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F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)

Saturday Evening Post (31 January 1931)

It is a place where one's instinct is to give a reason for being
there--"Oh, you see, I'm here because--"  Failing that, you are
faintly suspect, because this corner of Europe does not draw
people; rather, it accepts them without too many inconvenient
questions--live and let live.  Routes cross here--people bound for
private cliniques or tuberculosis resorts in the mountains, people
who are no longer persona grata in Italy or France.  And if that
were all--

Yet on a gala night at the Hotel des Trois Mondes a new arrival
would scarcely detect the current beneath the surface.  Watching
the dancing there would be a gallery of Englishwomen of a certain
age, with neckbands, dyed hair and faces powdered pinkish gray; a
gallery of American women of a certain age, with snowy-white
transformations, black dresses and lips of cherry red.  And most of
them with their eyes swinging right or left from time to time to
rest upon the ubiquitous Fifi.  The entire hotel had been made
aware that Fifi had reached the age of eighteen that night.

Fifi Schwartz.  An exquisitely, radiantly beautiful Jewess whose
fine, high forehead sloped gently up to where her hair, bordering
it like an armorial shield, burst into lovelocks and waves and
curlicues of soft dark red.  Her eyes were bright, big, clear, wet
and shining; the color of her cheeks and lips was real, breaking
close to the surface from the strong young pump of her heart.  Her
body was so assertively adequate that one cynic had been heard to
remark that she always looked as if she had nothing on underneath
her dresses; but he was probably wrong, for Fifi had been as
thoroughly equipped for beauty by man as by God.  Such dresses--
cerise for Chanel, mauve for Molyneux, pink for Patou; dozens of
them, tight at the hips, swaying, furling, folding just an eighth
of an inch off the dancing floor.  Tonight she was a woman of
thirty in dazzling black, with long white gloves dripping from her
forearms.  "Such ghastly taste," the whispers said.  "The stage,
the shop window, the manikins' parade.  What can her mother be
thinking?  But, then, look at her mother."

Her mother sat apart with a friend and thought about Fifi and
Fifi's brother, and about her other daughters, now married, whom
she considered to have been even prettier than Fifi.  Mrs. Schwartz
was a plain woman; she had been a Jewess a long time, and it was a
matter of effortless indifference to her what was said by the
groups around the room.  Another large class who did not care were
the young men--dozens of them.  They followed Fifi about all day in
and out of motorboats, night clubs, inland lakes, automobiles, tea
rooms and funiculars, and they said, "Hey, look, Fifi!" and showed
off for her, or said, "Kiss me, Fifi," or even, "Kiss me again,
Fifi," and abused her and tried to be engaged to her.

Most of them, however, were too young, since this little city,
through some illogical reasoning, is supposed to have an admirable
atmosphere as an educational center.

Fifi was not critical, nor was she aware of being criticized
herself.  Tonight the gallery in the great, crystal, horseshoe room
made observations upon her birthday party, being somewhat querulous
about Fifi's entrance.  The table had been set in the last of a
string of dining rooms, each accessible from the central hall.  But
Fifi, her black dress shouting and halloing for notice, came in by
way of the first dining room, followed by a whole platoon of young
men of all possible nationalities and crosses, and at a sort of
little run that swayed her lovely hips and tossed her lovely head,
led them bumpily through the whole vista, while old men choked on
fish bones, old women's facial muscles sagged, and the protest rose
to a roar in the procession's wake.

They need not have resented her so much.  It was a bad party,
because Fifi thought she had to entertain everybody and be a dozen
people, so she talked to the entire table and broke up every
conversation that started, no matter how far away from her.  So no
one had a good time, and the people in the hotel needn't have
minded so much that she was young and terribly happy.

Afterward, in the salon, many of the supernumerary males floated
off with a temporary air to other tables.  Among these was young
Count Stanislas Borowki, with his handsome, shining brown eyes of a
stuffed deer, and his black hair already dashed with distinguished
streaks like the keyboard of a piano.  He went to the table of some
people of position named Taylor and sat down with just a faint
sigh, which made them smile.

"Was it ghastly?" he was asked.

The blond Miss Howard who was traveling with the Taylors was almost
as pretty as Fifi and stitched up with more consideration.  She had
taken pains not to make Miss Schwartz's acquaintance, although she
shared several of the same young men.  The Taylors were career
people in the diplomatic service and were now on their way to
London, after the League Conference at Geneva.  They were
presenting Miss Howard at court this season.  They were very
Europeanized Americans; in fact, they had reached a position where
they could hardly be said to belong to any nation at all; certainly
not to any great power, but perhaps to a sort of Balkanlike state
composed of people like themselves.  They considered that Fifi was
as much of a gratuitous outrage as a new stripe in the flag.

