Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 175
“Thank you,” said Mr. Topper, a trifle haughtily, “but I’m not as desperate as you seem to imagine. I can still afford to pay for my own chips.”
With this he returned the chips to the gentleman and bought a new stack for himself. The gentleman considered the returned chips, a puzzled expression on his face, then looked long at Mr. Topper.
“My dear sir,” he began, “ill-fortune must have addled your brain. I have not attempted to give you any of my chips. Furthermore, I have no intention of giving you any of my chips.”
“Then why did you push them at me?” asked Mr. Topper.
“Me push my chips at you?” laughed the gentleman unpleasantly. “What sort of man do you think I am?”
“One moment,” replied Mr. Topper.
He was too busy to continue the conversation, all his efforts being directed toward fighting off the chips of the lady at his left. Her whole pile was moving with determination in his direction. Extending his left hand, he tried to push the chips back. For this his hand was sharply rapped by the lady.
“Madame,” he muttered, “don’t do that. Your chips — do something about them.”
“No fear,” replied the woman. “I’ve sat by your kind before.”
Between the hostile eyes of his two neighbors Mr. Topper sat uncomfortably and blindly resumed his betting. A few minutes later a man’s hand came within the vision of his eye. It seemed to be struggling with a stack of chips.
“I warn you,” came the gentleman’s voice. “Stop trying to sneak my chips. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Me sneak your chips?” gasped Topper, giving the man’s chips a violent shove. “Don’t be ridiculous. I — —”
A flank attack from the chips on his left forced him to turn sharply. The lady’s chips were once more on the march. Topper gave them an impatient shove, but the chips stubbornly resisted his efforts.
“What’s this?” demanded the woman in a tired, metallic voice. “After my chips again. Is this some new racket? Trying to grab my chips, then pretending I gave them to you?”
Topper could not reply. A scraping of chips from the right attracted his attention. Both of his hands were now occupied in resisting the generous impulses of his neighbors. The onlookers gained the impression that Mr. Topper was endeavoring violently to extract chips from two players at once.
“This is most embarrassing,” he managed to get out. “Are you both deliberately trying to frame me? Please keep your chips to yourselves.”
“I don’t know how you are doing this thing,” gritted the man, “but doing it you are. Take your hand off my chips.”
“I’m afraid to,” replied Topper, breaking out in a gentle sweat. “Suppose you hold onto them for a change.”
At this moment a stack of chips came swooping gracefully across the table from a sallow-faced individual seated directly opposite Topper. It looked as if the man had either lost all patience or else was endeavoring to outdo the others in generosity. Topper, releasing his hold on the stacks of chips to the left and right of him, endeavored to repel this frontal attack. Too late. The three piles of chips ducked under his guard and clashed noisily together in front of the mortified man.
“I’m sure I thank you all,” began Mr. Topper with a sick smile.
“How did you do that?” interrupted the individual from across the table. “I’ll give you those chips if you tell me how.”
“I didn’t,” cried Mr. Topper. “You must have hurled them at me.”
“If he can gather money as easily as all that,” observed a gentleman sitting next to Sallow Face, “why does he trouble to come here?”
“He should be picked up,” said a woman maliciously.
“And chucked in,” added a man.
“I assure you,” began Mr. Topper, then his voice trailed away.
Piles of chips were now advancing upon him from several different directions. Topper felt not unlike Alice being attacked by the pack of cards. He was afraid that at any moment the chips would begin to fight their way into his pockets. With cool, penetrating eyes the croupier sat and regarded the scene. He earnestly desired to discover how all this was being done. Around the table various players were struggling with their chips, which were leaping at Mr. Topper like frantic fish.
“For God’s sake, cut it out,” muttered Topper passionately to the air about him. “Don’t you realize they’ll pull me in?”
He rose from the table and looked about him at the bewildered faces of the players.
“Sorry,” he said in a strained voice. “If you insist on giving your chips away, you’ll have to give them to someone else.”
As if in answer to this, the wheel suddenly started in to spin rapidly of its own accord. And with this the frigidity of the croupier melted as if seared by the flames of hell.
“Mille tonnerre!” the man exclaimed, striving to restrain his eyes. “The play is at an end.”
He endeavored to arrest the speeding wheel. It hesitated, momentarily, then hurried with renewed vigor on its way.
Topper turned from the table, leaving the chips of the players as well as their nerves in a sadly confused condition. The croupier removed his fascinated eyes from the wheel long enough to signal to an attendant. From that time on Mr. Topper’s movements were followed by the unobtrusive eyes of several professional observers. Fearing the chips might begin to follow him about the place, Topper collected his hat and stick and left the Casino. On the steps there was a brief and intense struggle. Unseen hands were trying to hold him back. Topper resisted furiously. Witnesses of the scene were both amused and alarmed to see a middle-aged gentleman, faultlessly dressed, dodging this way and that, as if endeavoring to elude his own shadow.
“I won’t go back!” they heard him mutter. “Damned if I will. You’ll have to carry me in. I’ll lie down right here in the street.”
