Juggernaut Part 27

At the same time a voice inside her brain was repeating mechanically, "But pythons don't bite--pythons don't bite.... Of course, I was thinking of the hypodermic needle!" ...

"Please try to be more careful. That sort of thing is inexcusable. Is there anything wrong with you this morning?"

"No, nothing, doctor. I can't tell you what made me drop it."

He still stared at her searchingly, his eyes probing her as if he had some suspicion regarding her sanity. A weak voice came from the bed.

"Anybody might drop a basin, doctor," murmured Sir Charles dryly. "You might yourself."

Esther laughed gratefully as she covered him up again, but she felt her laugh to be a trifle hysterical. She hated the doctor to think her an imbecile, yet for some reason her identification of the man with the creature of her dream now struck her as extremely funny. She wanted to laugh and laugh; it took all her resolution to restrain herself.... Of course, the whole thing was clear now. Psycho-a.n.a.lysis explained things so wonderfully. No doubt, now that she recognised the source of that vague shrinking she felt in regard to Sartorius she would experience it no longer. Odd, in more ways than one he did resemble a python. His heavy, slow movements, the feeling he gave one of having cold blood in his veins, his little, glancing eyes that so often seemed the only part of him alive.... Yes, and there was something else, though perhaps it was very fanciful of her to think of it in that way.

Jacques had told her how whenever the doctor had sufficient money--a windfall, as he himself had called it--he would quit work, his practice, that is, and devote himself to research until the last penny was exhausted before bestirring himself again. Was not that the python's method, making a hearty meal of sheep, then lying by for a long period until he had absorbed it completely? What a curious idea--revolting, somehow...

At intervals all during the day she caught Sartorius looking at her in a meditative fas.h.i.+on, as though speculating about her mental condition.

Each time she felt his gaze upon her she longed again to burst into laughter, her eyes danced, her mouth twitched. If only he had any idea!

When early that evening she set out for the Casino with her escort, Miss Clifford came out of the drawing-room to bid her good-night.

"Have a good time, my dear," she said in her friendly fas.h.i.+on. "It would be a pity to be in Cannes and not see something of its gay side.

You look extremely nice," she added with a glance of approval.

Esther glowed with appreciation of the compliment, inwardly hoping Roger agreed with his aunt in her opinion of her. She felt his eye upon her as she stood there with her simple evening coat wrapped tightly about her, the grey of its fur collar soft against her throat, but he said nothing. A movement behind her made her turn towards the drawing-room door.

"_Vous sortez?_"

It was Lady Clifford who spoke. There was a brittle, intensely Gallic intonation about the query with its upward inflection, reminding one somehow of a postman's knock, a sort of rat-tat-tat.

Miss Clifford answered for them.

"Yes, Therese, Roger is taking Miss Rowe out to dinner. It is such an excellent idea for both of them to have a bit of fun."

"Ah!"

An indescribable glint came into the wide grey eyes, and there was a brief pause before Lady Clifford smiled and gave a little wave of the hand.

"_Alors--amusez-vous bien!_" she said, and turned away.

Could it be that she was displeased with her stepson for paying attention to a nurse in her employ? Esther was not quite sure, but she felt a moment's awkwardness. It vanished, however, when a moment later she climbed into the Citroen beside Roger.

"I hope you don't mind this plebeian way of getting about?" Roger said as he started the car. "I somehow feel I don't like to use the chauffeur and the Rolls in case my stepmother should want it."

"What do you think I'm used to, anyway?" demanded Esther with a light-hearted laugh.

He turned his head and surveyed her critically.

"I'm not sure what you're used to," he replied. "But as you sit there you look like a million dollars, as they say in your country."

She was satisfied he admired her. The evening was hers to enjoy.

The Restaurant des Amba.s.sadeurs was rapidly filling when they entered and made their way to the table reserved for them. With keen interest Esther looked about her at the groups of sleek, well-dressed people, English, French, Russian, Italian. There was a large party of Americans who had crossed on the same boat with Roger. Their voices rang out, their R's smacked of the Middle-West, Mommer and Popper seeing Europe, accompanied by a brace of coltish daughters, a reedy son with enormous spectacles, and the son's two college chums, who looked to be good at football. Farther along sat two Russians who never spoke, one an owlish young man with gla.s.sy eyes and damp hair raked smoothly back, his companion a woman much older than himself, with broad cheek-bones and a mouth that was a great blot of scarlet in the midst of her chalk-white face.

Esther spied the plump, hennaed woman whom she had seen speak to Lady Clifford that day weeks ago, sitting at a table with another Frenchwoman equally plump and two men, fat and bald, both wearing a good deal of jewellery. The younger man, incredibly, had round his pudgy wrist a bangle set with turquoises! On the other side of this hilarious party was a large, sober-faced Englishman who looked like a stockbroker, Roger said, and with him a little humming-bird of a girl, starry-eyed, infantile--belonging to musical comedy, no doubt. What a medley!

"Look! Over there----"

Esther touched her companion's arm suddenly.

"Do you see? There's Captain Holliday--and with his fat Spanish friend. Isn't she dreadful?"

Following her eyes, Roger discovered across the room the redoubtable Arthur, nonchalantly ordering dinner for his _vis-a-vis_, a colossal, swarthy creature, dripping with pearls and glittering with diamonds like a chandelier.

"Spanish, did you say?"

"Yes, from the Argentine. I've seen them together before. It is she who has offered him the job." She almost added, "And it is she whom your stepmother is jealous of," but she pulled herself up in time.

"What a lot you seem to know about Holliday," remarked Roger half-quizzically, half-seriously, eyeing her over the menu.

She laughed cheerfully.

"I do. I told you he interested me--as a type. Caviare or grape-fruit? Oh, caviare. I feel like it, somehow."

"So do I. And after that what about some _sole specialte de la maison_? How does that strike you? With a _pigeon en cocotte_ to follow?"

"Marvellous! I'm glad I'm hungry. I missed tea on purpose."

"So did I miss tea, but for other reasons. I took a bank at baccarat--they've opened the room--and time ceased to be."

"Did you win?"

"No fear; I was down as usual. What about a simple Bronx to start with? And do you like a dry champagne?"

"Very dry, thanks!"

"It's a good thing; it saves me buying two kinds. Waiter!"

"I feel this is going to be really a spree," sighed Esther contentedly.

"I have been abstemious for so long. You, too--I notice you confine yourself to Evian water."

"Oh, you've noticed that, have you? Yes, I take it for my complexion--like my stepmother."

"That's so, she does drink Evian, doesn't she? She scarcely touches wine.... How exquisite she is--don't you think? She is one of the loveliest women I have ever seen."

"I quite agree," he said slowly. "Therese will stand a good deal of looking at. Exquisite--that's the right word. There is only one thing about her that isn't exquisite."

"What is that?" she asked him curiously.

"Her hands."

She gave a quick understanding nod.