Chapter 17: Russian Mike and Maître Raoul Galvez

Russian Mike lived in a settlement perhaps a mile back from the river road. He usually passed the Adriances’ house each morning, a few moments earlier than the lighter-footed Anthony set forth, whose swinging stride carried him two steps to the big man’s one. Elsie had long since made acquaintance with her husband’s assistant. During the bitter weather she frequently had called him from the snow-piled road to warm his slow blood with a cup of her vivifying Creole coffee. The Monday morning following the purchase of the guitar, she knew just when to run down the path and find the bulky, lounging figure passing her gate.

At the sight of the girl in her lilac-hued frock, a drift of white-wool scarf wound about her shoulders, her dark little head shining almost bronze in the bright morning light, Mike came to a halt and awkwardly jerked at his coarse cap. It had flaps that fastened down under his chin, so that he was embarrassed equally by the difficulty of removing his headgear and the inconvenance of remaining covered. But Elsie’s smile was a sunshine of the heart that melted such chills of doubt, as she came up to him.

“Good-morning, Michael. Thank you for bringing back my kitty-puss, Saturday night. She will run away, somehow.”

“It ain’t nothing, ma’am,” he deprecated, confused, yet gratified.

“It was very kind. Michael,” she considerately lowered her eyes to her breeze-blown scarf, “yesterday Mr. Adriance bought a guitar for me, from the antique shop. We heard where it came from—how you brought it. Will you tell the lady who owned it that I should be sorry to keep a thing she might miss? Tell her, please, that I hope she will soon grow well, and when she is ready I shall be happy to return the guitar to her. We will just play that she lent it to me for a while.”

His rough face and massive neck slowly reddened to match his fiery hair.

“You, you——” he stammered, inarticulate. His mittened fist wrung the nearest fence paling. “I ain’t——! Thank you, lady.”

Mischief curled Elsie’s lips like poppy petals, as she contemplated the discomfited giant.

“Is she very pretty, Michael?”

“No, ma’am,” was the unexpected avowal. “Not ‘less she’s dolled up for actin’. She’s nice, just. I guess many ain’t like the swell one Andy used to work for: dolled up any time.”

“Andy? Mr. Adriance? He never worked——”

“For an actress; yes, ma’am,” finished Mike, calmly assertive. “He treated her to tea, the day after Christmas, when we was sent over to New York. Ain’t you seen her? Swell blonde, with awful big sort of light eyes an’ nice clothes on?” He leaned against the frail old fence, shutting his eyes reminiscently. “She had on some kind of perfumery——! Since I seen her, nobody else ain’t very good-lookin’.”