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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:10:18 -0700 |
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diff --git a/38436-h/38436-h.htm b/38436-h/38436-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c80a262 --- /dev/null +++ b/38436-h/38436-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9793 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Azure Rose, by Reginald Wright Kauffman. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + p.break {margin-top: 3em;} /* for thought breaks */ + + h1 {text-align: center; clear: both; font-weight: normal; margin-top: 3em;} + h2 {text-align: center; clear: both; margin-top: 2em;} + + div.centered table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + + a {text-decoration: none;} + + img {border: none;} + + em {font-style: italic;} + + .hidden {display: none;} + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-style: normal; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .blockquot{margin-left: 8%; margin-right: 8%;} + + .bbox {border: 2px black solid; padding: 1em; margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 3em;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold; font-size: 90%; text-align: center; padding-bottom: 2em;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em;} + + div.cpoem1 {width: 17em; margin: auto; max-width: 96%; font-style: italic;} + div.cpoem2 {width: 24em; margin: auto; max-width: 96%;} + div.cpoem3 {width: 17em; margin: auto; max-width: 96%;} + div.cpoem4 {width: 28em; margin: auto; max-width: 96%;} + div.cpoem5 {width: 22em; margin: auto; max-width: 96%; font-style: italic;} + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i1 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i11 {display: block; margin-left: 11em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.poet {display: block; margin-left: 8em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em; font-style: normal;} + + .tdl {text-align: left; vertical-align: top; padding-left: 2em; padding-right: 2em; text-indent: -2em; font-variant: small-caps;} /* left top align cell, hanging indent, smallcapped */ + .tdrt {text-align: right; vertical-align: top; padding-right: .3em;} /* right top align cell */ + .tdrb {text-align: right; vertical-align: bottom;} /* right bottom align cell */ + + .sig {text-align: right; margin-right: 2em;} /* signature aligned right */ + .sigleft {text-align: left; margin-left: 2em;} /* signature aligned left */ + .address {margin-left: 2em; text-indent: -1em;} /* address, move 2nd line right */ + + .xlrgfont {font-size: 200%;} + .vlrgfont {font-size: 150%;} + .lrgfont {font-size: 120%;} + .smlfont {font-size: 90%;} + .vsmlfont {font-size: 75%;} + + .padtop {padding-top: 3em;} + .padbase {padding-bottom: 3em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Azure Rose, by Reginald Wright Kauffman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Azure Rose + A Novel + +Author: Reginald Wright Kauffman + +Release Date: December 29, 2011 [EBook #38436] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AZURE ROSE *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Sam W. and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 401px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="401" height="600" +alt="Front cover of the book" /> +</div> + + + +<h1>The Azure Rose</h1> + +<p class="center vlrgfont"><i>A Novel</i></p> + + +<p class="center padtop padbase"><span class="smlfont">BY</span><br /> +<span class="lrgfont">REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN</span><br /> +<span class="smlfont">Author of “Jim,” “The House of Bondage,”<br /> +“The Mark of The Beast,” “Our Navy at Work,” etc.</span></p> + + +<p class="center padtop padbase"><span class="smlfont">NEW YORK</span><br /> +THE MACAULAY COMPANY</p> + + +<p class="center padtop padbase vsmlfont">Copyright, 1919<br /> +<span class="smcap">By The Macaulay Co.</span></p> + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 402px;"> +<img src="images/frontis.jpg" width="402" height="600" +alt="Cartaret meets The Girl" /> +</div> + +<p class="caption">“Oh!” she cried. “I had just come in and I thought—I +thought it was my room.”</p> + + + +<p class="center padtop padbase">For<br /> +My Friend and Secretary,<br /> +LANCE-CORPORAL ARNOLD ROBSON,<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">No. 10864, “C” Company, Sixth Battalion,<br /> +Yorkshire Regiment—“The Green Howards”—</span><br /> +<span class="smlfont">Who, Leading His Squad, Died for His Country<br /> +At Suvla Bay, Gallipoli, 21st August, 1915,<br /> +Aged Twenty.</span></p> + + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>vii]</a></span></p> + +<h2>PREFACE</h2> + + +<p>A novel about Paris that is not about the war +requires even now, I am told, some word of +explanation. Mine is brief:</p> + +<p>This story was conceived before the war began. +I came to the task of putting it into its final shape +after nine months passed between the Western +Front and a Paris war-torn and war-darkened, +both physically and spiritually. Yet, though I +had found the old familiar places, and the ever +young and ever familiar people, wounded and sad, +I did not long have to seek for the Parisian bravery +in pain and the Parisian smile shining, rainbowlike, +through the tears. Nothing can conquer +France and nothing can lastingly hurt Paris. +They are, as a famous wit said of our own so different +Boston, a state of mind. Had the German +succeeded in the Autumn of 1914 or the Spring of +1918, France would have remained, and Paris. +What used to happen in the Land of Love and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>viii]</a></span> +the City of Lights will happen there again and be +always happening, so that my story is at once a +retrospect and a prophecy.</p> + +<p>Realizing these things, I have found it a pleasure +to make this book. A book without problems +and without horrors, its sole purpose is to give to +the reader some of that pleasure which went to its +making. Wars come and go; but for every man +the Door Opposite stands open beside the Seine, +the hurdy-gurdy plays “Annie Laurie” in the +Street of the Valley of Grace and—a Lady of the +Rose is waiting.</p> + +<p class="sig">R. W. K.</p> + +<p class="address"><i>Columbia, Penna.</i>,<br /> +Christmas Day, 1918.</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>ix]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + +<div class="centered"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of contents"> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt"><small>CHAPTER</small></td> + <td class="tdl"> </td> + <td class="tdrt"><small>PAGE</small></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">I.</td> + <td class="tdl">In Which, if not Love, at Least Anger, Laughs at Locksmiths</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">II.</td> + <td class="tdl">Providing the Gentle Reader with a Card of Admission to the Nest of the Two Doves</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">III.</td> + <td class="tdl">In Which a Fool and His Money Are Soon Parted</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_49">49</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">IV.</td> + <td class="tdl">A Damsel in Distress</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_64">64</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">V.</td> + <td class="tdl">Which Tells How Cartaret Returned to the Rue du Val-de-Grâce, and What He Found There</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">VI.</td> + <td class="tdl">Cartaret Sets Up Housekeeping</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">VII.</td> + <td class="tdl">Of Domestic Economy, of Day-Dreams, and of a Far Country and Its Sovereign Lady</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_118">118</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">VIII.</td> + <td class="tdl">Chiefly Concerning Strawberries</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">IX.</td> + <td class="tdl">Being the True Report of a Chaperoned Déjeuner</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_154">154</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">X.</td> + <td class="tdl">An Account of an Empty Purse and a Full Heart, in the Course of Which the Author Barely Escapes Telling a Very Old Story</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>x]</a></span>XI.</td> + <td class="tdl">Tells How Cartaret’s Fortune Turned Twice in a Few Hours and How He Found One Thing and Lost Another</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XII.</td> + <td class="tdl">Narrating How Cartaret Began His Quest of the Rose</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_206">206</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XIII.</td> + <td class="tdl">Further Adventures of an Amateur Botanist</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XIV.</td> + <td class="tdl">Something or Other About Traditions</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_253">253</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XV.</td> + <td class="tdl">In Which Cartaret Takes Part in the Revival of an Ancient Custom</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_273">273</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XVI.</td> + <td class="tdl">And Last</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_300">300</a></td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>xi]</a></span></p> + +<h2>OUT OF ASHES</h2> + + +<div class="cpoem1"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Paris as I knew her<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In the days ere this—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Paris, when I threw her<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Many a careless kiss—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Paris of my pleasure,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Bright of eye and brow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Town of squandered treasure—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where’s that Paris now?<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Song had shunned her traces,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Care was on her track:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All my young girls’ faces<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Pale in folds of black!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Half the hearts were broken,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">All the mirth was fled;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scarce a vow was spoken,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Save above the dead....<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, but there’s a spirit<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sorrow cannot kill!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Even now I hear it<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Swear the great “I Will!”<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Paris, at your portal<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Taps the ancient truth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laughing and immortal:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Never-conquered Youth!<br /></span> +<span class="poet">R. W. K.<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>13]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center padtop xlrgfont">THE AZURE ROSE</p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER I<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">IN WHICH, IF NOT LOVE, AT LEAST ANGER, +LAUGHS AT LOCKSMITHS</span></h2> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Je ne connais point la nature des anges, parce que je +ne suis qu’homme; il n’y a que les théologiens qui la +connaissent.—Voltaire: <i>Dictionnaire Philosophique</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<p>He did not know why he headed toward his +own room—it could hold nothing that he guessed +of to welcome him, except further tokens of the +dejection and misery he carried in his heart—but +thither he went, and, as he drew nearer, his step +quickened. By the time that he entered the rue +du Val de Grâce, he was moving at something +close upon a run.</p> + +<p>He hurried up the rising stairs and into the +dark hall, and, as he did so, was possessed by +the sense that somebody had as hurriedly ascended +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>14]</a></span> +just ahead of him. The door to his room was +never locked, and now he flung it wide.</p> + +<p>The last of the afterglow had all but faded +from the sky, and only the faintest twilight, a +rose-pink twilight, came into the studio. Rose-pink: +he thought of that at once and thought, too, +that these sky-roses had a sweeter scent than the +roses of earth, for there was about this once-familiar +place an odor more delicate and tender +than any he had ever known before. It was dim, +illusive; it was like a musical poem in an unknown +tongue, and yet, unlike French scents and hot-house +flowers, it subtly suggested open spaces and +mountain-peaks. Cartaret had a quick vision of +sunlight upon snow-crests. He wondered how +such a perfume could find its way through the +narrow, dirty streets of the Latin Quarter and +into his poor room.</p> + +<p>And then, in the dim light, he saw a figure +standing there.</p> + +<p>Cartaret stopped short.</p> + +<p>An hour ago he had left the place empty. +Now, when he so wanted solitude, it had been +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>15]</a></span> +invaded. There was an intruder. It was—— yes, +the Lord have mercy on him, it was a girl!</p> + +<p>“Who’s there?” demanded Cartaret.</p> + +<p>He was so startled that he asked the question +in English and with his native American accent. +The next moment, he was more startled when +the strange girl answered him in English, though +an English oddly precise.</p> + +<p>“It is I,” she said.</p> + +<p>“It is I,” was what she said first, and, as she +said it, Cartaret noted that her voice was a wonderfully +soft contralto. What she next said was +uttered as he further discovered himself to her +by an involuntary movement that brought him +within the rear window’s shaft of afterglow. It +was:</p> + +<p>“What are you doing here?”</p> + +<p>She spoke with patent amazement, and there +were, between the words, four perceptible +pauses.</p> + +<p>What was he doing there? What was <em>she</em>? +What light there was came from behind her: he +could not at all make out her features; he had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>16]</a></span> +only her voice to go by—only her voice and her +manner of regal possession—and with neither was +he acquainted. Good Heavens, hadn’t he a right +to come unannounced into the one place in Paris +that he might still call his own? It surely <em>was</em> +his own. He looked distractedly about him.</p> + +<p>“I thought,” said Cartaret, “that this was my +room.”</p> + +<p>His glance, bewildered as it was, nevertheless +assured him that he had not been mistaken. His +accustomed eye detected everything that the twilight +might hide from the eye of a stranger.</p> + +<p>Here was all his student-litter. Here were the +good photographs of good pictures, bought second-hand; +the bad copies of good pictures, made by +Cartaret himself during long mornings in the +Louvre, where impudent tourists, staring at his +work, jolted his elbow and craned their necks beside +his cheek; there were the plaster-casts on +brackets—casts of antiques more mutilated than +the antiques themselves; and here, too, were the +rows of lost endeavors in the shape of discarded +canvases banked on the floor along the walls and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>17]</a></span> +sometimes jutting far out into the room. Two or +three chairs were scattered about, one with a +broken leg—he remembered the party at which +it was broken; across from the fire-place was Cartaret’s +bed that a tarnished Oriental cover (made +in Lyons) converted by day into a divan; and +close beside the rear window, flanked by the +table on which he mixed his colors, stood, almost +at the elbow of this imperious intruder, Cartaret’s +own easel with a virgin canvas in position, +waiting to receive the successor to that picture +which he had sold for a song a few hours ago.</p> + +<p>What was he doing here, indeed! He liked +that.</p> + +<p>And she was still at it:</p> + +<p>“How dare you think so?” she persisted.</p> + +<p>The slight pauses between her words lent them +more weight than, even in his ears, they otherwise +would have possessed. She came a step +nearer, and Cartaret saw that she was breathing +quickly and that the bit of lace above her heart +rose and fell irregularly.</p> + +<p>“How dare you?” she repeated.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>18]</a></span> +She was close enough now for him to decide +that she was quite the most striking girl he had +ever seen. Her figure, without a touch of exaggeration, +was full and yet lithe: it moved with +the grace of the athlete. Her skin was rosy and +white—the rose of health and the clear cream of +sane living.</p> + +<p>It was, however, her manner that had led Cartaret +first to doubt his own senses, and then to +doubt hers. This girl spoke like a queen resenting +a next-to-impossible familiarity. He had half +a mind to leave the place and allow her to discover +her own mistake, the nature of which—his +room ran the length of the old house and half +its width, being separated from a similar room by +only a dark and draughty hallway—now suddenly +revealed itself to him. He seriously considered +leaving her alone to the advent of her +humiliation.</p> + +<p>Then he looked at her again. Her hair, in +sharp contrast to the tint of her face, was a shining +blue-black; though her features were almost +classical in their regularity, her mouth was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>19]</a></span> +generous and sensitive, and, under even black brows +and through long, curling lashes, her eyes shone +frank and blue. Cartaret decided to remain.</p> + +<p>“You are an artist?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>“Leave this room!” She stamped a little foot. +“Leave this room instantly!”</p> + +<p>Cartaret stooped to one of the canvases that +were piled against the wall nearest him. He +turned its face to her.</p> + +<p>“And this is some of your work?” he asked.</p> + +<p>He had meant to be only light and amusing, +but when he saw the effect of his action, he cursed +himself for a heavy-witted fool: the girl glanced +first at the picture and then wildly about her. +She had at last realized her mistake.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” she cried. Her delicate hands went to +her face. “I had just come in and I thought—I +thought it was <em>my</em> room!”</p> + +<p>He registered a memorandum to kick himself +as soon as she had gone. He moved awkwardly +forward, still between her and the door.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right,” he said. “Everybody drops in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>20]</a></span> +here at one time or another, and I never lock my +door.”</p> + +<p>“But you do not understand!” She was still +speaking through her unjeweled fingers: “Sir, +we moved into this house only this morning. I +went out for the first time ten minutes since. My +maid did not want me to go, but I would do it. +Our room—I understand now that our room is +the other one: the one across the hallway. But +I came back hurriedly, a little frightened by the +streets, and I turned—Oh-h!” she ended, “I must +go—I must go immediately!”</p> + +<p>She dropped her hands and darted forward, +turning to her right. Cartaret lost his head: +he turned to his right. Each saw the mistake +and sought the left; then darted to the right +again.</p> + +<p>“Let me pass!” commanded the girl.</p> + +<p>Cartaret, inwardly condemning his stupidity, +suddenly backed. He backed into the half open +door; it shut behind him with a sharp snap.</p> + +<p>“I’m not dancing,” he said. “I know it looks +like it, but I’m not—truly.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>21]</a></span> +“Then stand aside and let me pass.”</p> + +<p>He stood aside.</p> + +<p>“Certainly,” said he; “that is what I was trying +to do.”</p> + +<p>With her head high, she walked by him to the +door and turned the knob: the door would not +open.</p> + +<p>Than the scorn that she turned upon him then, +he had never seen anything more magnificent—or +more beautiful. “What is this?” she asked.</p> + +<p>He did not know.</p> + +<p>“It’s probably stuck,” he suggested. She was +beginning to terrify him. “If you’ll allow me——”</p> + +<p>He bent to the knob, his hand just brushing +hers, which was quickly withdrawn. He pulled: +the door would not give. He took the knob in +both hands and raised it: no success. He bore all +his weight down upon the knob: the door remained +shut.