Margarita's Soul: The Romantic Recollections of a Man of FiftyBacon, Josephine Daskam
General
Margarita's Soul: The Romantic Recollections of a Man of Fifty
Bacon, Josephine Daskam
Fiction
"That man," she answered, her voice vibrating like a swept
violoncello, "is a devil. Did you not see what he gave me? It was not
food at all, but freezing snow. Snow should not be in a glass, but on
the ground. It is plain that he wishes to kill me."
Her resonant voice filled every corner of the room; it was impossible
for anyone in it to miss the situation, and with a sudden inspiration
Roger spoke with a special distinctness to the proprietor, noticing
that the dozen persons at the tables were obviously French, and using
that language.
"Mademoiselle is but recently come out of the convent," said he. "She
has lived always in the provinces and has never had the honour of
tasting such admirable forms of dessert as Monsieur offers his
patrons."
The proprietor bowed; an extraordinary mixture of expressions played
over his countenance.
"That sees itself, Monsieur," he replied. "The affair is already
forgotten. I have summoned a closed carriage for Monsieur."
And thus it was that Roger found himself for the second time in a
carriage with Margarita Josephine Dolores, but with a great difference
in his attitude toward that young person. It is a fact possibly
curious but certainly undeniable, that when one receives a wine-glass
full in the face at the hands of an acquaintance, however recent, this
acquaintance is placed immediately upon terms of a certain intimacy
with one; the ice, at least, is broken. An unconscious conviction of
this coloured Roger's tone and shone in his eyes.
"You must never do such a thing as that, Margarita," he said, "that
was a terrible thing to do."
"It was a terrible thing that he did to me," replied Margarita
composedly.
"Nonsense," said Roger, "perfect nonsense! The man meant you no harm.
He brought you only what I had ordered for you."
"You! You told him to try to kill me?" cried this unbelievable
Margarita, and turning in her seat with the swiftness of a panther she
slapped him, a stinging, biting blow, flat across his cheek. A tornado
of answering rage whirled him out of himself and seizing her wrists,
he bent them behind her back.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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