P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

“What’s all this?” he inquired, halting.

The stout man talked volubly in French. Constable Parsons shook his head.

“Talk sense,” he advised.

“In dere,” cried the stout man, pointing behind him into the restaurant, “a man, a-how you say?-yes, sacked. An employé whom I yesterday sacked, to-day he returns. I say to him, ‘Cochon, va!’ ”

“What’s that?”

“I say, ‘Peeg, go!’ How you say? Yes, ‘pop off!’ I say, ‘Peeg, pop off!’ But he-no, no; he sits and will not go. Come in, officer, and expel him.”

With massive dignity the policeman entered the restaurant. At one of the tables sat Paul, calm and distrait. From across the room Jeanne stared freezingly.

“What’s all this?” inquired Constable Parsons. Paul looked up.

“I, too,” he admitted, “I cannot understand. Figure to yourself, monsieur. I enter this café to lunch, and this man here would expel me.”

“He is an employé whom I-I myself-have but yesterday dismissed,” vociferated M. Bredin. “He has no money to lunch at my restaurant.”

The policeman eyed Paul sternly.

“Eh?” he said. “That so? You’d better come along.”

Paul’s eyebrows rose.

Before the round eyes of M. Bredin he began to produce from his pockets and to lay upon the table bank-notes and sovereigns. The cloth was covered with them.

He picked up a half-sovereign.

“If monsieur,” he said to the policeman, “would accept this as a slight consolation for the inconvenience which this foolish person here has caused him-”

“Not half,” said Mr. Parsons, affably. “Look here”-he turned to the gaping proprietor-“if you go on like this you’ll be getting yourself into trouble. See? You take care another time.”

Paul called for the bill of fare.

It was the inferior person who had succeeded to his place as waiter who attended to his needs during the meal; but when he had lunched it was Jeanne who brought his coffee.

She bent over the table.

“You sold your picture, Paul-yes?” she whispered. “For much money? How glad I am, dear Paul. Now we will-”

Paul met her glance coolly.

“Will you be so kind,” he said, “as to bring me also a cigaratte, my good girl?”

The Man Who Disliked Cats

It was Harold who first made us acquainted, when I was dining one night at the Café Britannique, in Soho. It is a peculiarity of the Café Britannique that you will always find flies there, even in winter. Snow was falling that night as I turned in at the door, but, glancing about me, I noticed several of the old faces. My old acquaintance, Percy the bluebottle, looking wonderfully fit despite his years, was doing deep-breathing exercises on a mutton cutlet, and was too busy to do more than pause for a moment to nod at me; but his cousin, Harold, always active, sighted me and bustled up to do the honours.

He had finished his game of touch-last with my right ear, and was circling slowly in the air while he thought out other ways of entertaining me, when there was a rush of air, a swish of napkin, and no more Harold.

I turned to thank my preserver, whose table adjoined mine. He was a Frenchman, a melancholy-looking man. He had the appearance of one who has searched for the leak in life’s gaspipe with a lighted candle; of one whom the clenched fist of Fate has smitten beneath the temperamental third waistcoat-button.

He waved my thanks aside. “It was a bagatelle,” he said. We became friendly. He moved to my table, and we fraternized over our coffee.

Suddenly he became agitated. He kicked at something on the floor. His eyes gleamed angrily.

“Ps-s-st!” he hissed. “Va-t’en!”

I looked round the corner of the table, and perceived the restaurant cat in dignified retreat.

“You do not like cats?” I said.

“I ‘ate all animals, monsieur. Cats especially.” He frowned. He seemed to hesitate.

“I will tell you my story,” he said. “You will sympathise. You have a sympathetic face. It is the story of a man’s tragedy. It is the story of a blighted life. It is the story of a woman who would not forgive. It is the story-”

“I’ve got an appointment at eleven,” I said.