But what surprised the witnesses even more than this seemingly fruitless quarrel with himself was the inexplicable presence of a beard — just that, a beard, an agitated blue-black beard that looked for all the world as if it were trying to whisper in the ear of the gentleman in evening clothes. With frantic hands Topper kept trying to push the beard away.
“Don’t!” they heard him mutter several times. “I can’t stand that beard. If you’ve anything to say, speak out.”
“All right,” came the Colonel’s voice from space. “If he won’t go back he won’t go back. That’s all there is to it. We can’t carry him in and dump him on one of the tables.”
“Then drag him along,” said a woman’s voice.
The witnesses then saw the middle-aged gentleman depart through the night in a peculiar slanting fashion. His feet were swinging behind him and were barely touching the ground.
“Mad as a hatter,” remarked a man to his momentary mistress. “No doubt his losses have unhinged his reason.”
“Well, that’s no reason why he should try to unhinge mine,” the woman complained fretfully as momentary or age-old mistresses will. “Let’s give this place a miss and confine ourselves to drinking. My feet hurt.”
“Put me down,” Mr. Topper was crying aloud to darkness. “Let me walk. It’s these exasperating little things that get the best of me.”
He was allowed to walk back to his hotel, from which the manager for various reasons too painful to mention asked him to remove his party in the morning.
“We’ll wreck the damn place before then,” a woman’s voice was heard to remark as the manager turned away.
However, this never occurred. Half an hour later four beautifully uniformed gendarmes escorted Topper and his jeering companions over the border into France.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sanctuary
“AS FOR ME,” weightily pronounced Monsieur Dalmas, the small French avocat as he daintily replaced his empty glass among the domesticated flies on the evil-looking table top, “as for me, Monsieur Toppaire, I admire America greatly. In fact, I might even say that I am my country’s most passionate friend of your country.”
“M’sieu,” replied Mr. Topper, regarding the little man with mild alarm, “I did not know matters had gone as far as that.”
“They have,” said Monsieur Dalmas moodily. “Matters have advanced to that stage — even beyond.”
“You are amiable, m’sieu,” Mr. Topper assured him. “Also your heart is huge. As for me, I am no less inarticulately enamored of your fair country.”
The two gracious gentlemen were seated in a little combination café and épicerie situated on the fringe of a pine forest which overhung the sea. Here in this quiet country settlement Topper had at last found sanctuary. Already the owner of the grocery-store-café loved him well. Likewise did the owner’s wife, her two sons, her one daughter, and their tiny but voluble grandmother. It was Sunday — a day reverenced by the French because enjoyed with a light heart — and the bare, unpicturesque room of the café contained a small cross section of France. There were country folk gathered from the neighboring farms and vineyards, fishermen and fishermen’s wives absent a moment from their nets, friends and relations drawn from the resort towns along the coast to visit for the day. And there was a sprinkling of soldiers and sailors, in constant demand by the French maidens, who danced, drank, laughed, and sweated, fought and made love, with impartial enthusiasm. There were children and dogs and a number of incredibly aged yet animated men and women. Some sinister-looking characters were present, many attractive ones, and an equal number of dull ones. Much excitement but little actual inebriety. There was too much concentrated thrift as well as poverty present in the room to permit of that indulgence.
Marion Kerby was dancing meaningless twirls with a confusingly nimble sailor. Her expression was surprised, amused, and a trifle strained. Mr. Topper preferred not to look at them. He preferred, rather, to drink with Monsieur l’avocat, a delightful little gentleman who spent most of his sober hours in knitting intricate little nets for the retention of even littler fishes. Needless to say Monsieur l’avocat was not knitting now, nor had he been for some time past. For the moment the little fish were free from the peril of his nets.
“But, Monsieur Toppaire,” the old man resumed, “I am much fonder of America than you can achieve for France. Is it not so?”
“No, it is not so,” said Topper promptly. “And don’t be silly, Monsieur Dalmas. You, sir, loathe America in comparison with the intensity of my emotion for France.”
“What then should we do about it?” demanded the lawyer a little hopelessly. “Or should we do anything at all except order fresh drinks?”
“How about exchanging countries?” suggested Mr. Topper, for lack of anything better to say.
“An excellent idea,” replied the little lawyer solemnly. “But what would our respective countries have to say to such a high-handed procedure?”
“Our respective countries would remain agreeably silent,” Mr. Topper continued. “We will exchange them secretly, without their knowledge and only between ourselves.”
“You mean,” said the small Frenchman, “we will do nothing to the countries — make no attempt to move them like —— ?” He ended his sentence by vaguely waving his hands across each other.
Mr. Topper thought deeply.
“No,” he said at last, “that would be too difficult. One can hardly move countries in secret.”
“Then is it that I can now consider myself entirely American?” asked Monsieur Dalmas eagerly.
“It is,” replied Mr. Topper, wondering how he had ever got himself so deeply involved in this profitless subject. “And as for me, I am French to my finger tips.”
“And is it that you feel changed, m’sieu — different, perhaps?” asked the lawyer.
“Thirstier,” reflected Topper briefly, as indeed he was.
“Then you are of a full truth French,” declared Monsieur Dalmas. “And for the reason that I feel even thirstier than that, I must be typically American.”