The tall Englishwoman with the long cigarette holder and the half-
paralyzed Pekingese presently got up, announcing to the Taylors
that she had an engagement in the bar, and strolled away, carrying
her paralyzed Pekingese and causing, as she passed, a chilled lull
in the seething baby talk that raged around Fifi's table.

About midnight, Mr. Weicker, the assistant manager, looked into the
bar, where Fifi's phonograph roared new German tangoes into the
smoke and clatter.  He had a small face that looked into things
quickly, and lately he had taken a cursory glance into the bar
every night.  But he had not come to admire Fifi; he was engaged in
an inquiry as to why matters were not going well at the Hotel des
Trois Mondes this summer.

There was, of course, the continually sagging American Stock
Exchange.  With so many hotels begging to be filled, the clients
had become finicky, exigent, quick to complain, and Mr. Weicker had
had many fine decisions to make recently.  One large family had
departed because of a night-going phonograph belonging to Lady
Capps-Karr.  Also there was presumably a thief operating in the
hotel; there had been complaints about pocketbooks, cigarette
cases, watches and rings.  Guests sometimes spoke to Mr. Weicker as
if they would have liked to search his pockets.  There were empty
suites that need not have been empty this summer.

His glance fell dourly, in passing, upon Count Borowki, who was
playing pool with Fifi.  Count Borowki had not paid his bill for
three weeks.  He had told Mr. Weicker that he was expecting his
mother, who would arrange everything.  Then there was Fifi, who
attracted an undesirable crowd--young students living on pensions
who often charged drinks, but never paid for them.  Lady Capps-
Karr, on the contrary, was a grande cliente; one could count three
bottles of whisky a day for herself and entourage, and her father
in London was good for every drop of it.  Mr. Weicker decided to
issue an ultimatum about Borowki's bill this very night, and
withdrew.  His visit had lasted about ten seconds.

Count Borowki put away his cue and came close to Fifi, whispering
something.  She seized his hand and pulled him to a dark corner
near the phonograph.

"My American dream girl," he said.  "We must have you painted in
Budapest the way you are tonight.  You will hang with the portraits
of my ancestors in my castle in Transylvania."

One would suppose that a normal American girl, who had been to an
average number of moving pictures, would have detected a vague ring
of familiarity in Count Borowki's persistent wooing.  But the Hotel
des Trois Mondes was full of people who were actually rich and
noble, people who did fine embroidery or took cocaine in closed
apartments and meanwhile laid claim to European thrones and half a
dozen mediatized German principalities, and Fifi did not choose to
doubt the one who paid court to her beauty.  Tonight she was
surprised at nothing: not even his precipitate proposal that they
get married this very week.

"Mamma doesn't want that I should get married for a year.  I only
said I'd be engaged to you."

"But my mother wants me to marry.  She is hard-boiling, as you
Americans say; she brings pressure to bear that I marry Princess
This and Countess That."

Meanwhile Lady Capps-Karr was having a reunion across the room.  A
tall, stooped Englishman, dusty with travel, had just opened the
door of the bar, and Lady Capps-Karr, with a caw of "Bopes!" had
flung herself upon him:  "Bopes, I say!"

"Capps, darling.  Hi, there, Rafe--" this to her companion.  "Fancy
running into you, Capps."

"Bopes!  Bopes!"

Their exclamations and laughter filled the room, and the bartender
whispered to an inquisitive American that the new arrival was the
Marquis Kinkallow.

Bopes stretched himself out in several chairs and a sofa and called
for the barman.  He announced that he had driven from Paris without
a stop and was leaving next morning to meet the only woman he had
ever loved, in Milan.  He did not look in a condition to meet

"Oh, Bopes, I've been so blind," said Lady Capps-Karr pathetically.
"Day after day after day.  I flew here from Cannes, meaning to stay
one day, and I ran into Rafe here and some other Americans I knew,
and it's been two weeks, and now all my tickets to Malta are void.
Stay here and save me!  Oh, Bopes!  Bopes!  Bopes!"

The Marquis Kinkallow glanced with tired eyes about the bar.

"Ah, who is that?" he demanded.  "The lovely Jewess?  And who is
that item with her?"

"She's an American," said the daughter of a hundred earls.  "The
man is a scoundrel of some sort, but apparently he's a cat of the
stripe; he's a great pal of Schenzi, in Vienna.  I sat up till five
the other night playing two-handed chemin de fer with him here in
the bar and he owes me a mille Swiss."

"Have to have a word with that wench," said Bopes twenty minutes
later.  "You arrange it for me, Rafe, that's a good chap."

Ralph Berry had met Miss Schwartz, and, as the opportunity for the
introduction now presented itself, he rose obligingly.  The
opportunity was that a chasseur had just requested Count Borowki's
presence in the office; he managed to beat two or three young men
to her side.