</p> + +<p>He looked up at her attempting the smile of +apology, but her eyes, as soon as they encountered +his, were raised to a calm regard of the panel +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>22]</a></span> +above his head. Cartaret’s gaze returned to the +door and, presently, encountered the old deadlatch +that antedated his tenancy and that he had +never once used: it was a deadlatch of a type +antiquated even in the Latin Quarter, tough and +enduring; years ago it had been pushed back and +held open by a small catch; the knob whereby +it was originally worked from inside the room +had been broken off; and now the catch had +slipped, the spring-bolt had shot home and, the +knob being broken, the girl and Cartaret were as +much prisoners in the room as if the lock had +been on the other side of the door.</p> + +<p>The American broke into a nervous laugh.</p> + +<p>“What now?” asked the girl, her eyes hard.</p> + +<p>“We’re caught,” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p>She could only repeat the word:</p> + +<p>“Caught?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I’m sorry. It was my stupidity; I suppose +I jolted the door rather hard when I bumped +into it, doing that tango just now. Anyhow, this +old lock’s sprung into action and we’re fastened +in.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>23]</a></span> +The girl looked at him sharply. A difficult red +climbed her cheeks.</p> + +<p>“Open that door,” she ordered.</p> + +<p>“But I can’t—not right away. I’ll have to +try to——”</p> + +<p>“Open that door instantly.”</p> + +<p>“But I tell you I can’t. Don’t you see?” He +pointed to the offending deadlatch. In embarrassed +sentences, he explained the situation.</p> + +<p>She did not appear to listen. She had the air +of one who has prejudged a case.</p> + +<p>“You are trying to keep me in this room,” she +said.</p> + +<p>Her tone was steady, and her eyes were brave; +but it was evident that she quite believed her +statement.</p> + +<p>Cartaret colored in his turn.</p> + +<p>“Nonsense,” said he.</p> + +<p>“Then open the door.”</p> + +<p>“I tell you the lock has slipped.”</p> + +<p>“If that is so, use your key.”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t any key,” protested Cartaret. “And +even if I had——”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>24]</a></span> +“You have no key to your own room?” She +raised her eyes scornfully. “I understood you to +say very positively that I was trespassing in <em>your</em> +room.”</p> + +<p>“Great Scott!” cried Cartaret. “Of course it’s +my room. You make me wish it wasn’t, but it +is. It is my room, but you can see for yourself +there’s no keyhole to the confounded lock on this +side of the door, and never was. Look here.” +Again he pointed to the deadlatch: “If you’ll +only come a little nearer and look——”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” she said. “I shall remain where +I am.” She had put her hand among the lace +over her breast; now the hand, withdrawn, held +an unsheathed knife. “And if you come one step +nearer to me,” she calmly concluded, “I will kill +you.”</p> + +<p>It was the sole dream-touch needed to perfect +his sense of the entire episode’s unreality. In +his poor room, a princess that he had never seen +before—that, surely, he was not seeing now!—some +royal figure out of a lost Hellenic tragedy; +her breast visibly cumbered by the heavy air of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>25]</a></span> +modern Paris, her wonderful eyes burning with +the cold fire of resolution, she told him that she +would kill him if he approached her. And she +would do it; she would kill him with less compunction +than she would feel in crushing an offending +moth!</p> + +<p>Cartaret had instinctively jumped at the first +flash of the weapon. Now his laughter returned. +A vision could not be impeded by a sprung lock.</p> + +<p>“But you’re not here,” he said.</p> + +<p>She did not shift by so much as a hairbreadth +her position of defense, yet, ever so slightly, her +eyes widened.</p> + +<p>“And I’m not, either,” he persisted. “Don’t +you see? Things like this don’t happen. One +of us is asleep and dreaming—and I must be that +one.”</p> + +<p>Plainly she did not follow him, but his laughter +had been so boyishly innocent as to make her +patently doubtful of her own assumption. He +crowded that advantage.</p> + +<p>“Honestly,” he said, “I didn’t mean any harm——”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>26]</a></span> +“You at least place yourself in a strange position,” +the girl interrupted, though the hand that +held the knife was lowered to her side.</p> + +<p>“But if you really doubt me,” he continued, +“and don’t want to wait until I pick this lock, let +me call from the window and get somebody in +the street to send up the concierge.”</p> + +<p>“The street?” She evidently did not like this +idea. “No, not the street. Why do you not ring +for him?”</p> + +<p>Cartaret’s gesture included the four walls of +the room:</p> + +<p>“There’s no bell.”</p> + +<p>Still a little suspicious of him, her blue eyes +scanned the room to confirm his statement.</p> + +<p>“Then why not call him from the window in +the back?”</p> + +<p>“Because his quarters are at the front of the +house, and he wouldn’t hear.”</p> + +<p>“Would no one hear?”</p> + +<p>“There’s nobody in the garden at this time of +day. You had really better let me call to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>27]</a></span> +first person that goes along the street. Somebody +is always going along, you know.”</p> + +<p>He made two strides toward the front window.</p> + +<p>“Come back!”</p> + +<p>He turned to find her with her face scarlet. +She had raised the knife.</p> + +<p>“Break the lock,” she said.</p> + +<p>“But that will take time.”</p> + +<p>“Break the lock.”</p> + +<p>“All right; only why don’t you want me to call +for help?”</p> + +<p>“And humiliate me still further?” One small +foot, cased in an absurdly light patent-leather +slipper with a flashing buckle, tapped the floor +angrily. “I have been foolish, and your folly has +made me more foolish, but I will not have it +known to all the world <em>how</em> foolish I have been. +Break the lock at once—now—immediately.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret divined that this was eminently a time +for silence: she was alive, she was real, and she +was human. He opened a drawer in the table, +dived under the divan, plunged behind a curtain +in one corner, and at last found a shaky hammer +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>28]</a></span> +and a nicked chisel with which he returned to the +locked door.</p> + +<p>“I’m not much of a carpenter,” he said, by way +of preparatory apology.</p> + +<p>The girl said nothing.</p> + +<p>He was angry at himself for having appeared +to such heavy disadvantage. Consequently, he +was unsteady. His first blow missed. His +strength turned to mere violence, and he showered +futile blows upon the butt of the chisel. Then a +misdirected blow hit the thumb of his left hand. +He swore softly and, having sworn, heard her +laugh.</p> + +<p>He looked up: the knife had disappeared. He +was pleased at the change to merriment that her +face discovered; but, as he looked, he realized +that her mirth was launched against his efforts, +and he was pleased no longer. His rage directed +itself from him to her.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry you don’t approve,” he said sulkily. +“For my part, I am quite willing to stop, I assure +you.”</p> + +<p>If an imperious person may be said to have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>29]</a></span> +tossed her head, then it should here be said that +this imperious person now tossed hers.</p> + +<p>“Now, shall I go to the window and yell into +the street?” he savagely inquired.</p> + +<p>Her high-tilted chin, her crimsoned cheeks and +the studiously managed lack of expression in her +eyes were proofs that she had heard him. Nevertheless, +she persisted in her disregard of his suggestion.</p> + +<p>Cartaret’s mood became more ugly. He resolved +to make her pay attention.</p> + +<p>“I’ll do it,” he said, and turned away from +the door.</p> + +<p>That brought the answer. She looked at him +in angry horror.</p> + +<p>“And make us the laughing-stock of the neighborhood?” +she cried. “Is it not enough that you +have shut me in here, that you have insulted me, +that——”</p> + +<p>“Insulted you?” He stood with the hammer +in one hand and the chisel in the other, a rather +unromantic figure of protest. “I never did anything +of the sort.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>30]</a></span> +He made a flourish and dropped the hammer. +When he picked it up, he saw that she stood +there, looking over his bent head, with eyes sternly +kept serene; but he saw also that her cheeks remained +aglow and that her breath came short.</p> + +<p>“I never did anything of the sort,” he went +on. “How could I?”</p> + +<p>“How could you?” She clenched her hands.</p> + +<p>“I don’t mean that.” He could have bitten +out his tongue. He floundered in a marsh +of confusion. “I mean—I mean—Oh, I don’t +know what I mean, except that I beg you to +believe I am incapable of the impudence you +charge! I came in here and found the most +beautiful woman——”</p> + +<p>She recoiled.</p> + +<p>“You speak so to me?”</p> + +<p>It was out: he had to go ahead now. He did +not at all recognize himself: this was not American; +it was wholly Gallic.</p> + +<p>“I can’t help it,” he said, “you are.”</p> + +<p>“Go to work,” said the girl.</p> + +<p>“But I want you to understand——”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>31]</a></span> +Two tears, twin diamonds of mortification, +shone in her blue eyes.</p> + +<p>“You have humiliated me, and mortified me, +and insulted me!” she persisted. Her white +throat swallowed the chagrin, and anger returned +to take its place. “If you are what you +pretend to be, you will go back to your work of +opening that door. If I were the strong man +that you are, I should have broken it open long +ago.”</p> + +<p>She had a handsome ferocity. Cartaret put +one broad shoulder to the door and both hands +to the knob. There was a tremendous wrenching +and splitting: the door swung open. He +turned and bowed.</p> + +<p>“It’s open,” he said.</p> + +<p>To his amazement, her mood had entirely +changed. Whether his action had served as +proof of his declared sincerity, or whether her +brief reflection on his words had itself served him +this good turn, he could not guess; but he saw +now that her eyes had softened and that her +underlip quivered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>32]</a></span> +“Good afternoon,” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p>“Good-by,” said she.</p> + +<p>She moved toward the door, then stopped.</p> + +<p>“I hope that you will pardon me,” she said, +and she spoke as if she were not accustomed to +asking pardon. “I have been too quick and +very foolish. You must know that I am new to +Paris—new to France—new to cities—and that +I have heard strange stories of Parisians and of +the men of the large towns.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret was more than mollified, but he took +a grip upon his emotions and resolved to pursue +this advantage.</p> + +<p>“At least,” he said, “you should have seen +that I was your own sort.”</p> + +<p>“My own—my own sort?” She did not seem +to comprehend.</p> + +<p>“Well, of your own class, then.” This girl +had an impish faculty for making him say things +that sounded priggish: “You should have seen +I was of your own class.”</p> + +<p>Again her eyes widened. Then she tossed her +head and laughed a little silvery laugh.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>33]</a></span> +He fancied the laugh disdainful, and thought +so the more when she seemed to detect his suspicion +and tried to allay it by an alteration of +tone.</p> + +<p>“I mean exactly that,” he said.</p> + +<p>She bit her red lip, and Cartaret noted that +her teeth were even and white.</p> + +<p>“Forgive me,” she begged.</p> + +<p>She put out her hand so frankly that he +would have forgiven her anything. He took the +hand and, as it nestled softer than any satin in +his, he felt his heart hammer in his breast.</p> + +<p>“Forgive me,” she was repeating.</p> + +<p>“I hope <em>you’ll</em> forgive <em>me</em>,” he muttered. “At +any rate, you can’t forget me: you’ll have to +remember me as the greatest boor you ever met.”</p> + +<p>She shook her head.</p> + +<p>“It was I that was foolish.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but it wasn’t! I——”</p> + +<p>He stopped, for her eyes had fallen from his +and rested on their clasped hands. He released +her instantly.</p> + +<p>“Good-by,” she said again.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>34]</a></span> +“Good—— But surely I’m to see you once in +a while!”</p> + +<p>“I do not know.”</p> + +<p>“Why, we’re neighbors! You can’t mean that +you won’t let me——”</p> + +<p>“I do not know,” she said. “Good-by.”</p> + +<p>She went out, drawing-to the shattered door +behind her.</p> + +<p>Cartaret leaned against the panel and listened +shamelessly.</p> + +<p>He heard her cross the hall and open the door +to the opposite room; he heard her suspiciously +greeted by another voice—a voice that he gladly +recognized as feminine—and in a language that +was wholly unfamiliar to him: a language that +sounded somehow Oriental. Then he heard the +other door shut, and he turned to the comfortless +gloom of his own quarters.</p> + +<p>He sat down on the bed. He had forgotten a +riotous dinner that was to have been his final +Parisian folly, forgotten his poverty, forgotten +his day of disappointment and his desire to go +back to Ohio and the law. He remembered only +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>35]</a></span> +the events of the last quarter-hour and the girl +that had made them what they were.</p> + +<p>As he sat there, there seemed to come again +into the silent room the perfume he had noticed +when he returned. It seemed to float in on the +twilight, still dimly pink behind the roofs of the +gray houses along the Boul’ Miche’: subtle, haunting, +an odor more delicate and tender than any +he had ever known before.</p> + +<p>He raised his head. He saw something white +lying on the floor—lying where, a few moments +since, he had stood. He went forward and +picked it up.</p> + +<p>It was a flower like a rose—a white rose—but +unlike any rose of which Cartaret had any +knowledge. It was small, but perfect, its pure +petals gathered tight against its heart, and from +its heart came the perfume that had seemed to +him like a musical poem in an unknown tongue.</p> + +<p>For a second time Cartaret had that quick +vision of the sunlight upon snow-crests and the +virgin sheen of unattainable mountain tops....</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>36]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER II<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">PROVIDING THE GENTLE READER WITH A CARD +OF ADMISSION TO THE NEST OF THE TWO +DOVES</span></h2> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Dans ces questions de crédit, il faut toujours frapper +l’imagination. L’idée de génie, c’est de prendre dans la +poche des gens l’argent qui n’y est pas encore.—Zola: +<i>L’Argent</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<p>Until just before the appearance of Charlie +Cartaret’s rosy vision, this had been a day of +darkness and wet. Rain—a dull, hopeless, February +rain—fell with implacable monotony. It +descended in fine spray, as if too lazy to hurry, +yet too spiteful to stop. It made all Paris miserable; +but, as is the way with Parisian rains, +it was a great deal wetter on the Left Bank of +the Seine than on the Right.</p> + +<p>No rain—not even in those happy times before +the great war—ever washed the Left Bank +clean, and this one only made it a marsh. A +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>37]</a></span> +curtain of fog fell sheer between the Isle de la +Cité and the Quai des Augustins; the twin +towers of St. Sulpice staggered up into a pall of +fog and were lost in it. The gray houses +hunched their shoulders, lowered their heads, +drew their mansard hats and gabled caps over +their noses and stood like rows of patient horses +at a cabstand under the gray downpour. Now +and again a real cab scuttled along the streets, +its skinny beast clop-clopping over the wooden +paving, or slipping among the cobbled ways, +its driver hidden under a mountainous pile of +woolen great-coat and rubber cape. Even the +taxis lacked the proud air with which they +habitually splash pedestrians, and such pedestrians +as business forced upon the early afternoon +thoroughfares went with heads bowed like +the houses’ and umbrellas leveled like flying-jibs.</p> + +<p>In front of the little Café Des Deux Colombes, +the two marble-topped tables which occupied +its scant frontage on the rue Jacob were +deserted by all save their four iron-backed chairs +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>38]</a></span> +with wet seats and their twin water-bottles into +which, with mathematical precision, water +dropped from a pair of holes in the sagging canvas +overhead. Inside, however, there were +lighted gas-jets, the proprietor and the proprietor’s +wife—presumably the pair of doves for +whom the Café was named—and a man that +was trying to look like a customer.</p> + +<p>Gaston François Louis Pasbeaucoup had an +apron tied about his middle, and, standing before +the intended patron’s table, leaned what +weight he had—it was not much—upon his +finger-tips. His mustache was fierce enough to +grace the upper lip of a deputy from the Bouches-du-Rhône +and generous enough to spare many +a contribution to the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">plat-du-jour</i>; but his mustache +was the only large thing about him—always +excepting Madame his wife, who was ever +somewhere about him and who was just now, two +hundred and twenty pounds of evidence to the +good food of the Deux Colombes, stuffed into +a wire cage at one end of the bar, and bulging +out of it, her eyebrows meeting over her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>39]</a></span> +pug-nose and the heap of hair leaping from her head +nearly to the ceiling, while her lips and fingers +were busy adding the bills from <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">déjeuner</i>.</p> + +<p>“It would greatly pleasure me to accommodate +monsieur,” Pasbeaucoup was whispering, “but +monsieur must know that already——”</p> + +<p>The sentence ended in a deprecating glance +over the speaker’s shoulder in the general direction +of mighty Madame.</p> + +<p>“Already? Already what then?” demanded +the intending customer.</p> + +<p>He was lounging on the wall-seat behind his +table, and he had an aristocratic air surprisingly +at variance with his garments. His black jacket +shone too highly at the elbows, and its short +sleeves betrayed an unnecessary length of red +wrist. His black boots gasped for repair; a soft +black hat, pushed to the back of his black hair, +still dripped from an unprotected voyage along +the rainy street, and his neckcloth, which was +also long and soft and black, showed a spot or +two not put there by its makers. These were +patently matters beyond their owner’s command +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>40]</a></span> +and beneath the dignity of his attention. Against +them one was compelled to set a manner truly +lofty, which was enhanced by a pair of burning, +deep-placed eyes, a thin white face and, sprouting +from either side of his lower jaw, near the +chin, two wisps of ebon whisker. He frowned +majestically, and he smoked a caporal cigarette +as if it were a Havana cigar.</p> + +<p>“Already what?” he loudly repeated. “If it +is possible! I patronize your cabbage of a café +for five years, and now you put me off with +your alreadys!”</p> + +<p>Pasbeaucoup, his fingers still resting on the +table, danced in embarrassment and rolled his +eyes in a manner that plainly enough warned +monsieur not to let his voice reach the caged +lady.</p> + +<p>“I was but about to say that monsieur already +owes us the trifling sum of——”</p> + +<p>“<em>Sixty francs, twenty-five!</em>”</p> + +<p>The tone that announced these fateful numerals +was so tremendous a contralto as to be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>41]</a></span> +really bass. It came from the wire cage and +belonged to Madame.</p> + +<p>Pasbeaucoup sank into the nearest chair. He +spread out his hands in a gesture that eloquently +said:</p> + +<p>“Now you’ve done it! I can’t shield you +any longer!”</p> + +<p>The debtor, albeit he was still a young man, +did not appear unduly impressed. The table +was across his knees, but he rose as far as it +would permit and removed his hat with a flourish +that sent a spray of water directly over +Madame’s monument of hair. Disregarding +the blatant fact that she was quite the most +remarkable feature of the room, he vowed that +he had not observed her upon entering, was +desolated because of his oversight and ravished +now to have the pleasure of once more beholding +her in all her accustomed grace and charm.</p> + +<p>Madame shrugged her shoulders higher than +the walls of the cage.</p> + +<p>“Sixty francs, twenty-five,” she said, without +looking up from her task.