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The Wisdom of Father Brown

The Paradise of Thieves
THE great Muscari, most original of the young Tuscan poets, walked swiftly into his
favourite restaurant, which overlooked the Mediterranean, was covered by an awning and
fenced by little lemon and orange trees. Waiters in white aprons were already laying out
on white tables the insignia of an early and elegant lunch; and this seemed to increase a
satisfaction that already touched the top of swagger. Muscari had an eagle nose like
Dante; his hair and neckerchief were dark and flowing; he carried a black cloak, and
might almost have carried a black mask, so much did he bear with him a sort of Venetian
melodrama. He acted as if a troubadour had still a definite social office, like a bishop. He
went as near as his century permitted to walking the world literally like Don Juan, with
rapier and guitar.
For he never travelled without a case of swords, with which he had fought many brilliant
duels, or without a corresponding case for his mandolin, with which he had actually
serenaded Miss Ethel Harrogate, the highly conventional daughter of a Yorkshire banker
on a holiday. Yet he was neither a charlatan nor a child; but a hot, logical Latin who liked
a certain thing and was it. His poetry was as straightforward as anyone else's prose. He
desired fame or wine or the beauty of women with a torrid directness inconceivable
among the cloudy ideals or cloudy compromises of the north; to vaguer races his intensity
smelt of danger or even crime. Like fire or the sea, he was too simple to be trusted.
The banker and his beautiful English daughter were staying at the hotel attached to
Muscari's restaurant; that was why it was his favourite restaurant. A glance flashed
around the room told him at once, however, that the English party had not descended.
The restaurant was glittering, but still comparatively empty. Two priests were talking at a
table in a corner, but Muscari (an ardent Catholic) took no more notice of them than of a
couple of crows. But from a yet farther seat, partly concealed behind a dwarf tree golden
with oranges, there rose and advanced towards the poet a person whose costume was the
most aggressively opposite to his own.
This figure was clad in tweeds of a piebald check, with a pink tie, a sharp collar and
protuberant yellow boots. He contrived, in the true tradition of 'Arry at Margate, to look
at once startling and commonplace. But as the Cockney apparition drew nearer, Muscari
was astounded to observe that the head was distinctly different from the body. It was an
Italian head: fuzzy, swarthy and very vivacious, that rose abruptly out of the standing
collar like cardboard and the comic pink tie. In fact it was a head he knew. He recognized
it, above all the dire erection of English holiday array, as the face of an old but forgotten
friend name Ezza. This youth had been a prodigy at college, and European fame was
promised him when he was barely fifteen; but when he appeared in the world he failed,
first publicly as a dramatist and a demagogue, and then privately for years on end as an
actor, a traveller, a commission agent or a journalist. Muscari had known him last behind
the footlights; he was but too well attuned to the excitements of that profession, and it
was believed that some moral calamity had swallowed him up.
 
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