Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 16, 1921 — page 72: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

EYES OF THE DEAD. “But you see,” Martin clutched at the final line, “she says distinctly that the doctor says the case will run its course in a few days, and she says ‘au revoir,’ not ‘ farewell.’ Blanche is a sensible girl, and would not hold out a false hope. ‘Come, let us write her a cheerful letter that will reach her a month hence, when she is all recovered, and it will make her laugh. Let me tell you once again, M. Pierre, what a- girl she is. Merry, with black eyes and rosy cheeks, hair in ringlets, quick in word and act, and in her starched Normandy head- dress and with hand-knit lace edging her apron—what a cure for sore eyes, mon- sieur!” At the words “sore eyes” Pierre sud- denly passed his hand over his eyes, for the words brought up the thought of what he had seen in the mirror in his own room but a few moments before. And /us eyes were ‘burning! Old Martin leaned forward and ex- claimed: “Ah, your eyes! Are they sore? They are like mine were during the old campaigns in the desert, when the smoke of the fires got into them! But, no, it is not that. De- cidedly, M. Pierre, you must see one of the native healers. We have no European doc- tor here, but those native hags are clever. I can tell you of one that—”’ “No; it is nothing; it will pass. I did —did get smoke in my eyes last night. But to return to your famous letter. What shall I say to Blanche, your son’s wife?”’ ‘“‘ Ah, yes! The letter!” He was attentive as a child now. He pursed his lips, made as if to compose some ~ erudite sentence. Pierre suggested a phrase, which Martin adopted as his own, nodding consent. Pierre glanced at the old man from time to time. His eyes were burning a bit. Of a sudden, over the old man’s shoul- der, he saw, as it were, a shadow, a dim outline of a pretty woman. with Norman coif, lace-edged bodice. She seemed to have black hair; yes, hair in ringlets, rosy cheeks, and she was smiling. Old Martin had de- scribed Blanche to him so many times that he seemed to know who the woman was, and it did not seem strange that he could 63 see her there in the little desk-niche of the Café Diable, oasis of El Yaoub. His pen continued to scratch; he continued to sug- gest neat phrases to Martin, who smiled and made each his own thankfully. The final one was: T know this will find you recovered from your slight illness and that your next letter will be more cheerful than the last. Pierre glanced over Martin’s shoulder again, and the impression that he could see a woman there deepened. She seemed to regard him mournfully, and placed one forefinger up as one who denies and shook her head slowly. He could see behind her the cracks on the wall, the web of the green-gold spider to whom Martin fed flies. He even noted that she had a tiny brown mole on the point of her rounded chin. His eyes swept down to the paper again. He signed the letter for Martin and gave Mar- tin the pen to make his cress with. He glanced up again. His eyes had céased to burn. The woman no longer was there! Martin glanced up gratefully. “‘ Ah, M. Pierre,” he said warmly, “ how can I thank you? You are so kind. -All I can do to repay you is to keep your knife- case in order and safe. Diuanterre, that is mot much. But it is all an old exempt can give.” ‘“‘T am only too glad to help you, Martin. But, tell me, did not your Blanche have a mole on the point of her chin?” “Of a surety, monsieur! I have told you of that, too? You are so kind to be so interested in us. But why do you ask ?”’ ‘“Oh, papa, merely to refresh my mem- ory.” Pierre glanced by the old man again, but saw nothing. He smiled warmly at Mar- tin, addressed the letter with a fine flourish, sealed it, and gave it to the ex-soldier. He thought to escape from Martin’s voluble thanks by going to a table in the rear of the café and ordering a cooling drink. He had a curious, penetrating thirst, that was growing on him, he then realized, and to the nimble Syrian who came for his order he gave the call for “a pomegranate sher- bet.” cComiclool< C@©