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>42]</a></span> +Ah, yes: his little account. Monsieur recalled +that: there was a little account; but, so truly as +his name was Seraphin and his passion Art, what +a marvelous head Madame had for figures. It +was of an exactitude magnificent!</p> + +<p>When he paused, Madame said:</p> + +<p>“Sixty francs, twenty-five.”</p> + +<p>“But surely, Madame——” Seraphin Dieudonné +was politely amazed; he did not desire to +credit her with an impoliteness, and yet she +seemed to imply that, unless he paid this absurdly +little sum, there might be some delay in +serving him in this so excellent establishment.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">C’est ça</i>,” said Madame. “The delay will +be entire.”</p> + +<p>“Incomprehensible!” Seraphin put a bony +hand to his heart. “Do you not know—all the +world of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Quartier</i> knows—that I have, Madame, +but three days’ work more upon my <i>magnum +opus</i>—a week at the utmost—and that then +it can sell for not a sou less than fifteen thousand +francs?”</p> + +<p>Madame’s face never changed expression when +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>43]</a></span> +she talked; it always seemed set at the only angle +that would balance her monument of hair. She +now said:</p> + +<p>“What all the world of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Quartier</i> knows is +that your last <i>magnum opus</i> you sold to that +simpleton Fourget in the rue St. André des +Arts; that even from him you could squeeze but +a hundred francs for it; and that he has not yet +been able to find a customer.”</p> + +<p>At first Seraphin seemed slow to credit the +scorn that Madame was at such pains to reveal. +He made one valiant effort to overlook it, and +failed; then he made an effort no less valiant to +meet her with the ridiculous majesty in which +he habitually draped himself. It was as if, unable +to make her believe in him, he at least +wanted her to believe that his long struggle +with poverty and an indifferent public had served +only to increase his confidence in his own genius +and to rear between him and the world a wall +through which the arrows of the scornful could +hardly pass. But this attempt succeeded no +more than its predecessor: as he half stood, half +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>44]</a></span> +bent before this landlady of a fifth-rate café, a +tardy pink crept up his white face and painted +the skin over his cheek-bones; his eyelids fluttered, +and his mouth worked. The man was +hungry.</p> + +<p>“Madeleine!” whispered Pasbeaucoup, compassion +for the debtor almost overcoming fear +of the wife.</p> + +<p>Seraphin wet his lips.</p> + +<p>“Madame——” he began.</p> + +<p>“Sixty francs, twenty-five,” said Madame. +“<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Ca y est!</i>”</p> + +<p>As she said it, the door of the Deux Colombes +opened and another patron, at once evidently +a more welcome patron, presented himself. He +was a plump little man with hands that were +thinly at contrast with the rest of him. He +was fairly well dressed, but far better fed, and +so contented with his lot as to have no eye for +the evident lot of Seraphin. He was Maurice +Houdon, who had decided some day to be a +great composer and who meanwhile overcharged +a few English and American pupils for lessons +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>45]</a></span> +on the piano and borrowed money from any +that would trust him. He stormed Dieudonné, +leaned over the intervening table and embraced +him.</p> + +<p>“My dear friend!” he cried, his arms outflung, +his fingers rattling rapid arpeggios upon invisible +pianos. “You are indeed well found. I have +news—such news!” He thrust back his head +and warbled a laugh worthy of the mad-scene +in <i>Lucia</i>. “Listen well.” Again he embraced +the unresisting Seraphin. “This night we dine +here; we make a collation—a symposium: we +feed both our bodies and our souls. I shall sit +at the head of the table in the little room on +the first floor, and you will sit at the foot. +Armand Garnier will read his new poem; Devignes +will sing my latest song; Philippe Varachon +and you will discourse on your arts; and +I—perhaps I shall let you persuade me to play +the fugue that I go to write for the death of the +President: it is all but ready against the day +that a president chooses to die.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>46]</a></span> +But Seraphin’s thoughts were fixed on the +food for the body.</p> + +<p>“You make no jest with me, Maurice?”</p> + +<p>“Jest with you? I jest with you? No, my +friend. I do not jest when I invite a guest to +dine with me.”</p> + +<p>“I comprehend,” said Dieudonné; “but who +is to be the host?”</p> + +<p>At that question, Pasbeaucoup rose from his +chair, and Madame, his wife, tried to thrust her +nose, which was too short to reach, through the +bars of her cage. The composer struck a chord +on his breast and bowed.</p> + +<p>“True: the host,” said he. “I had forgotten. +I have found a veritable patron of my art. He +has had the room above mine for two years, +and I did not once before suspect him. He is +an American of the United States.”</p> + +<p>Madame’s contralto shook her prison bars:</p> + +<p>“There is no American that can appreciate +art.”</p> + +<p>“True, Madame,” admitted Houdon, bowing +profoundly; “there is no American that can +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>47]</a></span> +appreciate art, and there is no American millionaire +that can help patronizing it.”</p> + +<p>“Eh, he is a millionaire, then, this American?” +demanded Madame, audibly mollified.</p> + +<p>“He has that honor.”</p> + +<p>“And his name?”—Madame wanted to make +a memorandum of that name.</p> + +<p>Houdon struck another chord. It was as if +he were sounding a fanfare for the entrance of +his hero.</p> + +<p>“Charles Cartaret.” He pronounced the first +name in the French fashion and the second +name “Cartarette.”</p> + +<p>Seraphin’s reply to this announcement rather +spoiled its effect. He laughed, and his laughter +was high and mocking.</p> + +<p>“Cartaret!” he cried. “Charlie Cartaret! But +I know him well.”</p> + +<p>“Eh?”—The composer was reproachful—“And +you never presented him to me?”</p> + +<p>“It never happened that you were by.”</p> + +<p>“My faith! Why should I be? Am I not +Houdon? You should have brought him to me. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>48]</a></span> +Is it that you at the same time consider yourself +my friend and do not bring to me your millionaire?”</p> + +<p>Seraphin’s laughter waxed.</p> + +<p>“But he is not my millionaire: he is your +millionaire only. I know well that he is as +poor as we are.”</p> + +<p>The musician’s imaginary melody ceased: one +could almost hear it cease. He gazed at Seraphin +as he might have gazed at a madman.</p> + +<p>“But that room rents for a hundred francs +a month!”</p> + +<p>“He is in debt for it.”</p> + +<p>“And his name is that of a rich American +well known.”</p> + +<p>“An uncle who does not like him.”</p> + +<p>“And he has offered to provide this collation.”</p> + +<p>Seraphin shrugged.</p> + +<p>“M. Cartaret’s credit,” said he, with a glance +at Madame, “seems to be better than mine. I +tell you he is only a young art-student, enough +genteel, and the relation of a man enough rich, +but for himself—poof!—he is one of us.”</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>49]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER III<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">IN WHICH A FOOL AND HIS MONEY ARE SOON +PARTED</span></h2> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>Money’s the still sweet-singing nightingale.—Herrick: +<i>Hesperides</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<p>Seraphin Dieudonné told the truth: at that +moment Charlie Cartaret—for all this, remember, +preceded the coming of the Vision—at +that moment Cartaret was seated in his room +in the rue du Val-de-Grâce, wondering how he +was to find his next month’s rent. His trouble +was that he had just sold a picture, for the first +time in his life, and, having sold it, he had +rashly engaged to celebrate that good fortune by a +feast which would leave him with only enough +to buy meals for the ensuing three weeks.</p> + +<p>He was a rather fine-looking, upstanding +young fellow of a type essentially American. +In the days, not long distant, when the goal at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>50]</a></span> +the other end of the gridiron had been the only +goal of his ambition, he had put hard muscles +on his hardy frame; later he had learned to shoot +in Arizona; and he even now would have +looked more at home along Broadway or Halsted +Street than he did in the rue St. Jacques +or the Boulevard St. Michel. He was tow-haired +and brown-eyed and clean-shaven; he +was generally hopeful, which is another way of +saying that he was still upon the flowered slope +of twenty-five.</p> + +<p>Cartaret had inherited his excellent constitution, +but his family all suffered from one disease: +the disease of too much money on the +wrong side of the house. When oil was found +in Ohio, it was found in land belonging to his +father’s brother, but Charlie’s father remained +a poor lawyer to the end of his days. Uncle +Jack had children of his own and a deserved +reputation for holding on to his pennies. He +sent his niece to a finishing-school, where she +could be properly prepared for that state of life +to which it had not pleased Heaven to call her, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>51]</a></span> +and he sent his nephew to college. When the +former child was finished, he found her a place +as companion to an ancient widow in Toledo +and dismissed her from his thoughts; when +Charlie was through with college—which is to +say, when the faculty was through with him +for endeavoring to plant a fraternity in a plot +of academic soil that forbade the seed of Greek-letter +societies—he asked him what he intended +to do now—and asked it in a tone that plainly +meant:</p> + +<p>“What further disgrace are you planning to +bring upon our name?”</p> + +<p>Charlie replied that he wanted to be an artist.</p> + +<p>“I might have guessed it,” said his uncle. +“How long’ll it take?”</p> + +<p>Young Cartaret, knowing something about art, +had not the slightest idea.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the by-product of petroleum, “if +you’ve got to be an artist, be one as far away +from New York as you can. They say Paris is +the best place to learn the business.”</p> + +<p>“It is one of the best places,” said Charlie.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>52]</a></span> +The elder Cartaret wrote a check.</p> + +<p>“Take a boat to-morrow,” he ordered. “I’ll +pay your board and tuition for two years: that’s +time enough to learn any business. After two +years you’ll have to make out for yourself.”</p> + +<p>So Charlie had worked hard for two years. +That period ended a week ago, and his uncle’s +checks ended with it. He had stayed on and +hoped. To-day he had carried a picture through +the rain to Seraphin’s benefactor, the dealer +Fourget; and the soft-hearted Fourget had bought +it. Cartaret, on his return, met Houdon in the +lower hall and before the American was well +aware of it, he was pledged to the feast of +which Maurice was bragging to Dieudonné.</p> + +<p>Charlie dug into his pocket and fished out all +that was in it: a matter of two hundred and +ten francs. He counted it twice over.</p> + +<p>“No use,” he said. “I can’t make it any +larger. I wonder if I ought to take a smaller +room.”</p> + +<p>Certainly there was more room here than he +wanted, but he had grown to love the place: +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>53]</a></span> +even then, when he had still to see it in the +rose-pink twilight of romance, in the afterglow +that was a dawn—even then, before the apparition +of the strange Lady—he loved it as his +sort of man must love the scenes of those +struggles which have left him poor. Its front +windows opened upon the street full of student-life +and gossip, its rear windows looked on a +little garden that was pretty with the concierge’s +flowers all Summer long and merry with +the laughter of the concierge’s children on every +fair day the whole year round. The light was +good enough, the location excellent; the service +was no worse than the service in any similar +house in Paris.</p> + +<p>“But I have been a fool,” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p>He looked again at his money, and then he +looked again about the room. The difference +between a fool and a mere dilettante in folly is +this: that the latter knows his folly as he indulges +it, whereas the former recognizes it, if +ever, only too late.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>54]</a></span> +“If I’d been able to study for only one year +more,” he said.</p> + +<p>It was the wail of retrospection that, sooner +or later, every man, each in his own way and +according to his chances and his character for +seizing them, is bound to utter. It was what +we all say and what, in saying, we each think +unique. Happy he that says it, and means it, +in time to profit!</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Cartaret, “I’ve been a fool. But +I won’t be a quitter,” he added. “I’ll go and +order that dinner.”</p> + +<p>Thus Charles Cartaret in the afternoon.</p> + +<p>He had put on a battered, broad-brimmed +hat of soft black felt, which was picturesquely +out of place above his American features, and a +still more battered English rain-coat, which did +not at all belong with the hat, and, thus fortified +against the rain, he hurried into the hall. +As he closed the door of his studio behind him, +he fancied that he heard a sound from the +room across from his own, and so stood listening, +his hand upon the knob.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>55]</a></span> +“That’s queer,” he reflected. “I thought that +room was still to let.”</p> + +<p>He listened a moment longer, but the sound, +if sound there had been, was not repeated, so +he pulled his hat-brim over his eyes and descended +to the street.</p> + +<p>The rain had lessened, but the fog held on, +and the thoroughfares were wet and dismal. +Cartaret cut down the rue du Val-de-Grâce to +the Avenue de Luxembourg and through the +gardens with their dripping statues and around +the museum, whence he crossed to the sheltered +way between those bookstalls that cling like ivy +to the walls of the Odéon, and so, by the steep +descent of the rue de Tournon and the rue de Seine, +came to the rue Jacob and the Café Des Deux +Colombes.</p> + +<p>Seraphin and Maurice were still there. They +received him as their separate natures dictated, +the former with a restrained dignity, the latter +with the dignity of a monarch so secure of +his title that he can afford to condescend to an +air of democracy. Seraphin bowed; Maurice +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>56]</a></span> +embraced and, embracing, tapped the diatonic +scale along Cartaret’s vertebræ. Pasbeaucoup, +in trembling obedience to a cryptic nod from +the caged Madame, hovered in the background.</p> + +<p>“I have come,” said Cartaret, whose French +was the easy and inaccurate French of the +American art-student, “to order that dinner.” +He half turned to Pasbeaucoup, but Houdon +was before him.</p> + +<p>“It is done,” announced the musician, as if +announcing a favor performed. “I have relieved +you of that tedium. We are to begin +with an <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">hors-d’oeuvre</i> of anchovies and——”</p> + +<p>Madame had again nodded, this time less +cryptically and more violently, at her husband, +and Pasbeaucoup, between twin terrors, timidly +suggested:</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Cartaret comprehends that it is +only because of the so high cost of necessities +that it is necessary for us to request——”</p> + +<p>He stopped there, but the voice from the +cage boomed courageously:</p> + +<p>“The payment in advance!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>57]</a></span> +“A custom of the establishment,” explained +Houdon grandly, but shooting a venomous glance +in the direction of Madame.</p> + +<p>Seraphin came quietly from behind his table +and, slipping a thin arm through Cartaret’s, +drew him, to the speechless amazement of the +other participants in this scene, toward the farthest +corner of the café.</p> + +<p>“My friend,” he whispered, “you must not do +it.”</p> + +<p>“Eh?” said Cartaret. “Why not? It’s a +queer thing to be asked, but why shouldn’t I +do it?”</p> + +<p>Seraphin hesitated. Then, regaining the conquest +over self, he put his lips so close to the +American’s ear that the Frenchman’s wagging +wisps of whisker tickled his auditor’s cheek.</p> + +<p>“This Houdon is but a pleasant <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coquin</i>,” he +confided. “He will suck from you the last sou’s +worth of your blood.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret smiled grimly.</p> + +<p>“He won’t get a fortune by it,” he said.</p> + +<p>“That is why I do not wish him to do it: +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>58]</a></span> +I know well that you cannot afford these little +dissipations. I do not wish to see my friend +swindled by false friendship. Houdon is a good +boy, but, Name of a Name, he has the conscience +of a pig!”</p> + +<p>“All right,” said Cartaret suddenly, for Seraphin +was appealing to a sense of economy still +fresh enough to be sensitive, “since he’s ordered +the dinner, we’ll let him pay for it.”</p> + +<p>“Alas,” declared Dieudonné, sadly shaking his +long hair, “poor Maurice has not the money.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”—A gleam of gratitude lighted Cartaret’s +blue eyes—“Then you are proposing that +you do it?”</p> + +<p>“My friend,” inquired Seraphin, flinging out +his arms as a man flings out his arms to invite +a search of his pockets, “you know me: how +can I?”</p> + +<p>Cartaret blushed at his ineptitude. He knew +Dieudonné well enough to have been aware of +his poverty and liked him well enough to be +tender toward it. “But,” he nevertheless pardonably +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>59]</a></span> +inquired, “if that’s the way the thing stands, +who’s to pay? One of the other guests?”</p> + +<p>“We are all of the same financial ability.”</p> + +<p>“Then I don’t see——”</p> + +<p>“Nor do I. And”—Seraphin’s high resolution +clattered suddenly about his ears—“after +all, the dinner has been ordered, and I am very +hungry. My friend,” he concluded with a happy +return of his dignity, “at least I have done you +this service: you will buy the dinner, but you +will not both buy it and be deceived.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret turned, with a smile no longer grim, +to the others.</p> + +<p>“Seraphin,” he said, “has persuaded me. +Madame, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">l’addition</i>, if you please.”</p> + +<p>Pasbeaucoup trotted to the cage, bringing +back to Cartaret the long slip of paper that +Madame had ready for him. Cartaret glanced +at only the total and, though he flushed a little, +paid without comment.</p> + +<p>“And now,” suggested Houdon, “now let us +play a little game of dominoes.”</p> + +<p>Seraphin, from the musician’s shoulder, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>60]</a></span> +frowned hard at Cartaret, but Cartaret was in +no mood to heed the warning. He was angry +at himself for his extravagance and decided that, +having been such a fool as to fling away a great +deal of his money, he might now as well be a +greater fool and fling it all away. Besides, he +might be able to win from Houdon, and, even +if Houdon could not pay, there would be the +satisfaction of revenge. So he sat down at one +of the marble-topped tables and began, with a +great clatter, to shuffle the dominoes that obsequious +Pasbeaucoup hurriedly fetched. Within +two hours, Seraphin was head over ears in the +musician’s debt, and the American was paying +into Houdon’s palm all but about ten francs +of the money that he had so recently earned. +He rose smilingly.</p> + +<p>“You do not go?” inquired Houdon.</p> + +<p>Cartaret nodded.</p> + +<p>“But the dinner?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you worry; I’ll be back for that—I +don’t know when I’ll get another.”</p> + +<p>“Then permit me,” Houdon condescended, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>61]</a></span> +“to order a bock. For the three of us.” He +generously included the hungry Seraphin. “Come, +we shall drink to your better fortune next +time.”</p> + +<p>But Cartaret excused himself. He said that +he had an engagement with a dealer, which was +not true, and which was understood to be false, +and he went into the street.