Fresh glasses were ordered and speedily dispatched. It was a hot day, and the room was growing increasingly more crowded. The automatic piano jangled viciously through its four-piece repertoire.
“I shall sail for America within the week,” the little lawyer continued contentedly. “It will be nice to return home, although I love your France.”
Mr. Topper was truly alarmed by this turn of affairs. If Monsieur Dalmas started in to proclaim how much he loved Mr. Topper’s France, and Mr. Topper were in turn forced to declare how deeply he admired Monsieur Dalmas’s America, the conversation might continue on forever. In spite of this possibility, Mr. Topper answered almost sadly.
“I don’t think I’ll venture abroad this year,” he said. “My place is right here in France.”
The lawyer nodded comprehendingly.
“Yes,” he replied. “Your country needs you now.”
“But you will write?” Mr. Topper inquired.
“Assuredly, m’sieu,” said the other. “We shall both write constantly.”
“What about?” asked Mr. Topper.
“About the ineffable beauties of our respective countries,” replied Monsieur Dalmas.
“And the one who succeeds in making the other homesick wins,” said Mr. Topper.
“And I dare say you consider yourselves no end humorous,” broke in the voice of Marion Kerby. “I’ve been listening to a lot of this — too much of it, in fact.”
“Does she go with the exchange?” inquired the little lawyer hopefully.
Marion looked at him pityingly.
“You, Monsieur Dalmas,” she observed, “had better go back to your little fish and your tatting.”
Topper laughed at Marion’s disgusted expression.
“You’re a fine pair of olds,” she said. “I am going to take this one out for a walk.”
“I would very much like to accompany you,” put in Monsieur Dalmas earnestly. “Monsieur Toppaire can point out to me the unique charms of his country. It is so helpful to a foreigner.”
“You’ve both driven each other cuckoo, if you ask me,” replied Marion. “But come along, and just to make you feel at home I’ll play I’m a Siamese twin.”
After a few more rounds of drinks Marion led her two men from the café after having first shaken hands with the patron, who stood looking after them admiringly.
Taking a path through the pines, they wound downward towards the sea. They came upon it in a quiet place where rocks were, and the murmurous washing of waves — waves rising and receding and rustling among the rocks. A breeze dipped in spray moved about this place — this little pine-framed cove — and made it cool. It was pleasant here, and quiet. A good place to rest in and to recapture one’s self after a little too much grog. The pocket edition of French jurisprudence lay down and promptly fell asleep. Topper, after a slight struggle, followed his example. Marion aired her slim legs and considered the Mediterranean. Then she looked at the two men and thought them little better than dogs — an old dog and a middle-aged dog, both pleased with their own conceits. Idly she wondered what other women thought of when they had both the chance and the inclination to think at all. Perhaps they were, like her, appalled by the scanty realization of the abundant promise of life. Even the fullest of lives was two thirds of the time empty, alone, and discontented. The technique of living itself had been neglected.
In a world so rich that every human being in it could lie on his back half the day and watch the clouds roll by, why was it that only a handful enjoyed the leisure to travel and to sample a little of the diversity of life? Here were two sleeping sots who had spent nine tenths of their lives at work, and yet only small chunks of happiness had been vouchsafed them. Not desperate characters, either of them, yet the necessity to work according to their lights had probably forced them to do more harm than good to their fellow men along the way. Not a pleasant thought, that — the evil unconsciously created through the operations of the economic system. Yet you could not laugh it off. The very facts of a man’s success were some other man’s skids to failure, discouragement, and warped thoughts. Marion decided that every man should have the right to fail in his own peculiar way. If failure were not penalized by economic and social oblivion, more men would attempt the impossible and attain it. Neither success, nor strength, nor power should be the standards by which life was measured, for in themselves they were meaningless units devoid of any inherent or lasting value. And all this business about vice and virtue took up altogether too much time. God kept silent, perhaps, merely because He was ashamed of the various things His side had said both for and about him. A person who tried hard to be good and one who worked hard to be bad were wasting a lot of effort to arrive at the same end — disillusionment. There was not enough silence in the world, and not enough honest laughter, laughter straight from the belly. Sex should be taken out and aired and given a clean bill of health. It should be put on a self-supporting basis. There should be public sex parks as well as athletic parks. “Fields for friendly frolics,” she said half aloud.
“What?” exclaimed Mr. Topper, suddenly sitting up.
She looked near-sightedly at him and smiled.
“Nothing,” she said. “You’re too gross to understand. I was thinking of a lot of lonely, ingrown men and women made so through the absence of a little band of gold.”
“I can think of a lot who are made so through its presence,” replied Mr. Topper.
“Are you speaking to me as a Frenchman or as an American?” demanded Marion.
“As one who has suffered,” answered Topper.
“Wonder what the Colonel and Mrs. Hart are doing?” she mused, suddenly changing the subject.
“Something cheerfully sinful, no doubt,” he told her.
“They’re nice people,” said Marion. “The world at least gets a kick out of their wickedness as some call it.”
“I get a great deal more than a kick,” replied Mr. Topper.