"The Marquis Kinkallow is so anxious to meet you.  Can't you come
and join us?"

Fifi looked across the room, her fine brow wrinkling a little.
Something warned her that her evening was full enough already.
Lady Capps-Karr had never spoken to her; Fifi believed she was
jealous of her clothes.

"Can't you bring him over here?"

A minute later Bopes sat down beside Fifi with a shadow of fine
tolerance settling on his face.  This was nothing he could help; in
fact, he constantly struggled against it, but it was something that
happened to his expression when he met Americans.  "The whole thing
is too much for me," it seemed to say.  "Compare my confidence with
your uncertainty, my sophistication with your naïveté, and yet the
whole world has slid into your power."  Of later years he found
that his tone, unless carefully guarded, held a smoldering

Fifi eyed him brightly and told him about her glamorous future.

"Next I'm going to Paris," she said, announcing the fall of Rome,
"to, maybe, study at the Sorbonne.  Then, maybe, I'll get married;
you can't tell.  I'm only eighteen.  I had eighteen candles on my
birthday cake tonight.  I wish you could have been here. . . .
I've had marvelous offers to go on the stage, but of course a girl
on the stage gets talked about so."

"What are you doing tonight?" asked Bopes.

"Oh, lots more boys are coming in later.  Stay around and join the

"I thought you and I might do something.  I'm going to Milan

Across the room, Lady Capps-Karr was tense with displeasure at the

"After all," she protested, "a chep's a chep, and a chum's a chum,
but there are certain things that one simply doesn't do.  I never
saw Bopes in such frightful condition."

She stared at the dialogue across the room.

"Come along to Milan with me," the marquis was saying.  "Come to
Tibet or Hindustan.  We'll see them crown the King of Ethiopia.
Anyhow, let's go for a drive right now."

"I got too many guests here.  Besides, I don't go out to ride with
people the first time I meet them.  I'm supposed to be engaged.  To
a Hungarian count.  He'd be furious and would probably challenge
you to a duel."

Mrs. Schwartz, with an apologetic expression, came across the room
to Fifi.

"John's gone," she announced.  "He's up there again."

Fifi gave a yelp of annoyance.  "He gave me his word of honor he
would not go."

"Anyhow, he went.  I looked in his room and his hat's gone.  It was
that champagne at dinner."  She turned to the marquis.  "John is
not a vicious boy, but vurry, vurry weak."

"I suppose I'll have to go after him," said Fifi resignedly.

"I hate to spoil your good time tonight, but I don't know what
else.  Maybe this gentleman would go with you.  You see, Fifi is
the only one that can handle him.  His father is dead and it really
takes a man to handle a boy."

"Quite," said Bopes.

"Can you take me?" Fifi asked.  "It's just up in town to a café."

He agreed with alacrity.  Out in the September night, with her
fragrance seeping through an ermine cape, she explained further:

"Some Russian woman's got hold of him; she claims to be a countess,
but she's only got one silver-fox fur, that she wears with
everything.  My brother's just nineteen, so whenever he's had a
couple glasses champagne he says he's going to marry her, and
mother worries."

Bopes' arm dropped impatiently around her shoulder as they started
up the hill to the town.

Fifteen minutes later the car stopped at a point several blocks
beyond the café and Fifi stepped out.  The marquis' face was now
decorated by a long, irregular finger-nail scratch that ran
diagonally across his cheek, traversed his nose in a few sketchy
lines and finished in a sort of grand terminal of tracks upon his
lower jaw.

"I don't like to have anybody get so foolish," Fifi explained.
"You needn't wait.  We can get a taxi."

"Wait!" cried the marquis furiously.  "For a common little person
like you?  They tell me you're the laughingstock of the hotel, and
I quite understand why."

Fifi hurried along the street and into the café, pausing in the
door until she saw her brother.  He was a reproduction of Fifi
without her high warmth; at the moment he was sitting at a table
with a frail exile from the Caucasus and two Serbian consumptives.
Fifi waited for her temper to rise to an executive pitch; then she
crossed the dance floor, conspicuous as a thundercloud in her
bright black dress.

"Mamma sent me after you, John.  Get your coat."

"Oh, what's biting her?" he demanded, with a vague eye.

"Mamma says you should come along."

He got up unwillingly.  The two Serbians rose also; the countess
never moved; her eyes, sunk deep in Mongol cheek bones, never left
Fifi's face; her head crouched in the silver-fox fur which Fifi
knew represented her brother's last month's allowance.  As John
Schwartz stood there swaying unsteadily the orchestra launched into
Ich bin von Kopf bis Fuss.  Diving into the confusion of the table,
Fifi emerged with her brother's arm, marched him to the coat room
and then out toward the taxi stand.