</p> + +<p>The last of the rain, unnoticed during Cartaret’s +fevered play, had passed, and a red February +sun was setting across the Seine, behind +the higher ground that lies between L’Etoile and +the Place du Trocadero. The river was hidden +by the point of land that ends in the Quai +D’Orsay, but, as Cartaret crossed the broad rue +de Vaugirard, he could see the golden afterglow +and, silhouetted against it, the high filaments +of the Eiffel Tower.</p> + +<p>What an ass he had been, he bitterly reflected, +as he passed again through the Luxembourg +Gardens, where now the statues glistened +in the fading light of the dying afternoon. What +a mad ass! If a single stroke of almost +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>62]</a></span> +pathetically small good luck made such a fool of +him, it was as well that his uncle and not his +father had come into a fortune.</p> + +<p>His thought went back with a new tenderness +to his father and to his own and his sister +Cora’s early life in that small Ohio town. He +had hated the dull routine and narrow conventionality +of the place. There the most daring +romance of youth had been to walk with the +daughter of a neighbor along the shaded streets +in the Summer evenings, and to hang over the +gate to the front yard of the house in which +she lived, tremblingly hinting at a delicious +tenderness, which one never dared more adequately +to express, until a threatening parental +voice called the girl to shelter. His life, since +those days, had been more stirring, and sometimes +more to be regretted; but he had loved it +and thought it absurd sentiment on Cora’s part +to insist that their tiny income go to keeping +up the little property—the three-story brick +house and wide front and back-yard along Main +Street—which had been their home. Yet now +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>63]</a></span> +he felt, and was half ashamed of feeling, a +strong desire to go back there, a pull at his +heartstrings for a return to all that he was once +so anxious to quit forever.</p> + +<p>He wondered if it could be possible that he +was tired of Paris. He even wondered if it +were possible that he could not be a successful +artist—he had never wanted to be a rich one—whether +the sensible course would not be to +go home and study law while there was yet +time....</p> + +<p>And then——</p> + +<p>Then, in the rose-pink twilight, the beginning +of the Dream Wonderful: that scent of the +roses from the sky; that quick memory of sunlight +upon snow-crests; that first revelation of +the celestial Lady transfiguring the earthly commonplace +of his room!</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>64]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER IV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS</span></h2> + +<div class="cpoem2"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i11">... Adowne<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They prayd him sit, and gave him for to feed.<br /></span> +<span class="poet">—Spenser: <i>Faerie Queene</i>.<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>Charlie Cartaret would have told you—indeed, +he frequently did tell his friends—that +the mere fact of a man being an artist was +no proof that he lacked in the uncommon sense +commonly known as common. Cartaret was +quite insistent upon this and, as evidence in +favor of his contention, he was accustomed to +point to C. Cartaret, Esq. He, said Cartaret, +was at once an artist and a practical man: it +was wholly impossible, for instance, to imagine +him capable of any silly romance.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, when left alone in his room by +the departure of the Lady on that February +evening, he sat for a long time with the strange +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>65]</a></span> +rose between his fingers and a strange look in his +eyes. He regarded the rose until the last ray of +light had altogether faded from the West. Only +then did he recall that he had invited sundry +persons to dine with him at the Café Des Deux +Colombes, and when he had made ready to go to +them, the rose was still in his reluctant hand.</p> + +<p>Cartaret looked about him stealthily. He had +been in the room for some hours and he should +have been thoroughly aware that he was alone +in it; but he looked, as all guilty men do, to +right and left to make sure. Then, like a +naughty child, he turned his back to the street-window.</p> + +<p>He stood thus a bare instant, yet in that +instant his hand first raised something toward +his lips, and then bestowed that same something +somewhere inside his waistcoat, a considerable +distance from his heart, but directly over +the rib beneath which ill-informed people believe +the heart to be. This accomplished, he +exhibited a rigorously practical face to the room +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>66]</a></span> +and swaggered out of it, ostentatiously humming +a misogynistic drinking-song:</p> + +<div class="cpoem2"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“There’s nothing, friend, ’twixt you and me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Except the best of company.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(There’s just one bock ’twixt you and me,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">and I’ll catch up full soon!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What woman’s lips compare to this:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This sturdy seidel’s frothy kiss——”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Armand Garnier, one of the men that were +to dine with Cartaret to-night, had written the +words of which this is a free translation, and +Houdon had composed the air—he composed it +impromptu for Devignes over an absinthe, after +laboring upon it in secret for an entire week—but +Cartaret, when he reached the note that +stood for the last word here given, came to an +abrupt stop; he was facing the door of the room +opposite his own. He continued facing it for +quite a minute, but he heard nothing.</p> + +<p>“M. Refrogné,” he said, when he thrust his +head into the concierge’s box downstairs, “if—er—if +anybody should inquire for me this evening, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>67]</a></span> +you will please tell them that I am dining at +the Café Des Deux Colombes.”</p> + +<p>Nothing could be seen in the concierge’s box, +but from it came a grunt that might have been +either assent or dissent.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Cartaret, “in the rue Jacob.”</p> + +<p>Again the ambiguous grunt.</p> + +<p>“Exactly,” Cartaret agreed; “the Café Des +Deux Colombes, in the rue Jacob, close by the +rue Bonaparte. You—you’re quite sure you +won’t forget?”</p> + +<p>The grunt changed to an ugly chuckle, and, +after the chuckle, an ugly voice said:</p> + +<p>“Monsieur expects something unusual: he expects +an evening visitor?”</p> + +<p>“Confound it, no!” snapped Cartaret. He +had been wildly hoping that perhaps The Girl +might need some aid or direction that evening +and might seek it of him. “Not at all,” he +pursued, “but you see——”</p> + +<p>“How then?” inquired the voice.</p> + +<p>Cartaret’s hand went to his pocket and drew +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>68]</a></span> +forth one of the few franc-pieces that remained +there.</p> + +<p>“Just, please, remember what I’ve said,” he +requested.</p> + +<p>In the darkness of the box into which it was +extended, his hand was grasped by a larger +and rougher hand, and the franc was deftly +extracted.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Merci, monsieur.</i>”</p> + +<p>A barely appreciable softening of the tone encouraged +Cartaret. He balanced himself from +foot to foot and asked:</p> + +<p>“Those people—the ones, you understand, that +have rented the room opposite mine?”</p> + +<p>Refrogné understood but truly.</p> + +<p>“Well—in short, who are they, monsieur?”</p> + +<p>“Who knows?” asked Refrogné in the darkness. +Cartaret could feel him shrug.</p> + +<p>“I rather thought you might,” he ventured.</p> + +<p>The darkness was silent; a good concierge +answers questions, not general statements.</p> + +<p>“Where—don’t you know where they come +from?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>69]</a></span> +There was speech once more. Refrogné, it +said, neither knew nor cared. In the rue du +Val de Grâce people continually came and went—all +manner of people from all manner of +places—so long as they paid their rent, it was +no concern of Refrogné’s. For all the information +that he possessed, the two people of whom +monsieur inquired might be natives of Cochin-China. +Mademoiselle evidently wanted to be +an artist, as scores of other young women, and +Madame, her guardian and sole companion, evidently +wanted Mademoiselle to be nothing at +all. There were but two of them, thank God! +The younger spoke much French with an accent +terrible; the elder understood French, but spoke +only some pig of a language that no civilized man +could comprehend. That was all that Refrogné +had to tell.</p> + +<p>Cartaret went on toward the scene of his dinner-party. +He wished he did not have to go. +On the other hand, he was sure he had thrown +Refrogné a franc to no purpose: the Lady of the +Rose was little likely to seek him! He found +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>70]</a></span> +the evening cold and his rain-coat inadequate. +He began humming the drinking-song again.</p> + +<p>They were singing it outright, in a full chorus, +when he entered the little room on the first floor +of the Café Des Deux Colombes. The table was +already spread, the feast already started. The +unventilated room was flooded with light and +full of the steam of hot viands.</p> + +<p>Maurice Houdon, his red cheeks shining, his +black mustache stiffly waxed, sat at the head +of the table as he had promised to do, performing +the honors with a regal grace and playing +imaginary themes with every flourish of address +to every guest: a different theme for each. On +his right was a vacant place, the sole apparent +reference to the host of the evening; on his left, +Armand Garnier, the poet, very thin and cadaverous, +with long dank locks and tangled beard, his +skin waxen, his lantern-jaw emitting no words, +but working lustily upon the food. Next to Cartaret’s +place bobbed the pear-shaped Devignes, +leading the chorus, as became the only professional +singer in the company. Across from him +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>71]</a></span> +was Philippe Varachon, the sculptor, whose nose +always reminded Cartaret of an antique and long +lost bit of statuary, badly damaged in exhumation; +and at the foot Seraphin was seated, the +first to note Cartaret’s arrival and the only one +to apologize for not having delayed the dinner.</p> + +<p>He got up immediately, and his whiskers +tickled the American’s cheek with the whisper:</p> + +<p>“It was ready to serve, and Madame swore +that it would perish. My faith, what would +you?”</p> + +<p>Pasbeaucoup was darting among the guests, +wiping fresh plates with a napkin and his dripping +forehead with his bare hand. Cartaret felt +certain that the little man would soon confuse +the functions of the two.</p> + +<p>“Ah-h-h!” cried Houdon. He rose from his +place and endeavored to restore order by beating +with a fork upon an empty tumbler, as an orchestral +conductor taps his baton—at the same +time nodding fiercely at Pasbeaucoup to refill +the tumbler with red wine. He was the sole member +of the company not long known to their host, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>72]</a></span> +but he said: “Messieurs, I have the happiness +to present to you our distinguished American +fellow-student, M. Charles Cartar<em>ette</em>. Be seated +among us, M. Cartarette,” he graciously added; +“pray be seated.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret sat down in the place kindly reserved +for him, and the interruption of his appearance +was so politely forgotten that he wished he had +not been such a fool as to make it. The song +was resumed. It was not until the salad was +served and Pasbeaucoup had retired below-stairs +to assist in preparing the coffee, that Houdon +turned again to Cartaret and executed what was +clearly to be the Cartaret theme.</p> + +<p>“We had despaired of your arrival, Monsieur,” +said he.</p> + +<p>Cartaret said he had observed signs of something +of the sort.</p> + +<p>“Truly,” nodded Houdon. His tongue rolled +a ball of salad into his cheek and out of the +track of speech. “Doubtless you had the one +living excuse, however.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t follow you,” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>73]</a></span> +Houdon leered. His fingers performed on the +table-cloth something that might have been the +<i>motif</i> of Isolde.</p> + +<p>“I have heard,” said he, “your American proverb +that there are but two adequate excuses +for tardiness at dinner—death and a lady—and +I am charmed, monsieur, to observe that +you are altogether alive.”</p> + +<p>If Cartaret’s glance indicated that he would +like to throttle the composer, Cartaret’s glance +did not misinterpret.</p> + +<p>“We won’t discuss that, if you please,” said +he.</p> + +<p>But Houdon was incapable of understanding +such glances in such a connection. He tapped +for the attention of his orchestra and got it.</p> + +<p>“Messieurs,” he announced, “our good friend +of the America of the North has been having an +adventure.”</p> + +<p>Everybody looked at Cartaret and everybody +smiled.</p> + +<p>“Delicious,” squeaked Varachon through his +broken nose.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>74]</a></span> +“Superb,” trilled the pear-shaped singer Devignes.</p> + +<p>Garnier’s lantern-jaws went on eating. Seraphin +Dieudonné caught Cartaret’s glance imploringly +and then shifted, in ineffectual warning, +to Houdon.</p> + +<p>“But that was only what was to be expected, +my children,” the musician continued. “What +can we poor Frenchmen look for when a blond +Hercules of an American comes, rich and handsome, +to our dear Paris? Only to-day I observed, +renting an abode in the house that Monsieur and +I have the honor to share, a young mademoiselle, +the most gracious and beautiful, accompanied +by a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tuteur</i>, the most ferocious; and I noted well +that they went to inhabit the room but across the +landing from that of M. Cartarette. Behold all! +At once I said to myself: ‘Alas, how long will +it be before this confiding——’”</p> + +<p>He stopped short and looked at Cartaret, for +Cartaret had grasped the performing hand of +the composer and, in a steady grip, forced it +quietly to the table.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>75]</a></span> +“I tell you,” said Cartaret, gently, “that I +don’t care to have you talk in this strain.”</p> + +<p>“How then?” blustered the amazed musician.</p> + +<p>“If you go on,” Cartaret warned him, “you will +have to go on from the floor; I’ll knock you +there.”</p> + +<p>“Maurice!” cried Seraphin, rising from his +chair.</p> + +<p>“Messieurs!” piped Devignes.</p> + +<p>Varachon growled at Houdon, and Garnier +reached for a water-bottle as the handiest weapon +of defense. Houdon and Cartaret were facing +each other, erect, each waiting for the other to +make a further move, the former red, the latter +white, with anger. There followed that flashing +pause of quiet which is the precursor of +battle.</p> + +<p>The battle, however, was not forthcoming. +Instead, through the silence, there came a roar +of voices that diverted the attention of even +the chief combatants. It was a roar of voices +from the café below: a heavy rumble that was +unmistakably Madame’s and a clatter of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>76]</a></span> +unintelligible shrieks and demands that were feminine +but unclassifiable. Now one voice shouted and +next the other. Then the two joined in a +mighty explosion, and little Pasbeaucoup was +shot up the stairs and among the diners as if +he were the first rock from the crater of an +emptying volcano.</p> + +<p>He staggered against the table and jolted the +water-bottle out of the poet’s hand.</p> + +<p>“Name of a Name!” he gasped. “She is a +veritable tigress, that woman there!”</p> + +<p>They had no time then to inquire whom he +referred to, though they knew that, however +justly he might think it, he would never, even +in terror like the present, say such a thing of +his wife. The words were no sooner free of his +lips than a larger rock was vomited from the +volcano, and a still larger, the largest rock of +the three, came immediately after.</p> + +<p>Everybody was afoot now. They saw that +Pasbeaucoup cowered against the wall in a fear +terrible because it was greater than his fear for +Madame; they saw that Madame, who was the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>77]</a></span> +third rock, was clinging to the apron-strings of +another woman, who was rock number two, and +they saw that this other woman was a stocky +figure, who carried in her hand a curious, wide +head-dress, and who wore a parti-colored apron +that began over her ample breasts and ended +by brushing against her equally ample boots, and +a black skirt of simple stuff and extravagant +puffs, surmounted by a short-skirted blouse or +basque of the same material. Her face was +round and wrinkled like a last winter’s apple +on the kitchen-shelf; but her eyes shone red, +her hands beat the air vigorously, and from her +lips poured a lusty torrent of sounds that might +have been protestations, appeals or curses, yet +were certainly, considered as words, nothing +that any one present had ever heard before.</p> + +<p>She ran forward; Madame ran forward. The +stranger shouldered Madame; Madame dragged +her back. The stranger cried out more of her +alien phrases; Madame shouted French denunciations. +The Gallic diners formed a grinning +circle, eager to lose no detail of the sort of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>78]</a></span> +wrangle that a Frenchman loves best to watch: +a wrangle between women.</p> + +<p>Cartaret made his way through the ring and +put his hand on the stranger’s shoulder. She +seemed to understand, and relapsed into quiet, +attentive but alert.</p> + +<p>“Now,” said Cartaret, “one at a time, please. +Madame, what is the trouble?”</p> + +<p>“Trouble?” roared Madame. Her face did +not change expression, but she held her arms +akimbo, pug-nose and strong chin poked defiantly +at the strange interloper. “You may well +say it, trouble!”</p> + +<p>She put her position strongly and at length. +She had been in the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">caisse</i>, with no one of the +world in the café, when, crying barbarous +threats incomprehensible, this she-bandit, this—this +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">anarchiste infâme</i>, had burst in from the +street, disrupting the peace of the Deux Colombes +and endangering its well-known quiet reputation +with the police.</p> + +<p>That was the gist of it. When it was delivered, +Cartaret faced the stranger.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>79]</a></span> +“And you, Madame?” he asked, in French.</p> + +<p>The stranger strode forward as a pugilist steps +from his corner for the round that he expects to +win the fight for him. She clapped her wide +head-dress upon her head, where it settled itself +with a rakish tilt.</p> + +<p>“Holy pipe!” cried Houdon. “In that I recognize +her. It is the ferocious <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tuteur</i>!”</p> + +<p>Cartaret’s interest became tense.</p> + +<p>“What did you want here?” he urged, still +speaking French.</p> + +<p>The stranger said, twice over, something that +sounded like “Kar-kar-tay.”</p> + +<p>“She is mad,” squeaked Varachon.</p> + +<p>“She is worse; she is German,” vowed Madame.</p> + +<p>Cartaret raised his hand to silence these contentions.</p> + +<p>“Do you understand me?” he urged.</p> + +<p>The wide head-dress flapped a vehement assent.</p> + +<p>“But you can’t answer?”</p> + +<p>The head-dress fluttered a negative, and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>80]</a></span> +mouth mumbled a negative in a French so thick, +hesitant and broken as to be infinitely less expressive +than the shake of the head.</p> + +<p>Cartaret remembered what the concierge Refrogné +had told him. To the circle of curious +people he explained:</p> + +<p>“She can understand a little French, but she +cannot speak it.”</p> + +<p>Madame snorted. “Why then does she come +to this place so respectable if she cannot talk +like a Christian?”</p> + +<p>“Because,” said Cartaret, “she evidently +thought she would be intelligently treated.”</p> + +<p>It was clear to him that she would not have +come had her need not been desperate. He +made another effort to discover her nationality.</p> + +<p>“Who of you speaks something besides +French?” he asked of the company.</p> + +<p>Not Madame; not Seraphin or Houdon: they +were ardent Parisians and of course knew no +language but their own. As for Garnier, +as a French poet and a native of the pure-tongued +Tours, he would not have soiled his lips with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>81]</a></span> +any other speech had he known another. Varachon, +it turned out, was from the Jura, and +had picked up a little Swiss-German during a +youthful <i>liaison</i> at Pontarlier. He tried it now, +but the stranger only shook her head-dress at +him.