Charley was taken aback.
He looked into Simon’s eyes.
They were dark and grim.
“Oh?
Why?”
“I’m through with you.”
“For good?”
“For good and all.”
“Don’t you think that’s rather a pity?
I haven’t been a bad friend to you, Simon.”
Simon was silent for a space no longer than it takes for an over-ripe fruit to fall from the tree to the ground.
“You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”
There was a break in his voice and his distress was so plain that Charley, moved, with both hands outstretched, stepped forward impulsively.
“Oh, Simon, why d’you make yourself so unhappy?”
A flame of rage leapt into Simon’s tortured eyes and clenching his fist he hit Charley as hard as he could on the chin.
The blow was so unexpected that he staggered and then, his feet slipping on the uncarpeted floor, fell headlong; he was on his feet in a flash and, furious with anger, sprang forward to give Simon the hiding he had often, when driven beyond endurance, given him before.
Simon stood quite still, his hands behind his back, as though ready and willing to take the chastisement that was coming to him without an effort to defend himself, and on his face was an expression of so much suffering, of such consternation, that Charley’s wrath was melted.
He stopped.
His chin was hurting him, but he gave a good-natured, chuckling laugh.
“You are an ass, Simon,” he said.
“You might have hurt me.”
“For God’s sake, get out.
Go back to that bloody whore.
I’m fed to the teeth with you.
Go, go.”
“All right, old man, I’m going.
But I want to give you a little presy that I brought you for your birthday on the seventh.”
He took out of his pocket one of those watches, covered in leather, which you open by pulling out the two sides, and which are wound by opening.
“There’s a ring on it so you can hang it on your key-chain.”
He put it down on the table.
Simon would not look at it.
Charley, his eyes twinkling with amusement, gave him a glance.
He waited for him to say something, but he did not speak.
Charley went to the door, opened it and walked out.
It was night, but the Boulevard Montparnasse was brightly lit.
With the New Year imminent there was a holiday feeling in the air.
The street was crowded and the cafes were chock-a-block.
Everybody was taking it easy.
But Charley was depressed. He had a feeling of mortification, as one might have if one had gone to a party, expecting to enjoy oneself, and because one had been stupid and tactless, had come away conscious that one had left behind a bad impression.
It was a comfort to get back to the sordid bedroom at the hotel.
Lydia was sitting by the log fire sewing, and the air was thick with the many cigarettes she had smoked.
The scene had a pleasant domesticity.
It reminded one of an interior of Vuillard’s, with its intimate, cosy charm, but painted by Utrillo so that it had at the same time a touching squalor.
Lydia greeted him with her quiet, friendly smile.
“How was your friend Simon?”
“Mad as a hatter.”
Lighting his pipe, he sat down on the floor in front of the fire, with his back against the seat of her chair.
Her nearness gave him a sense of comfort.
He was glad that she did not speak.
He was troubled by all the horrible things Simon had said to him.