Have His Carcase

‘Yes, I suppose we shall all come to it,’ said Charis, with a grimace. ‘Only, from the way Alexis talked, you’d think he’d have wanted a little more poetry about it. All that rubbish about his noble birth and fallen fortunes — like something out of those stories he was so potty about. Quite a hero of romance, according to him. Always wanted to take the spot-light, did Mr Paul Alexis. You’d think he did the floor a favour by dancing on it. And then the fairy prince comes down to marrying an old woman for her money.’

‘Oh, he wasn’t so bad,’ protested Doris. ‘You oughtn’t to talk that way, dear. It’s not so easy for we dancers, the way everybody treats us like dirt. Though they’re willing enough to take advantage of you if you give them half a chance. Why shouldn’t Alexis, or any of us, get a bit of our own back? Anyhow, he’s dead, poor boy, and you oughtn’t to run him down.’

‘Ah, voila said Antoine. ‘He is dead. Why is he dead? One does not cut one’s throat pour s’amuser.’

‘That’s another thing,’ said Charis, ‘that I can’t quite make out. The minute I heard about it, I said to myself, “That’s not like Alexis,” He hadn’t the nerve to do a thing like that. Why, he was terrified of pricking his little finger. ‘You needn’t frown, dear, Alexis was a regular namby-pamby, and if he was dead ten times over it wouldn’t make any difference. You used to laugh at him yourself. “I cannot climb that step-ladder, I am afraid to fall. “I do not like to go to the dentist, he might pull my teeth out.”

“Do not shake me when I am cutting the bread, I might, cut my fingers.”

“Really, Mr Alexis,” I used to say to him, “anybody would thing you were made of glass.

‘I know what mademoiselle is thinking,’ said Antoine, his melancholy mouth curling. ‘She thinks: “Voila! that is the gigolo. He is not a man, he is a doll stuffed with sawdust.” He is bought, he is sold, and sometimes there is an unpleasantness. Then the English husband, he say, “Well, what can you expect? This fellow, he is a nasty piece of work. He lives on foolish women and he does not play the cricket.” Sometimes it is not very nice, but one must live. Que voulez-vous? Ce n’est pas rigolo que d’etre gigolo.’

Harriet blushed.

‘I wasn’t thinking that,’ she said. ‘

‘But you were, mademoiselle, and it is very natural.’

‘Antoine doesn’t play cricket,’ put in Doris, kindly, ‘but he plays tennis and swims very well.’

‘It is not me that is in question,’ said Antoine. ‘And truly, I cannot understand this business of throat-cutting. It is not reasonable. Why did Alexis go all that distance away? He never walked; he found the walking fatigued him. If he had decided to suicide himself, he would have done it at home.’

‘And he’d have taken some sleeping-stuff,’ said Doris, nodding her golden head. ‘I know that, because he showed it to me once, when he was in one of his blue fits. “That is my way out of the bad world,” he said, and he talked a lot of poetry. I told him not to be silly — and of course, in half an hour he had got over it. He was like that. But cutting his throat with a razor — no!’

‘That’s awfully interesting,’ said Harriet. ‘By the way,’ she went on, remembering her conversation with Wimsey, ‘did he have anything the matter with his skin? I mean, did he always have to wear gloves, or anything of that sort?’

Oh, no,’ said Antoine. ‘The gigolo must not have things the matter with his skin. That would: not do at all. Alexis had very elegant hands. He was vain of them.’

‘He said his skin was sensitive, and that’s why he didn’t shave,’ put in Doris.

‘Ah, yes! I can tell you about that,’ Antoine took up his cue. ‘When he came here about a year ago he asked for a job. Mr Greely he say to me, “See him dance. Because, you see, mademoiselle, the other dancer had just left us, all of a sudden, comme ca — without the proper notice. I see him dance and I say to Mr Greely, “That is very good.” The manager say, “Very well, I take you on trial a little time, but I must not have the beard. The ladies will not like it. It is unheard of, a gigolo with a beard,” Alexis say, ‘But if I shave the beard I come out all over buttons.

‘Pimples’ suggested Harriet.

Yes, pardon, pimples. Well, the gigolo with the pimples, that is unheard of also, you understand. “Well,” say the manager, “you can come a little time with the beard till we are suited, but if you want to stay, you remove the beard.”

Very well, Alexis come and dance, and the ladies are delighted. The beard is so distinguished, so romantic, so unusual. They come a very long distance express to dance with the beard. Mr Greely say, “It is good. I was mistaken. You stay and the beard stay too. My God! What will these ladies want next? The long whiskers, perhaps? Antoine,” he say to me, “you grow the long whiskers and maybe you get off still better.” But me, no! God has not given me the hair to make whiskers.’

‘Did Alexis have a razor at all?’