</p> + +<p>“She knows no German,” said Varachon.</p> + +<p>“Such German!” sniffed Houdon.</p> + +<p>“Chut! This proves rather that she knows it +too well,” grumbled Madame. “She but wishes +to conceal it; probably she is a German spy.”</p> + +<p>Devignes said he knew Italian, and he did +seem to know a sort of Opera-Italian, but it, too, +was useless.</p> + +<p>Cartaret had an inspiration.</p> + +<p>“Spanish!” he suggested. “Does any one know +any Spanish?”</p> + +<p>Pasbeaucoup did; he knew two or three +phrases—chiefly relating to prices on the menu +of the Deux Colombes—but to him also the +awful woman only shook her head in ignorance.</p> + +<p>Cartaret took up the French again.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>82]</a></span> +“Can you not tell me what you want here?” +he pleaded.</p> + +<p>“Kar-kar-tay,” said the stranger.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” cried Seraphin, clapping his hands. +“Does not Houdon say that she makes her abode +in the same house that you make yours? She +seeks you, monsieur. ‘Kar-kar-tay,’ it is her +manner of endeavoring to say Cartar<em>ette</em>.”</p> + +<p>At the sound of that name, the stranger +nodded hard.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Oui, oui!</i>” she cried.</p> + +<p>She understood that her chief inquisitor was +Cartaret, and it was indeed Cartaret that she +sought. She flung herself on her knees to him. +When he hurriedly raised her, she caught at +the skirt of his coat and nearly pulled it from +him in an attempt to drag him to the stairs.</p> + +<p>Cartaret looked sharply at Houdon. The musician +having been so recently saved from the +wrath of his host, was momentarily discreet: +he hid his smile behind one of the thin bands +that contrasted so sharply with his plump cheeks.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>83]</a></span> +“Messieurs,” said Cartaret, “I am going with +this lady.”</p> + +<p>They all edged forward.</p> + +<p>“And I am going alone,” added the American. +“I wish you good-night.”</p> + +<p>“You will be knifed in the street,” said +Madame. Her tone implied: “And it will serve +you right.”</p> + +<p>None of the others seemed to mind his going; +the wrangle over, they were ready for their +coffee and liqueurs. Houdon was frankly relieved. +Only Seraphin protested.</p> + +<p>“And you will leave your dinner unfinished?” +he cried.</p> + +<p>Cartaret was taking his hat and rain-coat +from the row of pegs on the wall where, among +the other guests’, he had hung them when he entered. +He nodded his answer to Seraphin’s query.</p> + +<p>“Leave your dinner?” said Seraphin. “But +my God, it is paid for!”</p> + +<p>“Good-night,” said Cartaret, and was plunged +down the stairs by the strangely-garbed woman +tugging at his hand.</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>84]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER V<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">WHICH TELLS HOW CARTARET RETURNED TO THE +RUE DU VAL-DE-GRÂCE, AND WHAT HE FOUND +THERE</span></h2> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La timidité est un grand péché contre l’amour.—Anatole +France: <i>La Rotisserie de la Reine Pédauque</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<p>If that strange old woman in the rakish head-dress +was in a hurry, Cartaret, you may be +sure, was in no mood for tarrying by the way. +He left the Café des Deux Colombes, picturing +The Girl of the Rose desperately ill, and +he was resolved not only to be the first to +come to her aid, but to have none of the restaurant’s +suspicious company for a companion. +Then, no sooner had he passed through the +empty room on the ground-floor of Mme. Pasbeaucoup’s +establishment and gone a few steps +toward the rue de Seine, than he began to fear +that perhaps the house to which he was apparently +being conducted—The Girl’s house and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>85]</a></span> +his own—had taken fire; or that the cause of the +duenna’s mission was some like misfortune which +would be better remedied, so far as The Girl’s +interests were concerned, if there were more +rescuers than one.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter?” he begged his guide +to inform him, as they hurried through the darkened +streets.</p> + +<p>His guide lifted both hands to her face.</p> + +<p>“Is mademoiselle ill?”</p> + +<p>The duenna shook her head in an emphatic +negative.</p> + +<p>“The place isn’t on fire?” His tone was one +of petition, as if, should he pray hard enough, +she might avert the catastrophe he now dreaded; +or as if, by touching her sympathies, he could +release some hidden spring of intelligible speech.</p> + +<p>The old woman, however, only shook her head +again and hurried on. Cartaret was glad to +find that she possessed an agility impossible for +a city-bred woman of her apparent age, and +he was still more relieved when they reached +their lodging-house and discovered it in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>86]</a></span> +apparently the same condition as that in which he +had left it.</p> + +<p>Their ascent of the stairs was like a race—a +race ending in a dead-heat. At the landing, Cartaret +turned, of course, toward his neighbor’s +door; to his amazement, the old woman pulled +him to his own.</p> + +<p>He opened it and struck a match: the room +was empty. He held the match until it burnt +his fingers.</p> + +<p>The old woman pushed him toward his table, +on which stood a battered lamp. She pointed +to the lamp.</p> + +<p>“But your mistress?” asked Cartaret.</p> + +<p>The duenna pointed to the lamp.</p> + +<p>“Shall I light it?”</p> + +<p>She nodded.</p> + +<p>He lit the lamp. The flame grew until it +illuminated a small circle about the table.</p> + +<p>“Now what?” Cartaret inquired.</p> + +<p>Again that odd gesture toward the nose and +mouth.</p> + +<p>“I don’t understand,” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>87]</a></span> +She picked up the lamp and made as if to +search the floor for something. Then she held +out the lamp to him.</p> + +<p>“Oh”—it began to dawn on Cartaret—“you’ve +lost something?”</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Oui, oui!</i>”</p> + +<p>He took the lamp, and they both fell on +their knees. Together they began a minute inspection +of the dusty floor. Cartaret’s mind was +more easy now: at least his Lady suffered no +physical distress.</p> + +<p>“It’s like a sort of religious ceremony,” muttered +the American, as, foot by foot, they crawled +and groped over the grimy boards....</p> + +<p>“Was it money you lost?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>No, it was not money.</p> + +<p>The search continued. Cartaret crawled under +the divan, while the duenna held the cover high +to admit the light. He blackened his hands in +the fire-place and transferred a little of the soot +to his few extra clothes that hung behind the +corner curtain—but only a little; most of the soot +preferred his hands.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>88]</a></span> +“I never knew before that the room was so +large,” he gasped.</p> + +<p>They had covered two-thirds of the floor-space +when a new thought struck him. Still +crouching on his knees, he once more tried his +companion.</p> + +<p>“I can’t find it,” he said; “but I’d give a good +deal to know what I’m looking for. What were +you doing in here when you lost it, anyway?”</p> + +<p>She shook her head, with her hand on her +breast. Then she pointed to the door and +nodded.</p> + +<p>“You mean your mistress lost it?”</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Oui.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Well, then, let’s get her. She can tell me +what I’m after.”</p> + +<p>He half rose; but the woman seized his arm. +She broke into loud sounds, patently protestations.</p> + +<p>“Nonsense,” said Cartaret. “Why not? Come +on; I’ll knock at her door.”</p> + +<p>The duenna would not have her mistress disturbed. +The ancient voice rose to a shriek.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>89]</a></span> +“But I say yes.”</p> + +<p>The shriek grew louder. With amazing +strength, the old woman forced his unsuspecting +body back to its former position; she came near +to jolting the lamp from his hand.</p> + +<p>It was then that Cartaret heard a lesser noise +behind them: a voice, the low sweet voice of +The Rose-Lady, asked, in the duenna’s strange +tongue, a question from the doorway. Cartaret +turned his head.</p> + +<p>She was standing there in the dim light, a +sort of kimono gathered about her, her sandaled +feet peeping from its lower folds, the lovely +arm that held the curious dressing-gown in place +bare to the elbow. She was smiling at the +answer that her guardian had already given her; +Cartaret thought her even more beautiful than +when he had seen her before.</p> + +<p>The duenna had scuttled forward on her knees +and, amid a series of cries, was pressing the hem +of the kimono to her lips. The Girl’s free hand +was raising the petitioner.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>90]</a></span> +“I am sorry that you have been disturbed by +Chitta,” she was saying.</p> + +<p>Cartaret understood then that he was addressed. +Moreover, he became conscious that he +was by no means at his best on his knees, with +his clothes even more rumpled than usual, his +hands black and, probably, his face no better. +He scrambled to his feet.</p> + +<p>“It’s been no trouble,” he said awkwardly.</p> + +<p>“I should say that it had been a good deal,” +said the Girl. “Chitta is so very superstitious. +Did you find it?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Cartaret. “At least I don’t think +so.”</p> + +<p>The Girl puckered her pretty brow.</p> + +<p>“I mean,” explained Cartaret, coming nearer, +but thankful that he had left the lamp on the +floor behind him, whence its light would least +reveal his soiled hands and face—“I mean that +I haven’t the least idea what I was looking +for.”</p> + +<p>The Girl burst into rippling laughter.</p> + +<p>“Not the least,” pursued the emboldened +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>91]</a></span> +American. “You see, I left word with Refrogné—that’s +the concierge—that I was dining +with some friends at the Deux Colombes—that’s +a café—when I went out; and I suppose she—I +mean your—your maid, isn’t it?—made him +understand that she—I mean your maid again—wanted +me—you know, I don’t generally leave +word; but this time I thought that perhaps you—I +mean she—or, anyhow, I had an idea——”</p> + +<p>He knew that he was making a fool of himself, +so he was glad when she came serenely to +his assistance and gallantly shifted the difficulty +to her own shoulders.</p> + +<p>“It was too bad of Chitta to take you away +from your dinner.”</p> + +<p>Chitta had slunk into the shadows, but Cartaret +could descry her glaring at him.</p> + +<p>“That was of no consequence,” he said; he +had forgotten what the dinner cost him.</p> + +<p>“But, sir, for a reason of so great an absurdity!” +She put one hand on the table and +leaned on it. “I must tell you that there is +in my country a superstition——”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>92]</a></span> +She hesitated. Cartaret, his heart leaping, +leaned forward.</p> + +<p>“What is your country, mademoiselle?” he +asked.</p> + +<p>She did not seem to hear that. She went on:</p> + +<p>“It is really a superstition so much absurd +that I am slow to speak to you of it. They +believe, our peasants, that it brings good luck +when they take it with them across our borders; +that only it can ensure their return, and that, +if it is lost, they will never come back to their +home-land.” Her blue eyes met his gaze. “They, +sir, love their home-land.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret was certain that the land which could +produce this presence, at once so human and so +spiritual, was well worth loving. He wanted to +say so, but another glance at her serene face +checked any impulse that might seem impertinent.</p> + +<p>“I, too, love my country, although I am not +superstitious,” the Girl pursued, “so I had brought +it with me from my country. I brought it with +me to Paris, and I lost it. We go early to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>93]</a></span> +sleep, the people of my race; I had not missed +it when I went to bed; but then Chitta missed +it; and I told her that I thought that I had +perhaps dropped it here. She ran before I +could recall her—and I fell straightway asleep. +She tells me that she had seen you go out, sir, +and that she went to the concierge, as you supposed, +to discover where you had gone, for she +thought, she says, that your door was locked.” +The corners of the Girl’s mouth quivered in a +smile. “I trust that she would not have trespassed +when you were gone, even if your door +<em>was</em> open. Until I heard her shriek but now, I +had no idea that she would pursue you. I regret +for your sake that she disturbed you, but I +also regret for her sake that it was not found.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret had guessed the answer to his question +before he asked it. His cheeks burned for +the consequences, but he put the query:</p> + +<p>“What was lost?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>“Ah, I thought that I had said it: a flower.”</p> + +<p>“A—a rose?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>94]</a></span> +The hand that held her kimono pressed a little +closer to her breast.</p> + +<p>“Then you have found it?”</p> + +<p>Mountain-peaks and glaciers in the sun: Cartaret, +being a practical man, was distinctly +aware of not wanting her to know the present +whereabouts of that flower. He fenced for time.</p> + +<p>“Was it a rose?” he repeated.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she said, “the Azure Rose.”</p> + +<p>“What?” Perhaps, after all, he was wrong. +“I’ve never heard of a blue rose.”</p> + +<p>“It is not blue,” she said; “we call it the +azure rose as you, sir, would say the rose of +azure, or the rose of heaven. We call it the +azure rose because it grows only in our own +land, where the mountains are blue, and only +high, high up on those mountains, near to the +blue of the sky. It is a white rose.”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Of course,” said Cartaret. “A white +rose.”</p> + +<p>He stood uncertainly before her. For a reason +that he would have hesitated long to define, +he hated to part with that rose; for a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>95]</a></span> +reason concerning which he was quite clear, he +did not want to produce it there and then.</p> + +<p>“You have it?” asked The Girl.</p> + +<p>“Er—do you want it?” countered Cartaret.</p> + +<p>A shade of impatience crossed her face. She +tried to master it.</p> + +<p>“I gather from your speech that you, sir, are +American, not English. You are the first American +that ever I have met, and I do not seem well +to understand the motives of all that you say, +although I do understand perfectly the words. +You ask do I want this rose. But of course I +want it! Have I not asked for it? I want it +because Chitta will be distressed if we lose it, +but also I want it for myself, to whom it belongs, +since it is a souvenir already dear to me.”</p> + +<p>Her face was alight. Cartaret looked at it; +then his glance fell.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to +offend you. I’m forever putting my foot in +things.”</p> + +<p>“You have trodden on my rose?” Her voice +discovered her dismay.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>96]</a></span> +“No, no! I wouldn’t—I couldn’t. I meant +that I was always making mistakes. This afternoon, +for instance—And now——”</p> + +<p>To the rescue of his embarrassment came the +thought that indeed he obviously could not tread +on the rose, unless he were a contortionist, because +the rose was——</p> + +<p>Among the smudges of black, his cheeks +burned a hot red. He thrust a hand between +his shirt and waistcoat and produced the coveted +flower: a snow-rose in the center of his grimy +palm.</p> + +<p>Again the perfume, subtle, haunting. Again +the pure mountain-peaks. Again the music of +a poem in a tongue unknown....</p> + +<p>At first he did not dare to look at her; he +kept his gaze lowered. Had he looked, he would +have seen her wide eyes startle, then change to +amusement, and then to a doubting tenderness. +He felt her delicate fingers touch his palm and +he thrilled at the touch as she recaptured her +rose. He did not see that, in welcome to the +returned prodigal, she started to raise to her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>97]</a></span> +own lips those petals, gathered so tight against +the flower’s heart, which he had lately kissed. +When at last he glanced up, she had recovered +her poise and was again looking like some +sculptured Artemis that had wandered into his +lonely room from the gardens of the Luxembourg.</p> + +<p>Then he saw a much more prosaic thing. He +saw the hand that held the rose and saw it +discolored.</p> + +<p>“Will you ever forgive me?” he cried. +“You’ve been leaning on my table, and I mix +my paints on it!”</p> + +<p>The speech was not precisely pellucid, but she +followed his eyes to the hand and understood.</p> + +<p>“The fault was mine,” she said.</p> + +<p>Cartaret was searching among the tubes and +bottles on the table. He searched so nervously +that he knocked some of them to the floor.</p> + +<p>“If you’ll just wait a minute.” He found +the bottle he wanted. “And if you don’t mind +the turpentine.... It smells terribly, but +it will evaporate soon, and it cleans you up +before you know it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>98]</a></span> +He lifted one of the rags that lay about, and +then another. He discarded both as much too +soiled, hesitated, ran to the curtained corner +and returned with a clean towel.</p> + +<p>She had hidden the flower. She extended her +hand.</p> + +<p>“Do you mind?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Do I object? No. You are kind.”</p> + +<p>He took the smudged hand—took it with a +hand that trembled—and bent his smudged face +so close to it that she must have felt his breath +beating on it, hot and quick. He made two +dabs with the end of the towel.</p> + +<p>Chitta, whom they had both sadly neglected, +pounced upon them from her lair among the +shadows. She seized the hand and, jabbering +fifty words in the time for two, pushed Cartaret +from his work.</p> + +<p>“I’m not going to hurt anybody,” said Cartaret. +“Do, please, get away.”</p> + +<p>The Girl laughed.</p> + +<p>“Chitta trusts no foreigners,” she explained.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>99]</a></span> +She spoke to Chitta, but Chitta, glowering at +Cartaret, shook her head and grumbled.</p> + +<p>“I do not any more desire to order her about,” +said The Girl to Cartaret. “Already this evening +I have wounded her feelings, I fear. She +says she will allow none but herself to minister +to me. You, sir, will forgive her? After all, +it is her duty.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret inwardly cursed Chitta’s fidelity. +What he said was: “Of course.” He knew that +just here he might say something gallant, and +that he would think of that something an hour +hence; but he could not think of it now.</p> + +<p>The Girl touched the turpentine bottle.</p> + +<p>“And may we take it to our room?”</p> + +<p>“Eh? Oh, certainly,” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p>She held out her hand, the palm lowered.</p> + +<p>“Good-night,” she said.</p> + +<p>Cartaret’s heart bounded: this time she had +not said “Good-by.” He seized the hand. +Chitta growled, and he released it with a conventional +handshake.</p> + +<p>The Girl smiled.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>100]</a></span> +“Ah, yes,” she said; “this afternoon it puzzled +me, but now I recollect: you Americans, sir, +shake one’s hand, do you not?”</p> + +<p>She was gone, and glowering Chitta with her, +before he could answer.</p> + +<p>Cartaret stood where she had left him, his +brows knitted. He heard Chitta double-lock +the door to their rooms. He was thinking +thoughts that his brain was not accustomed to. +It was some time before they became more familiar. +Then he gasped:</p> + +<p>“I wonder if my face is dirty!”</p> + +<p>He took the lamp and sought the sole mirror +that his room boasted. His face was dirty.</p> + +<p>“Damn!” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p>Down in the narrow street, an uncertain chorus +was singing:</p> + +<div class="cpoem2"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“There’s nothing, friend, ’twixt you and me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Except the best of company.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(There’s just one bock ’twixt you and me,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">and I’ll catch up full soon!