It was late, the evening was over, her birthday was over, and
driving back to the hotel, with John slumped against her shoulder,
Fifi felt a sudden depression.  By virtue of her fine health she
had never been a worrier, and certainly the Schwartz family had
lived so long against similar backgrounds that Fifi felt no
insufficiency in the Hotel des Trois Mondes as cloud and community--
and yet the evening was suddenly all wrong.  Didn't evenings
sometimes end on a high note and not fade out vaguely in bars?
After ten o'clock every night she felt she was the only real being
in a colony of ghosts, that she was surrounded by utterly
intangible figures who retreated whenever she stretched out her

The doorman assisted her brother to the elevator.  Stepping in,
Fifi saw, too late, that there were two other people inside.
Before she could pull John out again, they had both brushed past
her as if in fear of contamination.  Fifi heard "Mercy!" from Mrs.
Taylor and "How revolting!" from Miss Howard.  The elevator
mounted.  Fifi held her breath until it stopped at her floor.

It was, perhaps, the impact of this last encounter that caused her
to stand very still just inside the door of the dark apartment.
Then she had the sense that someone else was there in the blackness
ahead of her, and after her brother had stumbled forward and thrown
himself on a sofa, she still waited.

"Mamma," she called, but there was no answer; only a sound fainter
than a rustle, like a shoe scraped along the floor.

A few minutes later, when her mother came upstairs, they called the
valet de chambre and went through the rooms together, but there was
no one.  Then they stood side by side in the open door to their
balcony and looked out on the lake with the bright cluster of Evian
on the French shore and the white caps of snow on the mountains.

"I think we've been here long enough," said Mrs. Schwartz suddenly.
"I think I'll take John back to the States this fall."

Fifi was aghast.  "But I thought John and I were going to the
Sorbonne in Paris?"

"How can I trust him in Paris?  And how could I leave you behind
alone there?"

"But we're used to living in Europe now.  Why did I learn to talk
French?  Why, mamma, we don't even know any people back home any

"We can always meet people.  We always have."

"But you know it's different; everybody is so bigoted there.  A
girl hasn't the chance to meet the same sort of men, even if there
were any.  Everybody just watches everything you do."

"So they do here," said her mother.  "That Mr. Weicker just stopped
me in the hall; he saw you come in with John, and he talked to me
about how you must keep out of the bar, you were so young.  I told
him you only took lemonade, but he said it didn't matter; scenes
like tonight made people leave the hotel."

"Oh, how perfectly mean!"

"So I think we better go back home."

The empty word rang desolately in Fifi's ears.  She put her arms
around her mother's waist, realizing that it was she and not her
mother, with her mother's clear grip on the past, who was
completely lost in the universe.  On the sofa her brother snored,
having already entered the world of the weak, of the leaners
together, and found its fetid and mercurial warmth sufficient.  But
Fifi kept looking at the alien sky, knowing that she could pierce
it and find her own way through envy and corruption.  For the first
time she seriously considered marrying Borowki immediately.

"Do you want to go downstairs and say good night to the boys?"
suggested her mother.  "There's lots of them still there asking
where you are."

But the Furies were after Fifi now--after her childish complacency
and her innocence, even after her beauty--out to break it all down
and drag it in any convenient mud.  When she shook her head and
walked sullenly into her bedroom, they had already taken something
from her forever.


The following morning Mrs. Schwartz went to Mr. Weicker's office to
report the loss of two hundred dollars in American money.  She had
left the sum on her chiffonier upon retiring; when she awoke, it
was gone.  The door of the apartment had been bolted, but in the
morning the bolt was found drawn, and yet neither of her children
was awake.  Fortunately, she had taken her jewels to bed with her
in a chamois sack.

Mr. Weicker decided that the situation must be handled with care.
There were not a few guests in the hotel who were in straitened
circumstances and inclined to desperate remedies, but he must move
slowly.  In America one has money or hasn't; in Europe the heir to
a fortune may be unable to stand himself a haircut until the
collapse of a fifth cousin, yet be a sure risk and not to be
lightly offended.  Opening the office copy of the Almanack de
Gotha, Mr. Weicker found Stanislas Karl Joseph Borowki hooked
firmly on to the end of a line older than the crown of St. Stephen.
This morning, in riding clothes that were smart as a hussar's
uniform, he had gone riding with the utterly correct Miss Howard.
On the other hand, there was no doubt as to who had been robbed,
and Mr. Weicker's indignation began to concentrate on Fifi and her
family, who might have saved him this trouble by taking themselves
off some time ago.  It was even conceivable that the dissipated
son, John, had nipped the money.

