_Oui,_ I will restrain myself. I will 'ave a drink. _Merci!_ I will make myself of a calmness. I will explain.
Yes, it is a woman. What else? At the insides of all despair it is a woman ever. That is always the--the--w'at you call 'im?--the one best bet.
Listen. I love 'er. She own the 'ouse of which I am one of the lodgers, in'abiting the chamber beneath the skylight. She is a widow, and I love 'er. Of such a roundness is she!--and she 'ave the restaurant beyond the street. Of such a beauty!--and 'er 'usband, who was a Monsieur Flanagan, 'e leave 'er w'at you call well fix with life-insurance. So well fix, so large, so brilliant of the complexion, so merry of the smile, so competent of the ménage, of such a plumpness! 'Ow should it be that one did not love 'er?
But she? Does she smile on the 'andsome Frenchman who in'abit 'er skylight chamber and paint and paint and paint all day long, and sell, oh, so little of 'is paintings? _Hélas!_ She scarcely know that 'e exist! She 'ave scarcely notice 'im. 'Ow is genius of avail? W'at is wit, w'at is gallantry, w'at is manner--w'at is all these things w'en one does not possess the--the--w'at you call 'im?--the front? _Hélas!_ I love, but I 'ave not the front! My trousers are all of a fringe at the bottom, and my collars are all of a frowsiness at the top. My sleeves are of such a shine! And my 'at----
Ten thousand curses for the man that invented 'ats! You are my friend--'ave you a pistol? Yes, I will be calm. I will 'ave a drink. I will restrain myself. _Merci_, monsieur.
My sleeves are of a sleekness; and my 'at----My 'at, I look at 'im. 'E is--w'at you call 'im?--on the boom! I contemplate 'im sadly. I regard 'im with reproach. 'E is ridiculous. 'E look like 'e been kicked. With such a 'at, who can enact the lover? With such a 'at, who can win 'imself a widow? I fly into a rage. I tear from my 'air. I shake my fist at the nose of fate. I become terrible. I dash my 'at upon the floor, and jump upon 'im with fury. Then I look at 'im with 'atred. 'E look back at me with sorrow in 'is wrinkles. And, _Voilà!_--as I look at 'im I 'ave a thought. The 'at, 'e straighten out from my jump. W'en my feet is off, 'e rise a little way from 'is wrinkles where I crush 'im. 'E lift 'imself slowly like a jack-in-the-box up from 'is disgrace. And I 'ave an idea.