But I had no plan. My next interview with Madame Brandt brought me no
further. We have established telephonic communications. Through the
medium of this diabolical engine of loquacity and indiscretion, I was
prevailed on to accompany her to a rehearsal of Anastasius's cats.
Rogers, with a face as imperturbable as if he was announcing the visit
of an archbishop, informed me at the appointed hour that Madame Brandt's
brougham was at the door. I went down and found the brougham open, as
the day was fine, and Lola Brandt, smiling under a gigantic hat with an
amazing black feather, and looking as handsome as you please.
We were blocked for a few minutes at the mouth of the courtyard, and
I had the pleasure of all Piccadilly that passed staring at us in
admiration. Lola Brandt liked it; but I didn't, especially when I
recognised one of the starers as the eldest Drascombe-Prynne boy whose
people in Paris are receiving Eleanor Faversham under their protection.
A nice reputation I shall be acquiring. My companion was in gay mood.
Now, as it is no part of dealing unto oneself a happy life and portion
to damp a fellow creature's spirits, I responded with commendable
gaiety.
I own that the drive to Professor Anastasius Papadopoulos's cattery in
Rosebery Avenue, Clerkenwell, was distinctly enjoyable. I forgot all
about the little pain inside and the Fury with the abhorred shears, and
talked a vast amount of nonsense which the lady was pleased to regard
as wit, for she laughed wholeheartedly, showing her strong white, even
teeth. But why was I going?
Was it because she had requested me through the telephone to give
unimagined happiness to a poor little freak who would be as proud as
Punch to exhibit his cats to an English Member of Parliament? Was it
in order to further my designs--Machiavellian towards the lady, but
eumoirous towards Dale? Or was it simply for my own good pleasure?
Professor Anastasius Papadopoulos, resplendently raimented, with the
shiniest of silk hats and a flower in the buttonhole of his frock-coat,
received us at the door of a small house, the first-floor windows of
which announced the tenancy of a maker of gymnastic appliances; and
having kissed Madame Brandt's hand with awful solemnity and bowed deeply
to me, he preceded us down the passage, out into the yard, and into a
ramshackle studio at the end, where his cats had their being.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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