In all events, the Schwartzes were going home.  For three years
they had lived in hotels--in Paris, Florence, St. Raphael, Como,
Vichy, La Baule, Lucerne, Baden-Baden and Biarritz.  Everywhere
there had been schools--always new schools--and both children spoke
in perfect French and scrawny fragments of Italian.  Fifi had grown
from a large-featured child of fourteen to a beauty; John had grown
into something rather dismal and lost.  Both of them played bridge,
and somewhere Fifi had picked up tap dancing.  Mrs. Schwartz felt
that it was all somehow unsatisfactory, but she did not know why.
So, two days after Fifi's party, she announced that they would pack
their trunks, go to Paris for some new fall clothes and then go

That same afternoon Fifi came to the bar to get her phonograph,
left there the night of her party.  She sat up on a high stool and
talked to the barman while she drank a ginger ale.

"Mother wants to take me back to America, but I'm not going."

"What will you do?"

"Oh, I've got a little money of my own, and then I may get
married."  She sipped her ginger ale moodily.

"I hear you had some money stolen," he remarked.  "How did it

"Well, Count Borowki thinks the man got into the apartment early
and hid in between the two doors between us and the next apartment.
Then, when we were asleep, he took the money and walked out."


Fifi sighed.  "Well, you probably won't see me in the bar any

"We'll miss you, Miss Schwartz."

Mr. Weicker put his head in the door, withdrew it and then came in

"Hello," said Fifi coldly.

"A-ha, young lady."  He waggled his finger at her with affected
facetiousness.  "Didn't you know I spoke to your mother about your
coming in to the bar?  It's merely for your own good."

"I'm just having a ginger ale," she said indignantly.

"But no one can tell what you're having.  It might be whisky or
what not.  It is the other guests who complain."

She stared at him indignantly--the picture was so different from
her own--of Fifi as the lively center of the hotel, of Fifi in
clothes that ravished the eye, standing splendid and unattainable
amid groups of adoring men.  Suddenly Mr. Weicker's obsequious, but
hostile, face infuriated her.

"We're getting out of this hotel!" she flared up.  "I never saw
such a narrow-minded bunch of people in my life; always criticizing
everybody and making up terrible things about them, no matter what
they do themselves.  I think it would be a good thing if the hotel
caught fire and burned down with all the nasty cats in it."

Banging down her glass, she seized the phonograph case and stalked
out of the bar.

In the lobby a porter sprang to help her, but she shook her head
and hurried on through the salon, where she came upon Count

"Oh, I'm so furious!" she cried.  "I never saw so many old cats!  I
just told Mr. Weicker what I thought of them!"

"Did someone dare to speak rudely to you?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter.  We're going away."

"Going away!"  He started.  "When?"

"Right away.  I don't want to, but mamma says we've got to."

"I must talk to you seriously about this," he said.  "I just called
your room.  I have brought you a little engagement present."

Her spirits returned as she took the handsome gold-and-ivory
cigarette case engraved with her initials.

"How lovely!"

"Now, listen; what you tell me makes it more important that I talk
to you immediately.  I have just received another letter from my
mother.  They have chosen a girl for me in Budapest--a lovely girl,
rich and beautiful and of my own rank who would be very happy at
the match, but I am in love with you.  I would never have thought
it possible, but I have lost my heart to an American."

"Well, why not?" said Fifi, indignantly.  "They call girls
beautiful here if they have one good feature.  And then, if they've
got nice eyes or hair, they're usually bow-legged or haven't got
nice teeth."

"There is no flaw or fault in you."

"Oh, yes," said Fifi modestly.  "I got a sort of big nose.  Would
you know I was Jewish?"

With a touch of impatience, Borowki came back to his argument:  "So
they are bringing pressure to bear for me to marry.  Questions of
inheritance depend on it."

"Besides, my forehead is too high," observed Fifi abstractedly.
"It's so high it's got sort of wrinkles in it.  I knew an awfully
funny boy who used to call me 'the highbrow.'"

"So the sensible thing," pursued Borowki, "is for us to marry
immediately.  I tell you frankly there are other American girls not
far from here who wouldn't hesitate."

"Mamma would be about crazy," Fifi said.

"I've thought about that too," he answered her eagerly.  "Don't
tell her.  If we drove over the border tonight we could be married
tomorrow morning.  Then we come back and you show your mother the
little gilt coronets painted on your luggage.  My own personal
opinion is that she'll be delighted.  There you are, off her hands,
with social position second to none in Europe.  In my opinion, your
mother has probably thought of it already, and may be saying to
herself:  'Why don't those two young people just take matters into
their own hands and save me all the fuss and expense of a wedding?'
I think she would like us for being so hard-boiled."

He broke off impatiently as Lady Capps-Karr, emerging from the
dining room with her Pekingese, surprised them by stopping at their
table.  Count Borowki was obliged to introduce them.  As he had not
known of the Marquis Kinkallow's defection the other evening, nor
that His Lordship had taken a wound to Milan the following morning,
he had no suspicion of what was coming.

