An Indiscreet Journey by Katherine Mansfield

Author:Katherine Mansfield [Mansfield, Katherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781443438438
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 2014-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

“Ah, oui, madame,” answered the soldiers, watching her bent head and pretty hands, as she arranged for the hundredth time a frill of lace on her lifted bosom.

“V’là monsieur!” cawed the waiting-boy over his shoulder to me. For some silly reason I pretended not to hear, and I leaned over the table smelling the violets, until the little corporal’s hand closed over mine.

“Shall we have un peu de charcuterie to begin with?” he asked tenderly.

“In England,” said the blue-eyed soldier, “you drink whiskey with your meals. N’est-ce pas, mademoiselle? A little glass of whiskey neat before eating. Whiskey and soda with your bifteks, and after, more whiskey with hot water and lemon.”

“Is it true, that?” asked his great friend who sat opposite, a big red-faced chap with a black beard and large moist eyes and hair that looked as though it had been cut with a sewing machine.

“Well, not quite true,” said I.

“Si, si,” cried the blue-eyed soldier. “I ought to know. I’m in business. English travellers come to my place, and it’s always the same thing.”

“Bah, I can’t stand whiskey,” said the little corporal. “It’s too disgusting the morning after. Do you remember, ma fille, the whiskey in that little bar at Montmartre?”

“Souvenir tendre,” sighed Blackbeard, putting two fingers in the breast of his coat and letting his head fall. He was very drunk.

“But I know something that you’ve never tasted,” said the blue-eyed soldier pointing a finger at me; “something really good.”

Cluck he went with his tongue. “É-pa-tant! And the curious thing is that you’d hardly know it from whiskey except that it’s”—he felt with his hand for the word—“finer, sweeter perhaps, not so sharp, and it leaves you feeling gay as a rabbit next morning.”

“What is it called?”

“Mirabelle!” He rolled the word round his mouth, under his tongue. “Ah-ha, that’s the stuff.”

“I could eat another mushroom,” said Blackbeard. “I would like another mushroom very much. I am sure I could eat another mushroom if Mademoiselle gave it to me out of her hand.”

“You ought to try it,” said the blue-eyed soldier, leaning both hands on the table and speaking so seriously that I began to wonder how much more sober he was than Blackbeard. “You ought to try it, and tonight. I would like you to tell me if you don’t think it’s like whiskey.”

“Perhaps they’ve got it here,” said the little corporal, and he called the waiting-boy. “P’tit!”

“Non, monsieur,” said the boy, who never stopped smiling. He served us with dessert plates painted with blue parrots and horned beetles.

“What is the name for this in English?” said Blackbeard, pointing. I told him “Parrot.”

“Ah, mon Dieu! . . . Pair-rot . . .” He put his arms round his plate. “I love you, ma petite pair-rot. You are sweet, you are blonde, you are English. You do not know the difference between whiskey and mirabelle.”

The little corporal and I looked at each other, laughing. He squeezed up his eyes when he laughed, so that you saw nothing but the long curly lashes.

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