Argosy, Vol. 123, No. 2 — page 71: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

BONDS OF As it did not seem that the proper in- spiration as to a course of action could be brought to the surface while hunger gnawed at their vitals, they resolved to go forth, demolish food—five francs’ worth, to be exact—and trust to this feeding of the furnace of energy to create some method of eluding the doom which hung over their devoted heads. The plan pleased them, and locking the door of their lodging, they descended the narrow wooden stairs warily, and watching an opportunity when the dragon of the portals, the ever alert concierge was absent on an errand, slipped out without chal- lenge for.their rent, now long overdue, and strode hastily to a restaurant bearing the appetizing title of Au bon Appetit. As the restaurant had been but lately opened by a new proprietor, a M. Apollinaire who then had no dreams of the well-known eat- ing-house, the Golden Snail, and as their dealings so far had fortunately been on a strictly cash basis, they imagined that by putting in another appearance as moneyed clients, if the worst came to the worst later, the heart of Casimir Apollinaire might be moved to clemency for a week or so any- way. Casimir greeted them affably, unaware of their nefarious designs, and saw that they were seated, exchanging the compli- ments of the day as blithely with them as if they had been American millionaires or English milords. Luckily he did not see what they saw, the gaunt specter of the future which had stalked in with them. “Ah, now,” said Charlot cheerfully, sniffing the savory odors. ‘‘ Now we shall get an idea. Pass me that bottle of wine, _my,. boy.” But, strange to say, as they proceeded by stages from sors doeuvres to cream cheese, no revelation came to them. Food generated no genius for strategy. The fu- ture remained still a mystery. “ Another bottle of wine,” Caparolle suggested. . “Two! And a cigar for each of us. They say a good cigar loosens the brain.” Time passed in the consumption of those luxuries. 3 - deuce! BOHEMIA. 205 * Strange!” Charlot remarked. ‘“ To- bacco is no use. I can think of nothing but my breakfast and where it is to come from.” “How about a little glass of cognac?”’ Caparolle suggested. ‘We can afford that.” “Two,” Charlot insisted firmly. ‘“ The I hope that concierge is going to be reasonable. She was too amiable this morning. That looks bad for to-morrow, my dear Caparolle.”’ ‘“* To-morrow!” cried Caparolle, in whom ‘his various potations were creating strange- ly happy hallucinations. ‘ That for to- morrow.” ‘All very well for you, Caparolle,”’ Charlot reminded him. ‘ You never have any appetite in the morning, but I inva- riably wake up ravenous. Without food I cannot write, and without writing I can- not feed. Ergo—ergo—I die. There is nothing left for me but death.” ‘“ Death!” echoed a deep voice at their elbow. ‘“‘ Death. Delightful word!” Caparolle started. ‘“* Avaunt!”’ he whispered, looking about him fearfully. Charlot had discovered that the utter- ance came from a stout, well-fed gentle- man in black who sat at the next table stuffing down food at great speed. ‘You are speaking of death,” went on the gentleman, taking breath and beaming upon them. “TI ceuld not help overhear- ing you. Fascinatimg subject.” ‘““T am glad you think so,” said Charlot stiffly. ‘‘ You would not be so glib about it if you were in my place.” ‘Dear me,” continued their neighbor. ‘“‘ Consider it now. What state can be so wonderful as death? An end to all cares, a beautiful repose, tender hands to commit you to your last long sleep. Happy ob- livion.” “This is very strange talk,” said Capa- rolle, blinking at him, and speaking very thickly. ‘‘ Perhaps we have the honor of speaking to a student of strange deaths— note that phrase, my dear Charlot—it is amazing—Heaven, why am I not a poet? What is your line, master food gobbler, the coisoned pup — pardon me — the poi- MICLOO© SS ©