"I've noticed Miss Schwartz," said the Englishwoman in a clear,
concise voice.  "And of course I've noticed Miss Schwartz's

"Won't you sit down?" said Fifi.

"No, thank you."  She turned to Borowki.  "Miss Schwartz's clothes
make us all appear somewhat drab.  I always refuse to dress
elaborately in hotels.  It seems such rotten taste.  Don't you
think so?"

"I think people always ought to look nice," said Fifi, flushing.

"Naturally.  I merely said that I consider it rotten taste to dress
elaborately, save in the houses of one's friends."

She said "Good-by-e-e" to Borowki and moved on, emitting a mouthed
cloud of smoke and a faint fragrance of whisky.

The insult had been as stinging as the crack of a whip, and as
Fifi's pride of her wardrobe was swept away from her, she heard all
the comments that she had not heard, in one great resurgent
whisper.  Then they said that she wore her clothes here because she
had nowhere else to wear them.  That was why the Howard girl
considered her vulgar and did not care to know her.

For an instant her anger flamed up against her mother for not
telling her, but she saw that her mother did not know either.

"I think she's so dowdy," she forced herself to say aloud, but
inside she was quivering.  "What is she, anyhow?  I mean, how high
is her title?  Very high?"

"She's the widow of a baronet."

"Is that high?"  Fifi's face was rigid.  "Higher than a countess?"

"No.  A countess is much higher--infinitely higher."  He moved his
chair closer and began to talk intently.

Half an hour later Fifi got up with indecision on her face.

"At seven you'll let me know definitely," Borowki said, "and I'll
be ready with a car at ten."

Fifi nodded.  He escorted her across the room and saw her vanish
into a dark hall mirror in the direction of the lift.

As he turned away, Lady Capps-Karr, sitting alone over her coffee,
spoke to him:

"I want a word with you.  Did you, by some slip of the tongue,
suggest to Weicker that in case of difficulties I would guarantee
your bills?"

Borowki flushed.  "I may have said something like that, but--"

"Well, I told him the truth--that I never laid eyes on you until a
fortnight ago."

"I, naturally, turned to a person of equal rank--"

"Equal rank!  What cheek!  The only titles left are English titles.
I must ask you not to make use of my name again."

He bowed.  "Such inconveniences will soon be for me a thing of the

"Are you getting off with that vulgar little American?"

"I beg your pardon," he said stiffly.

"Don't be angry.  I'll stand you a whisky-and-soda.  I'm getting in
shape for Bopes Kinkallow, who's just telephoned he's tottering
back here."

Meanwhile, upstairs, Mrs. Schwartz was saying to Fifi:  "Now that I
know we're going away I'm getting excited about it.  It will be so
nice seeing the Hirsts and Mrs. Bell and Amy and Marjorie and
Gladys again, and the new baby.  You'll be happy, too; you've
forgotten how they're like.  You and Gladys used to be great
friends.  And Marjorie--"

"Oh, mamma, don't talk about it," cried Fifi miserably.  "I can't
go back."

"We needn't stay.  If John was in a college like his father wanted,
we could, maybe, go to California."

But for Fifi all the romance of life was rolled up into the last
three impressionable years in Europe.  She remembered the tall
guardsmen in Rome and the old Spaniard who had first made her
conscious of her beauty at the Villa d'Este at Como, and the French
naval aviator at St. Raphael who had dropped her a note from his
plane into their garden, and the feeling that she had sometimes,
when she danced with Borowki, that he was dressed in gleaming boots
and a white-furred dolman.

She had seen many American moving pictures and she knew that the
girls there always married the faithful boy from the old home town,
and after that there was nothing.

"I won't go," she said aloud.

Her mother turned with a pile of clothes in her arms.  "What talk
is that from you, Fifi?  You think I could leave you here alone?"
As Fifi didn't answer, she continued, with an air of finality:
"That talk doesn't sound nice from you.  Now you stop fretting and
saying such things, and get me this list of things uptown."

But Fifi had decided.  It was Borowki, then, and the chance of
living fully and adventurously.  He could go into the diplomatic
service, and then one day when they encountered Lady Capps-Karr and
Miss Howard at a legation ball, she could make audible the
observation that for the moment seemed so necessary to her:  "I
hate people who always look as if they were going to or from a

"So run along," her mother continued.  "And look in at that café
and see if John is up there, and take him to tea."

Fifi accepted the shopping list mechanically.  Then she went into
her room and wrote a little note to Borowki which she would leave
with the concierge on the way out.

Coming out, she saw her mother struggling with a trunk, and felt
terribly sorry for her.  But there were Amy and Gladys in America,
and Fifi hardened herself.