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What woman’s lips compare to this:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This sturdy seidel’s frothy kiss——”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>101]</a></span> +His guests were coming to seek him. They +had remembered him at last.</p> + +<p>Cartaret’s mind, however, was busy with other +matters. He had not thought of the gallant +thing that he might have said to The Girl, but +he had thought of something equally surprising.</p> + +<p>“Gee whiz!” he cried. “I understand now—it’s +probably the custom of her country: she +expected me to kiss her hand. Kiss her hand—and +I missed the chance!”</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>102]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER VI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">CARTARET SETS UP HOUSEKEEPING</span></h2> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Que de femmes il y a dans une femme! Et c’est bien +heureux.—Dumas, Fils: <i>La Dame Aux Perles</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<p>Cartaret did not see the Lady of the Rose next +day, though his work suffered sadly through the +worker’s jumping from before his easel at the +slightest sound on the landing, running to his +door, and sometimes himself going to the hall +and standing there for many minutes, trying, +and not succeeding, to look as if he had just +come in, or were just going out, on business of +the first importance. He concluded, for the +hundredth time, that he was a fool; but he persevered +in his folly. He asked himself why +he should feel such an odd interest in an unknown +girl practically alone in Paris; but he +found no satisfactory answer. He declared that +it was madness in him to suppose that she could +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>103]</a></span> +want ever to see him again, and madness to +suppose that a penniless failure had anything to +gain by seeing her; but he continued to try.</p> + +<p>On the night following the first day of his +watch, Cartaret went to bed disappointed and +slept heavily. On the second night he went to +bed worried, and dreamed of scaling a terrible +mountain in quest of a flower, and of falling +into a hideous chasm just as the flower turned +into a beautiful woman and smiled at him. On +the third night, he surrendered to acute alarm +and believed that he did not sleep at all.</p> + +<p>The morning of the fourth day found him +knocking on the panel of that magic door opposite. +Chitta opened the door a crack, growled, +and shut it in his face.</p> + +<p>“I wonder,” reflected Cartaret, “what would +be the best means of killing this old woman. I +wonder if the hyena would eat candy sent her +by mail.”</p> + +<p>He had been watching, all the previous day, +for the Lady of the Rose to go out, and she +did not leave her room. Now it occurred to him +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>104]</a></span> +to watch for Chitta’s exit on a forage foray and +to renew his attack during her absence. This he +accomplished. From a front window, he had no +sooner seen the duenna swing into the rue du +Val de Grâce, with her head-dress bobbing and +a shopping-net on her arm, than he was again +knocking at the door across the landing.</p> + +<p>He knew now, did Cartaret, that, on whatever +landing of life he had lived, there was always +that door opposite, the handle of which he had +never dared to turn, the key to which he had +never yet found. He knew, on this morning—a +clear, windy morning, for March had come in +like a lion—that, for the door of every heart in +the world, or high or low, or cruel or tender, +there is a heart opposite with a door not inaccessible.</p> + +<p>The pale yellow sun sang of it: Marvelous +Door Opposite!—it seemed to sing—how, when +they pass that portal, the commonplace becomes +the unusual and reality is turned into romance. +Lead becomes silver then, and copper—gold. +Magical Door Opposite! All the possibilities of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>105]</a></span> +life—aye, and what is better, all life’s impossibilities—are +behind you, and all life’s fears +and hopes before. All our young dreams, our +mature ambitions, our old regrets, curl in incense +from our brains and struggle to pass that keyhole. +Unhappy he for whom the door never +opens; more unhappy, often, he for whom it does +open; but most unhappy he who never sees that +it is there: the Door across the Landing.</p> + +<p>Cartaret knocked as if he were knocking at the +gate of Paradise, and, perhaps again as if he were +knocking at the gate of Paradise, he got no answer. +He knocked a second time and heard the +rustle of a woman’s skirt.</p> + +<p>“Who is there?”—She spoke in French now, +but he would have known her voice had she +talked the language of Grand Street.</p> + +<p>“Cartaret,” he answered.</p> + +<p>She opened the door. A ray of light beat its +way through a grimy window in the hall to welcome +her—Cartaret was sure that no light had +passed that window for years and years—and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>106]</a></span> +rested on the beauty of her pure face, her calm +eyes, her blue-black hair.</p> + +<p>“Good morning,” said the Lady of the Rose.</p> + +<p>It sounded wonderful to him. When <em>he</em> replied +“Good morning”—and could think of +nothing else to say—the phrase sounded less remarkable.</p> + +<p>She waited a moment. She looked a little +doubtful. She said:</p> + +<p>“You perhaps wanted Chitta?”</p> + +<p>Were her eyes laughing? Her lips were serious, +but he was uncertain of her eyes.</p> + +<p>“Certainly not,” said he.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you wanted me?”</p> + +<p>“Yes!” said Cartaret, and blushed at the vehemence +of the monosyllable.</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>For what, indeed, had he come there? He +vividly realized that he should have prepared +some excuse; but, having prepared none, he could +offer only the truth—or so much of it as seemed +expedient.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>107]</a></span> +“I wanted to see if you were all right,” he +said.</p> + +<p>“But certainly,” she smiled. “I thank you, +sir; but, yes, I am—all right.”</p> + +<p>She said no more; Cartaret felt as if he could +never speak again. However, speak he must.</p> + +<p>“Well, you know,” he said, “I hadn’t seen +you anywhere about, and I was rather worried.”</p> + +<p>“Chitta takes of me the best care.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but, you see, I didn’t know and I—Oh, +yes: I wanted to see whether that turpentine +worked.”</p> + +<p>“The turpentine!” All suspicion of amusement +fled her eyes: she was contrite. “I comprehend. +How careless of Chitta not at once +to have returned it to you.”</p> + +<p>Turpentine! What a nectar for romance! +Cartaret made a face that could not have been +worse had he swallowed some of the liquid. He +tried to protest, but she did not heed him. Instead, +she left him standing there while she +went to hunt for that accursed bottle. In five +minutes she had found it, returned it, thanked +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>108]</a></span> +him and sent him back to his own room, no +further advanced in her acquaintance than when +he knocked at her door.</p> + +<p>She had laughed at him. He returned fiercely +to his work, convinced that she had been laughing +at him all the while. Very well: what did +he care? He would forget her.</p> + +<p>He concentrated all his thoughts upon the +idea of forgetting the Lady of the Rose. In +order to assist his purpose, he set a new canvas +on his easel and fell to work to make a portrait +of her as she should be and was not. The contrast +would help him, and the plan was cheap, +because it needed no model. By the next afternoon +he had completed the portrait of a beautiful +woman with a white rose at her throat. It +was quite his best piece of work, and an excellent +likeness of the girl in the room opposite.</p> + +<p>He saw that it was a likeness and thought of +painting it out, but it would be a pity to destroy +his best work, so he merely put it aside. He +decided to paint a purely imaginative figure. +He squeezed out some paints, almost at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>109]</a></span> +haphazard, and began painting in that mood. After +forty-eight hours of this sort of thing, he had +produced another picture of the same woman in +another pose.</p> + +<p>In more ways than one, Cartaret’s position +was growing desperate. His money was almost +gone. He must paint something that Fourget, +or some equally kind-hearted dealer, would buy, +and these two portraits he would not offer for +sale.</p> + +<p>Telling himself that it was only to end his +obsession, he tried twice again to see the Lady +of the Rose, who was now going out daily to +some master’s class, and each time he gained +nothing by his attempt. First, she would not +answer his knock, though he could hear her moving +about and knew that she must have heard +him crossing the hall from his own room and +be aware of her caller’s identity. On the next +occasion, he waited for her at the corner of the +Boul’ Miche’ when he knew that she would be +returning from the class, and was greeted by +nothing save a formal bow. So he had to force +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>110]</a></span> +himself to pot-boilers by sheer determination, and +finally turned out something that then seemed +poor enough for Fourget to like.</p> + +<p>Houdon came in and found him putting on +the finishing touches. The plump musician, +frightened by his impudence, had stopped below +at his own room on the night of the dinner +when the revelers at last came to seek their host. +Now it appeared that he was anxious to apologize. +He advanced with the dignity befitting +a monarch kindly disposed, and his gesturing +hands beat the score of the kettle-drums for the +march of the priests in <i>Aïda</i>.</p> + +<p>“My very dear Cartarette!” cried Houdon. +“Ah, but it is good again to see you! I so +regretted myself not to ascend with our friends +to call upon you the evening of our little collation.” +He sought to dismiss the subject with +a run on the invisible piano and the words: “But +I was slightly indisposed: without doubt our +good comrades informed you that I was slightly +indisposed. I am very sensitive, and these +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>111]</a></span> +communions of high thought are too much for my +delicate nerves.”</p> + +<p>His good comrades had told Cartaret that +Houdon was very drunk; but Cartaret decided +that to continue his quarrel would be an insult +to its cause. After all, he reflected, this was +Houdon’s conception of an apology. Cartaret +looked at the composer, who was a walking +symbol of good feeding and iron nerves, and +replied:</p> + +<p>“Don’t bother to mention it.”</p> + +<p>Houdon seized both of Cartaret’s hands and +pressed them fondly.</p> + +<p>“My friend,” said Houdon magnanimously, +“we shall permit ourselves to say no more about +it. What sings your sublime poet, Henri +Wadsworth Longchap? ‘I shall allow the decomposed +past to bury her dead.’—Or do I mistake: +was it Whitman, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">hein</i>?”</p> + +<p>He gestured his way to Cartaret’s easel, much +as if the air were water and he were swimming +there. He praised extravagantly the picture that +Cartaret now knew to be bad. Finally he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>112]</a></span> +began to potter about the room with a pretense +of admiring the place and looking at its other +canvases, but all the while conveying the feeling +that he was apprising the financial status +of its occupant. Cartaret saw him drawing +nearer and nearer to the two canvases that, +their faces toward the wall, bore the likeness +of the Lady of the Rose.</p> + +<p>“I am just going out,” said Cartaret. He +hurried to his visitor and took the fellow’s arm. +“I must take that picture on the easel to the +rue St. André des Arts. Will you come along?”</p> + +<p>Houdon seemed suspicious of this sudden +friendliness. He cast a curious glance at the +canvases he had been about to examine, but +his choice was obviously Hobson’s.</p> + +<p>“Gladly,” he flourished. “To my <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cher ami</i> +Fourget, is it? But I know him well. Perhaps +my influence may assist you.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” said Cartaret. He doubted it, but +he hoped that something would assist him.</p> + +<p>He held the picture, still wet of course, exposed +for all the world of the Quarter to see, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>113]</a></span> +hurried Houdon past the landing and could +have sworn that the composer’s eyes lingered +at the sacred door.</p> + +<p>“But it is an infamy,” said Houdon, when +they had walked as far down the Boul’ Miche’ +as the Musée Cluny—“it is an infamy to sell +at once such a superb work to such a little cow +of a dealer. Why then?”</p> + +<p>“Because I must,” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p>Houdon laughed and wagged his head.</p> + +<p>“No, no,” said he; “you deceive others: not +Houdon. I know well the disguised prince. +Come”—he looked up and down the Boulevard +St. Germain before he ventured to cross it—“trust +your friend Houdon, my dear Cartarette.”</p> + +<p>“I am quite honest with you.”</p> + +<p>“Bah! Have your own way, then. Pursue +your fancy of self-support for a time. It is +noble, that. But think not that I am deceived. +Me, Houdon: I know. Name of an oil-well, +you should send this masterpiece to the Salon!”</p> + +<p>But just at the corner of the rue St. André +des Arts, the great composer thought that he saw +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>114]</a></span> +ahead of him a friend with whom he had a pressing +engagement of five minutes. He excused +himself with such a wealth of detail that Cartaret +was convinced of the slightness of the +Fourget acquaintanceship, which Houdon had +not again referred to.</p> + +<p>“I shall be finished and waiting at this corner +long ere you return,” vowed Houdon. “Go, +my friend, and if that little dealer pays you +one third of what your picture is worth, my +faith, he will bankrupt himself.”</p> + +<p>So Cartaret went on alone, and was presently +glad that he was unaccompanied.</p> + +<p>For Fourget would not buy the picture. It +was a silly sketch of a pretty boy pulling to +tatters the petals of a rose, and the gray-haired +dealer, although he had kindly eyes under his +bristling eyebrows, behind his glistening spectacles, +shook his head.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry,” he said: so many of these hopeful +young fellows brought him their loved work, +and he had so often, but never untruthfully, to +say that he was sorry. “I am very sorry, but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>115]</a></span> +this is not the real you, monsieur. The values—you +know better than that. The composition—it +is unworthy of you, M. Cartarette.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret was in no mood to try elsewhere. He +wanted to fling the thing into the Seine. He +certainly did not want Houdon to see him return +with it. Might he leave it with Fourget? Perhaps +some customer might see and care for it?</p> + +<p>No, Fourget had his reputation to sustain; but +there was that rascal Lepoittevin across the +street——</p> + +<p>Cartaret went to the rascal, a most amiable +man, who would buy no more than would +Fourget. He was willing, however, to have the +picture left there on the bare chance of picking +up a sale—and a commission—and there Cartaret +left it.</p> + +<p>Houdon wormed the truth out of him as +easily as if Cartaret had come back carrying +the picture under his arm: the young American +was too disconsolate to hide his chagrin. Houdon +was at first incredulous and then overcome; he +asked his dear friend to purchase brandy for the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>116]</a></span> +two of them at the Café Pantheon: such treatment +of a veritable masterpiece was too much +for his sensitive nerves.</p> + +<p>With some difficulty, Cartaret got rid of the +composer. On a bench in the Luxembourg +Gardens, he took account of his resources. They +were shockingly slender and, if they were to last +him any time at all, he must exercise the most +stringent economy. He must buy no more +brandy for musical geniuses. Indeed, he must +buy no more café dinners for himself....</p> + +<p>It struck him, as a happy thought, that he +might save a little if he lived on such cold +solids as he could buy at the fruit-stand and +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pâtisseries</i> and such liquids as he might warm in +a tin-cup over his lamp. Better men than he +was had lived thus in the Quarter, and Cartaret, +as the thought took shape, rather enjoyed the +prospect: it made him feel as if he were another +martyr to Art, or as if—though he was not +clear as to the logic of this—he were another +martyr to Love. He considered going to Père +la Chaise and putting violets on the tomb of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>117]</a></span> +Héloise and Abelard; but he decided that he +could not afford the tram-fare, and he was already +too tired to walk, so he made his scanty +purchases instead, and had rather a good time +doing it.</p> + +<p>He passed Chitta on his way up the stairs to +his room, with his arms full of edibles, and he +thought that she frowned disapproval. He supposed +she would tell her mistress scornfully, and +he hoped that her mistress would understand +and pity him.</p> + +<p>He got a board and nailed it to the sill of +one of the rear windows. On that he stored +his food and, contemplating it, felt like a successful +housekeeper.</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>118]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER VII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">OF DOMESTIC ECONOMY, OF DAY-DREAMS, AND +OF A FAR COUNTRY AND ITS SOVEREIGN LADY</span></h2> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">L’indiscrétion d’un de ces amis officieux qui ne sauraient +garder inédite la nouvelle susceptible de vous causer un +chagrin.—Murger: <i>Scènes de la Vie de Bohème</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<p>You would have said that it behooved a man +in Charlie Cartaret’s situation to devote his evenings +to a consideration of its difficulties and his +days to hard work; but Cartaret, though he did, +as you will see, try to work, devoted the first +evening of his new régime to thoughts that, if +they affected his situation at all, tended only +to complicate it. He thought, as he had so much +of late, and as he was to think so much more +in the future, of the Lady of the Rose.</p> + +<p>Who was she? Whence did she come? What +was this native land of hers that she professed +to love so well? And, if she did love it so well, +why had she left it and come to Paris with a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>119]</a></span> +companion that appeared to be some strange +compromise between guardian and servant?</p> + +<p>He wondered if she were some revolutionary +exile: Paris was always full of revolutionary +exiles. He wondered if she were a rightful +heiress, dispossessed of a foreign title. Perhaps +she was the lovely pretender to a throne. In +that mysterious home of hers, she must have +possessed some exalted position, or the right to +it, for Chitta had kneeled to her on the dusty +floor of this studio, and the Lady’s manner, he +now recalled, was the manner of one accustomed +to command. Her beauty was of a type +that he had read of as Irish—the beauty of fair +skin, hair black and eyes of deepest blue; but +the speech was the English of a woman born +to another tongue.</p> + +<p>What was her native speech? Both her French +and her English were innocent of alien accent—he +had heard at least a phrase or two of the +former—yet both had a precision that betrayed +them as not her own and both had a foreign-born +construction. Her frequent use of the word +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>120]</a></span> +“sir” in addressing him was sufficiently peculiar. +She employed the word not as one that speaks +frequently to a superior, but rather as if she +were used to it in a formal language, or a grade +of life, in which it was a common courtesy. It +was something more usual than the French +“monsieur,” even more usual than the Spanish +“señor.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret leaned from a window. The air was +still keen, but the night was clear. The rue du +Val de Grâce was deserted, its houses dark and +silent. Overhead, in the narrow ribbon of indigo +sky, hung a pallid moon: a disk of yellow glass.</p> + +<p>What indeed was she, this Lady of the +Rose? He pictured as hers a distant country +of deep valleys full of clamoring streams and +high mountains where white roses grew. He pictured +her as that country’s sovereign. Yet the +rose which she treasured had not yet faded on +the day of her arrival: she could not come from +anywhere so far away.