Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 16, 1921 — page 71: what you’re looking at

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

62 Pierre clutched at the gate’s post to keep from falling. ‘You too are ill, most just,” the old man cried out in alarm. ‘‘ Your eyes are glazed like the dead’s; your face is white! Let me assist you!” ‘“ No; it will pass,” and Pierre drew him- self upright. “I must go now. Peace!” ‘And with you, peace!” Pierre went staggeringly, then gained more and more control over himself. the time he reached the Café Diable. it was time for breakfast, and he had recovered self-control in larger part. He had cof- fee, his own narghile to smoke. In time his agitation died down and he became strangely calm and almost peaceful. He waited until "Leesah came in for her meal. She entered, glanced about, smiled, came swiftly toward him with expression fleetingly wistful. “Where were you?” she bantered, light- ing a cigarette to keep ‘him company. “ Off on some of your night-raids? Ah, you mney you men!”’ She pouted prettily, and he saw how fia and rounded was her chin and how glorious the lines of her shoulders and neck. She bent over to puff a ring of smoke at him— something she often did in mock-play. He noted that she was glancing at him in- tently. “Did you have a nice evening—with Troiville?” he asked calmly, giving her look for look. ‘‘ No; he only amuses me because—there is no one else.” “Oh,” puffing deeply in his hubble- bubble. “But if some one else does not amuse me soon, Troiville may,” and she laughed shortly. Again he saw the flash of evanescent wist- fulness. “Ah,” puffing deenly again. 3s Pierre! ”” she cried out your eyes are so—so dead? The pupils, oh, the pupils, they seem to me like—like those of dead fish. Ugh! You must take care, more sleep!” : She shuddered, turned her eyes away. He laughed hollowly, got up, dropped the am- By suddenly. “What are you doing with yourself that | ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. ber of his pipe carelessly, and went to his room that was in a near-by house. He glanced nervously at the mirror over his un- used bed. He stared. She had spoken the truth. His two pupils were’ curiously shriv- eled and clouded and seemed to lack life. Yet he could see clearly—better than he ever had seen. Resisting a strong tendency to run, to walk about, to seek for he knew not what, La Forge came from his room into the narrow, crooked street» He intended to go past the Café Diable, into the more squal- id parts of the town—to wander about, to think as he went. But at the door of the café he was accosted by old Martin, the exempt, with: ‘““M. Pierre, would you be so kind, this morning—” It was Martin’s usual way of prefacing a request for La Forge to write a letter home for him. He welcomed this interruption, hoping the kindly chat he would have with Martin would steady him down. He smiled and turned in with the ancient chatterbox, whose tongue clattered on: “See, your box, with the knives in it, is all dusted and cleaned. No one has opened it. I would not permit that, enfin! My: letter to-day is for my son’s wife. I have one from her. I know it is hers by the postmark, you see. You taught me how to tell that postmark. Here is the letter. Now read it for me, and here are sheets and envelopes and my own pen and ink. ‘Together we shall write her a famous reply. ‘Why, what is the matter?” La Forge by this time had the letter open and was seated behind the desk with Mar- tin. Knowing the extreme love of the old exempt for his wife’s favorite, his only son’s daughter, he had allowed a serious expres- sion to come over his face as he had read the opening lines: I am very ill, but hope to be better soon, dear grandpapa. But finding the old man had suspected ‘bad news, and seeing that the way was thus paved for breaking it, Pierre gently read the missive, one of those humble, simple, tender ones such as common folk write each other in moments of deep trouble. Go NOOK = A C©