Chapter Two
In a week, Feuilly went to collect his poetry. He awoke early in the morning and, because it was a new week and he had a new two francs on which to manage, he went to a bistro and had a cup of black coffee and sucked on a lump of sugar that had been stolen, with utmost dexterity, from the plate of a wealthier customer, who was now loudly complaining about the loss. As Feuilly watched, a waiter brought him a new one instantly, and the whole commotion died down. If he had had any guilt about it, this would have successfully eliminated it.
After breakfast, he set out, pausing once or twice as people noticed him. A woman in an expensive dress and wrap stopped him and asked whether he knew the way to Araignee the seamstress' shop, and a fellow of his own sort, a ragged fellow, made small talk about the good weather they were having at last and how his flowers were finally selling again. Feuilly muttered something short and not very sympathetic, and went on.
By the time he reached the hotel, it was nearly midday, and he paused briefly, wondering if he wasn't going to come upon an empty room whose occupant was out having lunch at one of the innumerable caf�s and bistros, or even at a restaurant, a prospect so luxurious that although he refused to be impressed by it, he still hardly considered it, which betrayed him as duly impressed, indeed. Well, in that case, he considered, he might stay and wait, although time was rather an important thing for a man who worked. For a man who worked, time could not be wasted, thrown away, or treated lightly. Everything hinged upon time. He must be at his work at a certain time, he must count hours. He must make sure he only slept as he could spare the time, that he only ate when there was time, that he only waited so long at a door or with a potential customer before he must move on. Of course, it was Saturday again, and the working-men would be getting off work soon and going out to get drunk, and time was not exactly as precious as it was during the week; but being as careful with it as with money was something he had learnt all his life, and it was hard to shake it off, even for a day, or an afternoon. Besides, his work continued all week long.
However, he went in, he questioned the concierge; he went up, he knocked. The door wasn't opened and no one answered as he knocked a second time, but there was some sound of movement beyond, and he waited. When there was no further noise, he went down again, but the concierge assured him that the boy who rented that room was still in to-day, so he returned. He knocked again. Finally, he pushed the door open gingerly, almost comically, with one finger, and peered around the corner of the doorframe.
Almost at once, he began coughing hard.
The room was lightly misted with smoke, but filled with a strong, eye-stinging scent, apparently from a combination of candles, incense, tobacco, and opium, and he stepped back, bewildered, because it seemed he had got the wrong room--
"Prouvaire?" he muttered dubiously, putting his head forward again.
The young man who sat on the bed at the far side of the room was smiling, looking pale, ill, and intoxicated. He shook his head abstractedly and waved a hand unsteadily at the smoke around him, and his eyes focused and unfocused on Feuilly as he struggled to stay upright.
"Thassme," he said, slurring his words slightly. "It's good to see you--F-f-feuilly. God, I'm tired."
So Feuilly approached, feeling rather repulsed, and stood stiffly in front of the bed, looking down at the young man who beckoned to him with shaking hands, as though he were an old man.
"Well, then. What's happened to you?" he demanded roughly, wiping at his eyes because the smell was still stinging them horribly.
"Nothing, can't write... Always happens when I can't write..."
"Then you're not done with my things, I suppose?"
"No, I--I mean, yes, yes, yes..." Prouvaire trailed off, looking around, still smiling foolishly, but seeming rather lost. He seemed to have forgotten what he was going to say. "Always do th' things I need to, first... 'M a man of my work. Word. My--" He struggled upright. "God. Tired. Hm. Er. Hmm."
"I suppose, in that case, I can have them?" Being so sharp was the only way he could keep himself from leaving at once. It was revolting; it was what he hated so much about drunkenness. Everything about Prouvaire was uncontrolled and lolling, horribly unconcerned and unashamed. He swallowed with some difficulty and repeated his question, wanting to shake Prouvaire and yet hating the idea of touching him in that state.
Yes, yes, of course... Hate not writing. Hate it... Try so hard, got everything just right, and... and... nothing works." He gestured again, clutched at Feuilly's arm, only to have it quickly removed from reach. "Can't think of it..."
"Where are my things?"
"In--in--th' desk, under Catullus... Wish I was Catullus... He could--could write in Latin. Could he? Can't think of it. Catullus. He... drank hemlock. 'Spose there wasn't opium in Roma..."
Feuilly curled his lip with displeasure and dug through the mess on the desk. His poetry was underneath not only Catullus, but half a dozen unfinished epics and six volumes of contemporary poets, and three days' worth of rubbish newspapers. He could only tell what was his because it was marked, in good, fine, tutored handwriting, 'Feuilly' on the cover. He fished it out and tucked it under his arm.
"Thank you. Good-bye," he said, over-pronouncing his words.
"Not going?"
"Certainly. I have what I came for."
"I n-need water--or tea, n-neeed--oh--tea, I--" Prouvaire tried to get upright again. "I--you're--"
"I'll have some sent up."
Once he was out in the passage again, Feuilly wiped the stinging smell from his eyes and made a soft, frustrated noise. He had liked Prouvaire. He had trusted Prouvaire. He would not ask for an explanation, of course, but if Prouvaire didn't offer one, he was never going to be able to look him in the face again. God damn it, he muttered, and clutched the papers close on the way home.
On to Chapter Three.
Back to Chapter One.