</p> + +<p>He was cold. He closed the window, shivering. +He was ridiculous: why, he had been in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>121]</a></span> +danger of falling in love with a woman of whom +he knew nothing! He did not even know her +name....</p> + + +<p class="break">The passage of slow-footed time helped him, +however, not at all. He would sit for hours, +idle before his easel, listening for her light step +on the stair and afraid to go to meet her when +at last he heard it, for he was desperately poor +now, and poverty was making him the coward +that it will sooner or later make any man.</p> + +<p>He had antagonized the concierge by preparing +his own coffee in the morning instead of +continuing to pay Mme. Refrogné for it. When +he had something to cook, he cooked badly; but +there were days when he had nothing, and lived +on pastry and bricks of chocolate, and others +when it seemed to him that such supplies as he +could buy and store on that shelf outside the +window were oddly short-lived.</p> + +<p>For a while he called daily at the shop of M. +Lepoittevin, but that absurd picture of a boy +tearing a rose would not sell, and Cartaret soon +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>122]</a></span> +grew ashamed of calling there; Fourget he would +not face. He managed at first to dispose of one +or two sketches and so kept barely alive, yet, as +the days went by, his luck dwindled and his +greatest energy was expended in keeping up a +proud pretense of comfort to his friends of the +Quarter.</p> + +<p>Pear-shaped Devignes was easy to deceive: the +opera-singer lived too well to want to believe +that anybody in the world could starve. Garnier, +the cadaverous poet, saved trouble, indulging +his dislike of other people’s poverty by remaining +away from it; but Seraphin, who came +often and sat about the studio in a silence wholly +uncharacteristic, was difficult. Houdon, finally, +was frequent and expensive: he always foraged +about what he called Cartaret’s “tempting window-buffet,” +but he regarded the condition of +affairs as the passing foible of a young man +temporarily wearied by the pleasures of wealth.</p> + +<p>“Ah,” he snorted one day when he had come +in with Varachon, “you fail wholly to deceive +me, Cartarette. You say you are not well-to-do +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>123]</a></span> +so that we shall think that you are not, but I +know, I! Had you not your own income, you +would try to sell more pictures, and your pictures +are superb. They would fetch a pretty sum. +Believe not that because I have a great musical +genius I have no eye for painting. I know good +painting. All Arts are one, my brother.”</p> + +<p>He jabbed Cartaret’s empty stomach and, +whistling a theme and twisting his little mustache, +went to the window and took a huge +bite of the last apple there.</p> + +<p>Cartaret watched the composer toss half the +apple into the concierge’s garden.</p> + +<p>Varachon, the sculptor, grunted through his +broken nose.</p> + +<p>“Your work is bad,” he whispered to Cartaret—“very +bad. You require a long rest. Go +to Nice for a month.”</p> + +<p>The weeks passed. Cartaret was underfed +and discouraged. He was too discouraged now +to attempt to renew his acquaintance with the +Lady of the Rose. He was pale and thin, and +this from reasons wholly physical.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>124]</a></span> +Meanwhile, through the scented dawns, April +was coming up to that city in which April is +most beautiful and most seductive. From the +spicy Mediterranean coasts, along the Valley of +the Rhone, Love was dancing upon Paris with +laughing Spring for his partner. Already the +trees had blossomed between the Place de La +Concorde and the Rond Point, and out in the +Bois the birds were singing to their mates.</p> + +<p>One morning, when Cartaret, with unsteady +hand, drew back his curtain, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">rouge-gorges</i> were +calling from the concierge’s garden, and seemed +to be calling to him.</p> + +<p>“Seize hold of love!” they chorused in that +garden. “Life is short; time flies, and love flies +with it. Love will pass you by. Take it, take +it, take it, while there still is time! Like us, it +is a bird that flies, but, unlike us, it never more returns. +It is a rose that withers—a white rose: take +it while it blooms. Take it, though it leave you +soon; take it, though it scratch your fingers. Take +it, take it, take it now!”</p> + +<p>On that day the annual siege of Paris ended, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>125]</a></span> +the city fell before her invaders, and by the time +that Cartaret went into the streets, the army of +occupation was in possession. The Luxembourg +Gardens, the very benches along the Boul’ Miche’ +were full of lovers: he could not stir from the +house without encountering them.</p> + +<p>From it, however, he had to go: the Spring +called him with a sad seductiveness that he could +no longer resist. He wandered aimlessly, trying +the impossible: trying to keep his eyes from the +couples that also wandered, but wandered hand +in hand, and trying to keep his thoughts from +roses and the Lady of the Rose.</p> + +<p>He found himself before one of the riverside +bookstalls, fingering an old book, leather-bound. +The text, he realized, was English, or what once +was so: it was a volume of Maundeville, and +Cartaret was reading:</p> + +<p>“Betwene the cytee and the chirche of Bethlehem +is the felde Floridus; that is to seyne, the +field florsched. For als moche as a fayre mayden +was blamed with wrong ... for whiche +cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>126]</a></span> +brent in that place, to the which she was ladd. +And, as the fyre began to brenne about hire, +she made her preyeres to oure Lord, that als +wissely as sche was not gylty ... that he +would help hire, and make it to be knowen to +alle men of his mercyfulle grace. And, whanne +sche had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer; +and anon was the fuyer quenched and oute, and +the brondes that weren brennynge becomen white +roseres, full of roses; and theise werein the first +roseres and roses, both white and rede, that ever +ony man saughe. And thus was this mayden +saved by the grace of God.” ...</p> + +<p>All that week—while the contents of his window-sideboard +dwindled, he was sure, faster than +he ate from it—he had tried to forget everything +by painting heavily at pot-boilers. He had +begun with the aim of earning enough to resume +his studies; he had continued with the hope of +getting together enough to keep alive—in Paris. +And yet, fleeing from that bookstall, he was +fool enough to walk all the way to Les Halles, +to walk into Les Halles, and to stop, fascinated +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>127]</a></span> +by a counter laden with boxes of strawberries, +odorous and red, the smallest box of which was +beyond the limits of his economy.</p> + +<p>That was bad enough—it was absurd that his +will should voluntarily play the Barmecide for +the torture of his unrewarded Shacabac of a +stomach—but worse, without fault of his own, +was yet to follow this mere aggravation of his +baser appetites. Spring and Paris are an irresistible +combination on the side of folly, and +that evening another sign of them presented +itself: there was a burst of music; a hurdy-gurdy +was playing in the rue du Val de Grâce, and +Cartaret, from his window, listened eagerly. It +has been intimated from the best of sources that +all love lives on music, and it is the common +experience that when any love cannot get the +best music, it takes what it can get:</p> + +<div class="cpoem3"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Her brow is like the snaw-drift;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Her throat is like the swan;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her face it is the fairest<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That e’er the sun shone on—<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>128]</a></span> +<span class="i0">That e’er the sun shone on—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And dark blue is her e’e——”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>That French hurdy-gurdy was playing “Annie +Laurie,” and, since the lonely artist’s heart ached +to hear the old, familiar melody, when the +bearded grinder looked aloft, Cartaret drew a +coin from his pocket. Anxious to pay for his +pain, as the human kind always is, he tossed +his last franc to that vendor of emotions in the +twilit street.</p> + +<p>He was drunk at last with the wine that his +own misery distilled. He abandoned himself to +the admission that he was in love: he abandoned +himself to his dream of the Lady of the Rose.</p> + +<p>Seraphin, in a wonderful new suit of clothes, +found him thus the next morning—it was a +Friday—and found him accordingly resentful of +intrusion. Cartaret was sitting before an empty +easel, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes looking +vacantly through the posts of the easel.</p> + +<p>“Good-day,” said Seraphin.</p> + +<p>Cartaret said “Good-day” as if it were a form +of insult.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>129]</a></span> +Seraphin’s hands tugged at his two wisps of +whisker.</p> + +<p>“You are not well, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">hein</i>?”</p> + +<p>“I was never better in my life,” snapped Cartaret, +turning upon his friend a face that was +peaked and drawn.</p> + +<p>The Frenchman came timidly nearer.</p> + +<p>“My friend,” he said, “I have completed my +<i>magnum opus</i>. It has not sold quite so well as I +hoped, not of course one thousandth of its value. +That is this Spanish cow of a world. But I have +three hundred francs. If you need——”</p> + +<p>“Go away,” said Cartaret, looking at his +empty easel. “Can’t you see I’m trying to begin +work?”</p> + +<p>Seraphin himself had suffered. His dignity +was not offended: he kept it for only his creditors +and other foes. He guessed that Cartaret was +at last penniless, and he guessed rightly.</p> + +<p>“Come, my friend,” he began; “none shall +know. Will you not be so kind as to let me——”</p> + +<p>Cartaret got up and, for all his weakness, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>130]</a></span> +gripped the Frenchman’s hand until Dieudonné +nearly screamed.</p> + +<p>“I’m a beast, Seraphin!” said Cartaret. “I’m +a beast to treat a friendly offer this way. Forgive +me. It’s just that I feel a bit rocky this +morning. I drank too much champagne last +night. I do thank you, Seraphin. You’re a +good fellow, the best of the lot, and a sight +better than I am. But I’m not hard up; really +I’m not. I’m poor, but I’m not a sou poorer +than I was this time last year.”</p> + +<p>It was a magnificent lie. Seraphin could only +shrug, pretend to believe it, and go away.</p> + +<p>Cartaret scarcely heeded the departure. He +had relapsed into his day-dream. He took from +against the wall the two portraits that he had +painted of the Lady of the Rose and hung them, +now here, now there, trying them in various +lights. There were at least ten more sketches +of her by this time, and these, too, he hung in +first one light and then another. He studied +them and tried to be critical, and forgot to be.</p> + +<p>His thoughts of her never took the shape of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>131]</a></span> +conscious words—he loved her too much to attempt +to praise her—but, as he looked at his +endeavors to portray her, his mind was busy +with his memories of all that loveliness—and +passed from memories to day-dreams. He saw +her as something that might fade before his +touch. He saw her as a Princess, incognito, +learning his plight, buying his pictures secretly, +and, when she came to her throne, letting him +serve her and worship from afar. And then he +saw her even as a Galatea possible of miraculous +awakening. Why not? Her eyes were the clear +eyes of a woman that has never yet loved, but +they were also, he felt, the eyes of one of those +rare women who, when they love once, love forever. +Cartaret dared, in his thoughts, to lift +the heavy plaits of her blue-black hair and, with +trembling fingers, again to touch that hand at +the recollection of touching which his own hand +tingled.</p> + +<p>Why not, indeed? Already a stranger thing +had happened in his meeting her. Until that +year he had not guessed at her existence; oceans +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>132]</a></span> +divided them; the barriers of alien race and +alien speech were raised high between them, and +all of these things had been in vain. The existence +was revealed, the ocean was crossed, the +bar of sundering speech was down. He was +here, close beside her, as if every event of his +life had been intended to bring him. Through +blind ways and up ascents misunderstood, unattracted +by the many and lonely among the +crowd, he had, somehow, always been making +his way toward—Her.</p> + +<p>Thus Cartaret dreamed while Seraphin made +a hurried journey to the rue St. André des Arts +and the shop of M. Fourget.</p> + +<p>“But no, but no, but no!” Fourget’s bushy +brows met in a frown. “It is out of the question. +Something has happened to the boy. He +can no longer paint.”</p> + +<p>Oh, well, at least monsieur could go to the +boy’s rooms and see what he had there.</p> + +<p>“No. Am I then a silly philanthropist?”</p> + +<p>Seraphin tried to produce his false dignity. +What he brought out was something genuine.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>133]</a></span> +“I ask it from the heart,” he pleaded. “Do +not I, my God, know what it is to be hungry?”</p> + +<p>“Hungry?” said the dealer. “Hungry! The +boy has an uncle famously rich. What is an +uncle for? Hungry? You make <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">une bêtise</i>. +Hungry.” He called his clerk and took up his +hat. “I will not go,” he vowed. “Hungry, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">par +example</i>!”</p> + +<p>“Truly you will not,” smiled Seraphin. “And +do not tell him that I sent you: he is proud.”</p> + + +<p class="break">The sound of the door opening interrupted +Cartaret’s dream. He turned, a little sheepish, +wholly annoyed. Spectacled Fourget stood there, +looking very severe.</p> + +<p>“I was passing by,” he explained. “I have +not come to purchase anything, but I grow old: +I was tired and I climbed your stairs to rest.”</p> + +<p>It was too late to hide those portraits. Cartaret +could only place for Fourget a chair with +its back to them.</p> + +<p>“What have you been doing?” asked the +dealer.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>134]</a></span> +He swung ’round toward the portraits.</p> + +<p>“Don’t look at them!” said Cartaret. “They’re +merely sketches.”</p> + +<p>But Fourget had already looked. He was on +his feet. He was bobbing from one to the +other, his lean hands adjusting his glasses, his +shoulders stooped, his nose thrust out. He was +uttering little cries of approval.</p> + +<p>“But this is good! It is good, then. This is +first-rate. This is of an excellence!”</p> + +<p>“They’re not for sale,” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Hein?</i>” Fourget wheeled. “If they are not +for sale, they are for what, then?”</p> + +<p>“They—they are merely sketches, I tell you. +I was trying my hand at a new method; but +I find there is nothing in it.”</p> + +<p>Fourget was unbuttoning his short frock-coat. +He was reaching for his wallet.</p> + +<p>“I tell you there is everything in it. There is +the sure touch in it, the clear vision, the sympathy. +There is reputation in it. In fine, there +is money.”</p> + +<p>He had the wallet out as he concluded.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>135]</a></span> +Cartaret shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Fourget, the dealer in him partially +overcoming the lover of art, “not much +as yet; not a great deal of money. You have +still a long way to go; but you have found the +road, monsieur, and I want to help you on your +journey. Come, now.” He nodded to the first +portrait. “What do you ask for that?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t want to sell it.”</p> + +<p>“Poof! We shall not haggle. Tell Fourget +what you had thought of asking. Do not be +modest. Tell me—and I will give you half.”</p> + +<p>He kept it up as long as he could; he tried +at last to buy the least of the preliminary +sketches of the Rose-Lady; he offered what, to +Cartaret, were dazzling prices; but Cartaret was +not to be shaken: these experiments were not for +sale.</p> + +<p>Fourget was first disappointed, then puzzled. +His enthusiasm had been genuine; but could +it be possible that Dieudonné was mistaken? +Was Cartaret not starving? The old man was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>136]</a></span> +beginning to button his coat when a new idea +struck him.</p> + +<p>“Who was your model?” he asked abruptly.</p> + +<p>“I—I had none,” Cartaret stammered.</p> + +<p>“Ah!”—Fourget peered hard at him through +those glistening spectacles. “You painted them +from memory?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.” Cartaret felt his face redden. “From +imagination, I mean.”</p> + +<p>Then Fourget understood. Perhaps he had +merely the typical Frenchman’s love of romance, +which ceases only with the typical Frenchman’s +life; or perhaps he remembered his own youth +in Besançon, when he, too, had wanted to be +an artist and when, among the vines on the +hillside, little Rosalie smiled at him and kissed +his ambition away—little Rosalie Poullot, dust +and ashes these twenty years in the Cimetière du +Mont Parnasse....</p> + +<p>He turned to a pile of pot-boilers. He took +one almost at random.</p> + +<p>“This one,” he said, “I should like to buy it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>137]</a></span> +It was the worst pot-boiler of the lot. Before +the portraits, it was hopeless.</p> + +<p>Cartaret half understood.</p> + +<p>“No,” he said; “you don’t really want it.”</p> + +<p>Seraphin had been right: the young man was +proud. “How then?” demanded Fourget. “This +also did you paint not-to-sell?”</p> + +<p>“I painted it to sell,” said Cartaret miserably, +“but it doesn’t deserve selling—perhaps just because +I did paint it to sell.”</p> + +<p>To his surprise, Fourget came to him and put +an arm on his shoulder, a withered hand patting +the American’s back.</p> + +<p>“Ah, if but some more-famous artists felt as +you do! Come; let me have it. That is very +well. I shall sell it to a fool. Many fools are +my patrons. How else could I live? There +is not enough good art to meet all demands, or +there are not enough demands to meet all good +art. Who shall say? Suffice it there are demands +of sorts. Daily I thank the good God +for His fools....”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>138]</a></span> +Cartaret went to Les Halles and bought a +large box of strawberries.</p> + + +<p class="break">He had put them carefully on his window-shelf +and covered them with a copy of a last +week’s <i>Matin</i>—being an American, he of course +read the <i>Matin</i>—for he was resolved that, now +he again had a little money, these strawberries +should be his final extravagance and should be +treasured accordingly—he had just anchored the +paper against the gentle Spring breeze when he +became aware that he had another visitor.</p> + +<p>Standing by his table, much as she had stood +there on the night of his second sight of her, was +the Lady of the Rose.</p> + +<p>Cartaret thought that his eyes were playing +him tricks. He rubbed his eyes.</p> + +<p>“It is I,” she said.</p> + +<p>He thought that again he could detect the +perfume of the Azure Rose. He again thought +that he could see white mountain-tops in the +sun. He could have sworn that, in the street, +a hurdy-gurdy was playing:</p> + +<div class="cpoem3"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>139]</a></span> +<span class="i0">“Her brow is like the snaw-drift;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Her throat is like the swan——”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“I came in,” she was saying, “to see how you +were. I should have sent Chitta, but she was +so long coming back from an errand.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” he said—he was not yet certain +of himself—“I’m quite well. But I’m very +glad you called.”</p> + +<p>“Yet you, sir, look pale, and your friend”—her +forehead puckered—“told me that you had +been ill.”</p> + +<p>“My friend?” He spoke as if he had none +in the world, though now he knew better.</p> + +<p>“Yes: such a pleasant old gentleman with gray +hair and glasses. As I came in half an hour +ago, I met him on the stairs.”</p> + +<p>“Fourget!”</p> + +<p>“Was that his name? He seemed most anxious +about you.”</p> + +<p>“He is my friend.”</p> + +<p>“I like him,” said the Lady of the Rose.</p> + +<p>“Then you understand him. I didn’t understand +him—till this morning. He is an +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>140]</a></span> +art-dealer: those that he won’t buy from think him +hard; the friends of those that he buys from +think him a fool.”