Evening star., 1925-06-11
Continued from Yesterdays star)

-
Now and then Aristide played with
the idea really to write 'Loutre," but
impossible. Loutre had grown out of
his hand. He had achieved shadowy
but gigantic proportions, somewhat
like a djinn in a fairy tale who, once
escaped out of the bottle of respect
able fiction, cannot possibly be forced
again into the narrow confines Of
circumscribed prison. No, Aristide de-
cided that the question was no longer
what he could do with Loutre. but
rather what Loutre was going to do
but Aristide sometimes toyed vaguely
with the fancy that Loutre had taken
possession of him, body and soul, and
was molding him to strange and
unknow purposes; that his poor, lazy.
happy-go-lucky, carefree self had be-
come the slave of Loutre, just as Sin
bad was the slave of the Old Man of
the Sea, and that whatever bodily
comfort he may have gained, his spir-
itual freedom was lost and gone.
Mondell, of course. was quite un-
aware that Aristide harbored any such
weird and disturbing thoughts. He
was frankly delighted with the sue
cess Of his protege, and If he found
the rich and feted Aristide vastly less
cheerful and far more irritable than
the poor poet had been, he put it
down to the erratic temperament of
genius who, having got all possible
things, will still demand of fate the
impossible. In fact, he admitted that
this touch Of disenchantment and mel
Ancholy was rather becoming to Aris-
tide and, had its market value; the
more somber Tritous little tales were,
the better the public seemed to enjoy
them, and Aristide's readings of his
own new contes were always visited
by the very best society. Mondell
sometimes thought that it was more
his manner than his matter that made
Aristide so successful as a lecturer.
He really never read; he sat-prefer-
ably at an open fireplace-in a deep
chair, or leaned against some wall or
column and told his little tales in
very natural, casual matter -of-fact
way which was yet strangely effective.
While he was speaking a cigarette
dangled between his lean, brown fin
gers, and-if the lights were dim
enough-he punctuated his pauses by
the glow of his cigarette, a glow which
at certain moments had a decidedly
sulphurous tang and tinge. rs he
not more an actor than a poet?" won
dered Mondell, and even mentioned
one day something of this thought to
Aristide. But Tritou glowered quite
menacingly at his friend without
VouchSaf1ng any answer, and the topic
But whatever Aristide's special
quality might have been, histrionic or
poetic. he certainly had a personal
appeal. and even the very exclusive
club, Femiha, invited him to one of
its famous literary teas and gave him
the very best place on the program.
Mondell gratified and elated, Aristide
sulky and i'll tempered, drove on the
appointed day to the Avenue des
Champs Elysees where the club was
housed in distinguished little palais.
On the way Mondell commented de-
lightedly on his friends good for
tune.
I'll tell you, Aristide." he said. "you
can be satisfied If l think of YOU
as you We're last year-shabby,
threadbare. starved. almost begging
me for a position: and now, elegant,
feted, successful, the guest of Femi-
nd-ltS ) WONDERFUL LOutTe mas Indue
YOU"
Il guess so" granted Aristide, but
he did not sound very pleased and his
face did not brighten even when he
stood before his very select audience
and began to speak. He looked
gloomily at the silken ladies and the
polished gentlemen and, leaning for
ward in the fauteuil provided for him,
he said to them:
yesterday, when the icy wind was
driving frozen snowf1akes over DESC
late looking streets, l stepped into a
little cafe round the corner just to
warm my hands on a steaming glass
of tea. And there / found at table
Satan sitting: alone. lonely, forlorn,
infinitely bored Somehow ! felt i'm
PEELED to speak to him, cheer him,
show him some human sympathy-he
really looked devlishly miserable. So
J went over to his table, offered him a