She walked out and down the stairs, remembering halfway that in her
distraction she had omitted an official glance in the mirror; but
there was a large mirror on the wall just outside the grand salon,
and she stopped in front of that instead.

She was beautiful--she learned that once more, but now it made her
sad.  She wondered whether the dress she wore this afternoon was in
bad taste, whether it would minister to the superiority of Miss
Howard or Lady Capps-Karr.  It seemed to her a lovely dress, soft
and gentle in cut, but in color a hard, bright, metallic powder

Then a sudden sound broke the stillness of the gloomy hall and Fifi
stood suddenly breathless and motionless.


At eleven o'clock Mr. Weicker was tired, but the bar was in one of
its periodical riots and he was waiting for it to quiet down.
There was nothing to do in the stale office or the empty lobby; and
the salon, where all day he held long conversations with lonely
English and American women, was deserted; so he went out the front
door and began to make the circuit of the hotel.  Whether due to
his circumambient course or to his frequent glances up at the
twinkling bedroom lights and into the humble, grilled windows of
the kitchen floor, the promenade gave him a sense of being in
control of the hotel, of being adequately responsible, as though it
were a ship and he was surveying it from a quarterdeck.

He went past a flood of noise and song from the bar, past a window
where two bus boys sat on a bunk and played cards over a bottle of
Spanish wine.  There was a phonograph somewhere above, and a
woman's form blocked out a window; then there was the quiet wing,
and turning the corner, he arrived back at his point of departure.
And in front of the hotel, under the dim porte-cochère light, he
saw Count Borowki.

Something made him stop and watch--something incongruous--Borowki,
who couldn't pay his bill, had a car and a chauffeur.  He was
giving the chauffeur some sort of detailed instructions, and then
Mr. Weicker perceived that there was a bag in the front seat, and
came forward into the light.

"You are leaving us, Count Borowki?"

Borowki started at the voice.  "For the night only," he answered.
"I'm going to meet my mother."

"I see."

Borowki looked at him reproachfully.  "My trunk and hat box are in
my room, you'll discover.  Did you think I was running away from my

"Certainly not.  I hope you will have a pleasant journey and find
your mother well."

But inside he took the precaution of dispatching a valet de chambre
to see if the baggage was indeed there, and even to give it a
thoughtful heft, lest its kernel were departed.

He dozed for perhaps an hour.  When he woke up, the night concierge
was pulling at his arm and there was a strong smell of smoke in the
lobby.  It was some moments before he could get it through his head
that one wing of the hotel was on fire.

Setting the concierge at the alarms, he rushed down the hall to the
bar, and through the smoke that poured from the door he caught
sight of the burning billiard table and the flames licking along
the floor and flaring up in alcoholic ecstasy every time a bottle
on the shelves cracked with the heat.  As he hastily retreated he
met a line of half-dressed chasseurs and bus boys already
struggling up from the lower depths with buckets of water.  The
concierge shouted that the fire department was on its way.  He put
two men at the telephones to awaken the guests, and as he ran back
to form a bucket line at the danger point, he thought for the first
time of Fifi.

Blind rage consumed him--with a precocious Indianlike cruelty she
had carried out her threat.  Ah, he would deal with that later;
there was still law in the country.  Meanwhile a clangor outdoors
announced that the engines had arrived, and he made his way back
through the lobby, filled now with men in pajamas carrying brief
cases, and women in bedclothes carrying jewel boxes and small dogs;
the number swelling every minute and the talk rising from a cadence
heavy with sleep to the full staccato buzz of an afternoon soirée.

A chasseur called Mr. Weicker to the phone, but the manager shook
him off impatiently.

"It's the commissionaire of police," the boy persisted.  "He says
you must speak to him."

With an exclamation, Mr. Weicker hurried into the office.  "'Allo!"

"I'm calling from the station.  Is this the manager?"

"Yes, but there's a fire here."

"Have you among your guests a man calling himself Count Borowki?"

"Why, yes--"

"We're bringing him there for identification.  He was picked up on
the road on some information we received."


"We picked up a girl with him.  We're bringing them both down there

"I tell you--"

The receiver clicked briskly in his ear and Mr. Weicker hurried
back to the lobby, where the smoke was diminishing.  The reassuring
pumps had been at work for five minutes and the bar was a wet
charred ruin.  Mr. Weicker began passing here and there among the
guests, tranquilizing and persuading; the phone operators began
calling the rooms again, advising such guests as had not appeared
that it was safe to go back to bed; and then, at the continued
demands for an explanation, he thought again of Fifi, and this time
of his own accord he hurried to the phone.

