leaned to the sleek dark one. Their eyes met and it was as if they had embraced.
"Let me tell it from the beginning," she said. "It began with you coming along with no hat.... Tell me, where is your hat, anyway?"
Spike put both hands on his head as if, indeed, he did not know it was bare. "I lost it," he said. "I had a good hat I bought from Marshall Field's in Chicago, and I lost it I forget where. I guess I better buy a new one!"
She laughed at him, but her eyes were adoring. "You forget where!" she mocked and laughed again, reaching back to rap on the window for the garçon. "You'll want another glass of wine," she told Spike. When this was poured she began
The Story of the Old Witch
The White Hen is a good café. The coffee is strong and cheaper than in the big cafés nearby. The walls are covered with assertive, noisy paintings—work of the young men who frequent the place. They are not as quarrelsome as their pictures and they drink together and with their girls, and laugh. They play piquet, checkers, write letters, sketch the waiters and madame at her high desk near the entrance.
In the front windows of the White Hen is a permanent display of plaster confectionery—pink cakes, green cakes, pink, green and yellow striped cakes—wedding cakes of several stories, tiny little cakes, smothered in whipped cream. By pointing at a plaster imitation one may order the real cake from madame, who is interested in a nearby bakery.
When I first saw you you were standing, hands in your pockets, gazing at a pink plaster cake. You seemed very tall. As you turned I saw your pale face and wild blue eyes. The color of your hair and the way it stood on end amazed me. As I stood watching you go down the boulevard an old woman hurried by in the same direction. Her gray skirts were very wide and her shoes flat, her step quick and uneven.
The next night I saw you come into the café alone. The following night you sat till late with two friends, a bearded fellow who dresses like a cowboy and a Hungarian. Both times the old woman followed you.
She watched you and when you nodded your head and smiled or frowned, a reflection of your expression changed hers. She seemed fascinated by you.
You had a reckless, eager manner. You watched everything. You always smelled your wine. Sometimes I heard you talk and you said Life and Death and Love as if you had just discovered them. When you laughed every man and woman in the café would look at your table. Not because your laugh was so loud but because it was different. The waiter told me: "That American with the red hair!—when he gets drunk he weeps and laughs and runs down the street. He does not sleep enough. He has two gold teeth in back!"
One night the old woman came up to my table.
"Would you mind if an old woman sat down with you?" she asked.
She lounged in a limp sort of way, elbows on the table, her scrawny hands in her hair. She kept moving her lips nervously. I was frightened.
"You are young and pretty," she said. Her eyes were slate-color and there was no living light behind them. "Very soon you will be old." She smiled. I could not smile in return, and I said:
"Yes, but now I am young, and I do not want to be old and young at the same time!"
Her eyes came to life, glittering. "Who are you?" she asked.
"My name is Marie," I told her.
She waited for more, studying my face, but I kept silent.
"Who are you?"
Her fingers twisted together nervously. "Poor old thing!" I said to myself.
As if she had heard my thought, she said: "You may well pity me!" With the heel of her hand she scrubbed a tear from the corner of her eye. "I am the oldest woman in Paris."
You had been sitting alone at the other side of the room. Now you got up to go and before you turned toward the door you nodded in my direction. Your nod was for a thin English girl in back of me, but the witch thought it was for me.
"Oh, you know that boy!"
It was pleasant that she thought of me in connection with you, and I lied. But in the beginning it was a small lie. I merely nodded my head, really meaning no more than that I had seen you before, and had heard talk of you.
"Then you can help me! I have known many men in my time, but none who seemed more greedy for wisdom and for living than that red-headed Yankee with the loud voice. I want to give him power," the old woman dropped her voice to a whisper, "unlimited power." Her eyes stuck out.
"Don't be frightened," she told me, seeing me shrink away. "I will not hurt you. In this you will be my ally, my good friend, and I yours!" She strained her head across the table. "I have a Plan!"
She was not like other women. I made the sign of the cross under the table.
"Ah, you do not believe me!"
"Madame," I said, "why should I disbelieve you? If I can help you and you can help me, tant mieux!"
"Shall I tell you who I am?" she asked politely.
"Please do!"
But she was silent.
"Tell me why you are sad," I said.
"I am the last witch!"