Mrs. Schwartz's anxious voice answered; Fifi wasn't there.  That
was what he wanted to know.  He rang off brusquely.  There was the
story, and he could not have wished for anything more sordidly
complete--an incendiary blaze and an attempted elopement with a man
wanted by the police.  It was time for paying, and all the money of
America couldn't make any difference.  If the season was ruined, at
least Fifi would have no more seasons at all.  She would go to a
girls' institution where the prescribed uniform was rather plainer
than any clothing she had ever worn.

As the last of the guests departed into the elevators, leaving only
a few curious rummagers among the soaked débris, another procession
came in by the front door.  There was a man in civilian clothes and
a little wall of policemen with two people behind.  The
commissionaire spoke and the screen of policemen parted.

"I want you to identify these two people.  Has this man been
staying here under the name of Borowki?"

Mr. Weicker looked.  "He has."

"He's been wanted for a year in Italy, France and Spain.  And this

She was half hidden behind Borowki, her head hanging, her face in
shadow.  Mr. Weicker craned toward her eagerly.  He was looking at
Miss Howard.

A wave of horror swept over Mr. Weicker.  Again he craned his head
forward, as if by the intensity of his astonishment he could
convert her into Fifi, or look through her and find Fifi.  But this
would have been difficult, for Fifi was far away.  She was in front
of the café, assisting the stumbling and reluctant John Schwartz
into a taxi.  "I should say you can't go back.  Mother says you
should come right home."


Count Borowki took his incarceration with a certain grace, as
though, having lived so long by his own wits, there was a certain
relief in having his days planned by an external agency.  But he
resented the lack of intercourse with the outer world, and was
overjoyed when, on the fourth day of his imprisonment, he was led
forth to find Lady Capps-Karr.

"After all," she said, "a chep's a chep and a chum's a chum,
whatever happens.  Luckily, our consul here is a friend of my
father's, or they wouldn't have let me see you.  I even tried to
get you out on bail, because I told them you went to Oxford for a
year and spoke English perfectly, but the brutes wouldn't listen."

"I'm afraid there's no use," said Count Borowki gloomily.  "When
they've finished trying me I'll have had a free journey all over

"But that's not the only outrageous thing," she continued.  "Those
idiots have thrown Bopes and me out of the Trois Mondes, and the
authorities are trying to get us to leave the city."

"What for?"

"They're trying to put the full blame of that tiresome fire on us."

"Did you start it?"

"We did set some brandy on fire because we wanted to cook some
potato chips in alcohol, and the bartender had gone to bed and left
us there.  But you'd think, from the way the swine talk, that we'd
come there with the sole idea of burning everyone in their beds.
The whole thing's an outrage and Bopes is furious.  He says he'll
never come here again.  I went to the consulate and they agreed
that the whole affair was perfectly disgraceful, and they've wired
the Foreign Office."

Borowki considered for a moment.  "If I could be born over again,"
he said slowly, "I think without any doubt I should choose to be
born an Englishman."

"I could choose to be anything but an American!  By the way, the
Taylors are not presenting Miss Howard at court because of the
disgraceful way the newspapers played up the matter."

"What puzzles me is what made Fifi suspicious," said Borowki.

"Then it was Miss Schwartz who blabbed?"

"Yes.  I thought I had convinced her to come with me, and I knew
that if she didn't, I had only to snap my fingers to the other
girl. . . .  That very afternoon Fifi visited the jeweler's and
discovered I'd paid for the cigarette case with a hundred-dollar
American note I'd lifted from her mother's chiffonier.  She went
straight to the police."

"Without coming to you first!  After all, a chep's a chep--"

"But what I want to know is what made her suspicious enough to
investigate, what turned her against me."

Fifi, at that moment sitting on a high stool in a hotel bar in
Paris and sipping a lemonade, was answering that very question to
an interested bartender.

"I was standing in the hall looking in the mirror," she said, "and
I heard him talking to the English lady--the one who set the hotel
on fire.  And I heard him say, 'After all, my one nightmare is that
she'll turn out to look like her mother.'"  Fifi's voice blazed
with indignation.  "Well, you've seen my mother, haven't you?"

"Yes, and a very fine woman she is."

"After that I knew there was something the matter with him, and I
wondered how much he'd paid for the cigarette case.  So I went up
to see.  They showed me the bill he paid with."

"And you will go to America now?" the barman asked.

Fifi finished her glass; the straw made a gurgling sound in the
sugar at the bottom.

"We've got to go back and testify, and we'll stay a few months
anyhow."  She stood up.  "Bye-bye; I've got a fitting."

They had not got her--not yet.  The Furies had withdrawn a little
and stood in the background with a certain gnashing of teeth.  But
there was plenty of time.

Yet, as Fifi tottered out through the lobby, her face gentle with
new hopes, as she went out looking for completion under the
impression that she was going to the couturier, there was a certain
doubt among the eldest and most experienced of the Furies if they
would get her, after all.

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