</p> + +<p>Although he had reassured her of his health, she +seemed charmingly willing to linger. Really, she +was looking at Cartaret’s haggard cheeks with a +wonderful sympathy.</p> + +<p>“So he bought from you?”</p> + +<p>Cartaret nodded.</p> + +<p>“Only I hope <em>you</em> won’t think him a fool,” +he said.</p> + +<p>“I shall consider,” she laughed. “I must first +see some of your work, sir.”</p> + +<p>She came farther into the room. She moved +with an easy dignity, her advance into the light +displaying the lines of her gracile figure, the +turn of her head discovering the young curve +of her throat; her eyes, as they moved about +his studio, were clear and starry.</p> + +<p>In the presence of their original, Cartaret had +forgotten the portraits. Now she saw them and +turned scarlet.</p> + +<p>It was a time for no more pride on the part +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>141]</a></span> +of the painter: already, head high in air, she +had turned to go. It was a time for honest +dealing. Cartaret barred her way.</p> + +<p>“Forgive me!” he cried. “Won’t you please +forgive me?”</p> + +<p>She tried to pass him without a word.</p> + +<p>“But listen. Only listen a minute! You +didn’t think—oh, you didn’t think I’d sold him +one of those? They were on the wall when he +came in, and I couldn’t get them away in time. +I’d put them up—Well, I’d put them up there +because I—because I couldn’t see you, so I +wanted to see them.”</p> + +<p>His voice trembled; he looked ill now: she +hesitated.</p> + +<p>“What right had you, sir, to paint them?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. I hadn’t any. Of course, I +hadn’t any! But I wouldn’t have sold them to +the Luxembourg.”</p> + +<p>What was it that Fourget had told her when +he met her on the stair?—“Mademoiselle, you +will pardon an old man: that Young Cartarette +cannot paint pot-boilers, and in consequence he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>142]</a></span> +starves. For more things than money, mademoiselle. +But because he cannot paint pot-boilers +and get money, he starves literally.”—Her heart +smote her now, but she could not refrain from +saying:</p> + +<p>“Perhaps the Luxembourg did not offer—in +the person of M. Fourget?”</p> + +<p>The last vestige of his pride left Cartaret.</p> + +<p>“He wanted to buy those portraits,” he said. +“I know that my action loses by the telling of +it whatever virtue it might have had, but I’d +rather have that happen than have you think +what you’ve been thinking. He offered me more +for them than for all my other pictures together, +but I couldn’t sell.”</p> + +<p>It was a mood not to be denied: she forgave +him.</p> + +<p>“But you, sir, must take them all down,” she +said, “and you must promise to paint no more +of them.”</p> + +<p>He would have promised anything: he promised +this, and he had an immediate reward.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>143]</a></span> +“To-morrow,” she asked, “perhaps you will eat +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">déjeuner</i> with Chitta and me?”</p> + +<p>Would he! He did not know that she invited +him because of Fourget’s use of the phrase +“starving literally.” He accepted, declaring that +he would never more call Friday unlucky.</p> + +<p>“At eleven o’clock?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“At eleven,” he bowed.</p> + +<p>When she was gone, Cartaret went again to +the window that looked on the concierge’s garden. +The robins were still singing:</p> + +<p>“Seize hold of love! It is a rose—a white +rose. Take it—take it—take it now!”</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>144]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER VIII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">CHIEFLY CONCERNING STRAWBERRIES</span></h2> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>Theft in its simplicity—however sharp and rude, yet +if frankly done, and bravely—does not corrupt men’s +souls; and they can, in a foolish, but quite vital and +faithful way, keep the feast of the Virgin Mary in the +midst of it.—Ruskin: <i>Fors Clavigera</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<p>It was quite true that he had resolved to be +careful of the money that old Fourget had paid +him for the pot-boiler. He still meant to be +careful of it. But he was to be a guest at +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">déjeuner</i> next morning, and a man must not +breakfast with a Princess and wear a costume +that is really shockingly shabby. Cartaret therefore +set about devising some means of bettering +his wardrobe.</p> + +<p>His impulse was to buy a new suit of clothes, +as Seraphin had done when he sold his picture. +Seraphin, however, had received a good deal +more money than Cartaret, and Cartaret was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>145]</a></span> +really in earnest about his economies: when he +had spent half the afternoon in the shops, and +found that most of the ready-made suits there +exposed for sale would cost him the bulk of his +new capital, he decided to sponge his present +suit, sew on a few buttons and then sleep with +it under his mattress by way of pressing it. A +new necktie was, nevertheless, imperative: he had +been absent-mindedly wiping his brushes on the +old, and it would not do to smell more of +turpentine than the exigencies of his suit made +necessary; the scent of turpentine is not appetizing.</p> + +<p>If you have never been in love, you may suppose +that the selection of so small a thing as a +necktie is trivial; otherwise, you will know that +there are occasions when it is no light matter, and +you will then understand why Cartaret found it +positively portentous. The first score of neckties +that he looked at were impossible; so were +the second. In the third he found one that would +perhaps just do, and this he had laid aside for +him while he went on to another shop. He went +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>146]</a></span> +to several other shops. Whereas he had at first +found too few possibilities, he was now embarrassed +by too many. There was a flowing marine-blue +affair with white <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fleur-de-lys</i> that he thought +would do well for Seraphin and that he considered +for a moment on his own account. He went +back to the first shop and so through the lot +again. In the end, his American fear of anything +bright conquered, and he bought a gray “four-in-hand” +that might have been made in Philadelphia.</p> + +<p>On his return he went to the window to see +how his strawberries were doing. He remembered +the anecdote about the good cleric, who +said that doubtless God could have made a better +berry, but that doubtless God never did. Cartaret +wondered if it would be an impertinence +to offer his strawberries to the Lady of the Rose.</p> + +<p>They were gone.</p> + +<p>He went down the stairs in two jumps. He +thrust his head into the concierge’s cavern.</p> + +<p>“Who’s been to my room?” he shouted. He +was still weak, but anger lent him strength.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>147]</a></span> +Refrogné growled.</p> + +<p>“Tell me!” insisted Cartaret.</p> + +<p>“How should I know?” the concierge countered.</p> + +<p>“It’s your business to know. You’re responsible. +Who’s come in and gone out since I went +out?”</p> + +<p>“Nobody.”</p> + +<p>“There must have been somebody! Somebody +has been to my room and stolen something.”</p> + +<p>Thefts are not so far removed from the sphere +of a concierge’s natural activities as unduly to +excite him.</p> + +<p>“To rob it is not necessary that one come in +from without,” said he.</p> + +<p>“You charge a tenant?”</p> + +<p>“I charge nobody. It is you that charge, monsieur. +I did not know that you possessed to be +stolen. A thief of a tenant? But certainly. One +cannot inquire the business of one’s tenants. What +house is without a little thief?”</p> + +<p>“I believe you did it!” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p>Refrogné whistled, in the darkness, a bar of +“Margarita.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>148]</a></span> +Houdon was passing by. He made suave enquiries.</p> + +<p>“But not Refrogné,” he assured Cartaret. “You +do an injustice to a worthy man, my dear friend. +Besides, what is a box of strawberries to you?”</p> + +<p>Cartaret felt that he was in danger of making +a mountain of a molehill; he had the morbid fear, +common to his countrymen, of appearing ridiculous. +It occurred to him that it would not have +been beyond Houdon to appropriate the berries, +if he had happened into the room and found +its master absent; but to bother further was to be +once more absurd.</p> + +<p>“I don’t suppose it does matter,” he said; “but +my supplies have been going pretty fast lately, +and if I was to catch the thief, I’d hammer the +life out of him.”</p> + +<p>“Magnificent!” gurgled Houdon as he passed +gesturing into the street.</p> + +<p>Cartaret returned toward his room. The dusk +had fallen and, if he had not known the way so +well, he would have had trouble in finding it. He +was tired, too, and so he went slowly. That he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>149]</a></span> +also went softly he did not realize until he gently +pushed open the door to his quarters.</p> + +<p>A shadowy figure was silhouetted against the +window out of which Cartaret kept his supplies, +and the figure seemed to have some of them in its +hands.</p> + +<p>Cartaret’s anger was still hot. Now it flamed +to a sudden fury. He did not pause to consider +the personality, or even the garb, of the thief. +He saw nothing, thought nothing, save that he +was being robbed. He charged the dim figure; +tackled it as he once tackled runners on the football-field; +fell with it much as he had fallen with +those runners in the days of old—except that he +fell among a hail of food-stuffs—and then found +himself tragically holding to the floor the duenna +Chitta.</p> + +<p>It was a terrible thing, this battle with a frightened +woman. Cartaret tried to rise, but she +gripped him fast. His amazement first, and next +his mortification, would have left him nerveless, +but Chitta was fighting like a tigress. His face +was scratched and one finger bitten, before he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>150]</a></span> +could hold her quiet enough to say, in slow French:</p> + +<p>“I did not know that it was you. You are +welcome to what you want. I am going to let +you go. Don’t struggle. I shan’t hurt you. Get +up.”</p> + +<p>He thanked Heaven that she understood at least +a little of the language. Shaken, he got to his +own feet; but Chitta, instead of rising, surprisingly +knelt at his.</p> + +<p>She spouted a long speech of infinite emotion. +She wept. She clasped and unclasped her hands. +She pointed to the room of her mistress; then to +her mouth, and then rubbed that portion of her +figure over the spot where the appetite is appeased.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean,” gasped Cartaret—“do you +mean that you and your mistress”—this was terrible!—“have +been poor?”</p> + +<p>Chitta had come to the room without her head-dress, +and the subsequent battle had sent her hair +in dank coils about her shoulders. She nodded; +the shaken coils were like so many serpents.</p> + +<p>“And that she has been hungry?—Hungry?”</p> + +<p>A violent negative. Chitta bobbed toward +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>151]</a></span> +Cartaret’s rifled stores and then toward the street, as +if to include other stores in the same circle of +depredation. She was also plainly indignant at +the idea that she would permit her mistress to be +hungry.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Cartaret, “I see! You are a consistent +thief.”</p> + +<p>This time Chitta’s nod was a proud one; but +she pointed again to the other room and shook +her head violently; then to herself and nodded +once more. Words could not more plainly have +said that, although she had been supplementing +her provisions by petty thefts, her employer knew +nothing about them.</p> + +<p>And she must not be told. Again Chitta began +to bob and moan and weep. She pointed across +the hallway, put a finger to her lips, shook her +old head and finally held out her clasped hands in +supplication.</p> + +<p>Cartaret emptied his pockets. He wished he +had not been so extravagant as to buy that necktie. +He handed to Chitta all the money left from the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>152]</a></span> +price that Fourget had paid him, to the last five-centime +piece.</p> + +<p>“Take this,” he said, “and be sure you don’t +ever let your mistress know where it came from. +I shan’t tell anybody about you. When you want +more, come direct to me.” He knew that he could +paint marketable pot-boilers now.</p> + +<p>She wanted to kiss his hand, but he hurried +from the woman and left her groveling behind +him....</p> + +<p>“M. Refrogné,” he said to the concierge, “I owe +you an apology. I am sorry for the way I spoke +to you a while ago. I have found those strawberries.”</p> + +<p>“Bah!” said Refrogné. He added, when Cartaret +had passed: “In his stomach, most likely.”</p> + +<p>Slowly the horror of having had to use physical +force against a woman left Cartaret. He started +for a long walk and thought many things. He +thought, as he trudged at last across L’Etoile, how +the April starshine was turning the Arc de Triomphe +to silver, and how the lovers on the benches at +the junction of the rue Lauriston and the avenue +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>153]</a></span> +Kléber made Napoleon’s arch in praise of war a +monument to softer passions. He thought, as he +strolled from the avenue d’Eylan and across the +Place Victor Hugo, how the heart of that poet, +whose statue here represented him as so much the +politician, must grow warm when, as now, boys +and girls passed arm in arm about the pediment. +The night bore jonquils in her hands and wore a +spray of wisteria in her hair. Brocaded ghosts of +the old régime must be pacing a stately measure at +Ranelagh, and all the elves of Spring were dancing +in the Bois.</p> + +<p>The Princess was poor. That brought her +nearer to him: it gave him a chance to help her. +Cartaret found it hard to be sorry that she was +poor.</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>154]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER IX<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">BEING THE TRUE REPORT OF A CHAPERONED +DÉJEUNER</span></h2> + +<div class="cpoem4"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For she hath breathed celestial air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And heavenly food hath been her fare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And heavenly thought and feelings give her face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That heavenly grace.<br /></span> +<span class="poet">—Southey: <i>The Curse of Kehama</i>.<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>Sometimes a mattress is doubtless as efficient +a means of pressing one’s clothes as any other +means, but doubtless always a good deal depends +upon the mattress. By way of general rules, it +may be laid down, for instance, that the mattress +employed must not be too thin, must not be +stuffed with a material so gregarious as to gather +together in lumpy communities, and must not +sag in the middle. Cartaret’s mattress failed to +meet these fundamental requirements, and when +he made his careful toilet on the morning that he +was to take <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">déjeuner</i> at the Room Across the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>155]</a></span> +Landing, he became uneasily aware that his clothes +betrayed certain evidences of what had happened +to them. He had been up half a dozen times in +the night to rearrange the garments, in fear of +just such a misfortune; but his activities were +badly repaid; the front of the suit bore a series of +peculiar wrinkles, rather like the complicated +hatchments on an ancient family’s escutcheon; he +could not see how, when the coat was on him, its +back looked, and he was afraid to speculate. With +his mirror now hung high and now standing on +the floor, he practiced before it until he happily +discovered that the wrinkles could be given a +more or less reasonable excuse if he could only remember +to adopt and assume a mildly Pre-Raphaelite +bearing.</p> + +<p>Something else that his glass showed him gave +him more anxiety and appeared beyond concealment: +Chitta’s claws had left two long scratches +across his right cheek. He had no powder and +no money to buy any. He did think of trying a +touch of his own paint, but he feared that oils +were not suited to the purpose and would only +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>156]</a></span> +make the wound more noticeable. He would +simply have to let it go.</p> + +<p>He had wakened with the first ray of sunlight +that set the birds to singing in the garden, and, +Chitta’s fall of the previous evening having spilled +his coffee and devastated his supplies, he was +forced to go without a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">petit déjeuner</i>. He found +a little tobacco in one of his coat-pockets and +smoked that until the bells of St. Sulpice, after an +unconscionable delay, rang the glad hour for which +he waited.</p> + +<p>Chitta opened the door to his knock, and he +was at once aware of her mistress standing, in +white, behind her; but the old duenna was aware +of it too and ordered herself accordingly. Chitta +bowed low enough to appease the watchful Lady +of the Rose, but Chitta’s eyes, as she lowered them, +glowered at him suspiciously. It was clear that +she by no means joined in the welcome that the +Lady immediately accorded him.</p> + +<p>The Lady, in clinging muslin and with a black +lace scarf of delicate workmanship draped over +her black hair, gave him her hand, and this time +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>157]</a></span> +Cartaret was not slow to kiss it. The action was +one to which he was scarcely accustomed, and he +hesitated between the fear of being discourteously +brief about it and the fear of being discourteously +long. He could be certain only of how cool and +firm her hand was and, as he looked up from it, +how pink and fresh her cheeks.</p> + +<p>It was then that the Lady saw the scratches.</p> + +<p>“Oh, but you have had an accident!” she cried.</p> + +<p>Cartaret’s hand went to his face. He looked +at Chitta: Chitta’s returning glance was something +between an appeal and a threat, but a trifle nearer +the latter.</p> + +<p>“I had a little fall,” said Cartaret, “and I was +scratched in falling.”</p> + +<p>The room was bare, but clean and pleasant, +fresh from the constant application of Chitta’s +mop and broom, fresher from the Spring breeze +that came in through the front windows, and +freshest from the presence of the Lady of the +Rose. Two curtained corners seemed to contain +beds. At the rear, behind a screen, there must +have been a gas-stove where Chitta could soon +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>158]</a></span> +be heard at work upon the breakfast. What +furniture there was bore every evidence of being +Parisian, purchased in the Quarter; there was +none to indicate the nationality of the tenants; +and the bright little table, at which Cartaret was +presently seated so comfortably as to forget the +necessity of the Pre-Raphaelite pose, was Parisian +too.</p> + +<p>“You must speak French,” smiled the Lady—how +very white her teeth were, and how very +red her lips!—as she looked at him across the coffee-urn: +“that is the sole condition that, sir, I +impose upon you.”</p> + +<p>“Willingly,” said Cartaret, in the language +thus imposed; “but why, when you speak English +so well?”</p> + +<p>“Because”—the Lady was half serious about +it—“I had to promise Chitta that, under threat +of her leaving Paris; and if she left Paris, I should +of course have to leave it, too. French she understands +a little, as you know, but not English, +and”—the Lady’s pink deepened—“she says that +English is the one language of which she cannot +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>159]</a></span> +even guess the meaning when she hears it, because +English is the one language that can be spoken +with the lips only, and spoken as if the speaker’s +face were a mask.”</p> + +<p>He said he should have thought that Chitta +would pick it up from her. “Why,” he said, “it +comes so readily to you: you answered in it instinctively +that time when I first saw you. Don’t +you remember?”</p> + +<p>“I remember. I was very frightened. Perhaps +I used it when you did because we had an English +governess at my home and speak it much in the +family. We speak it when we do not want the +servants to understand, and so we have kept it +from Chitta.” She was pouring the coffee. “Tell +me truly: do I indeed speak it well?”</p> + +<p>“Excellently. Of course you are a little precise.”</p> + +<p>“How precise?”</p> + +<p>“Well, you said, that time, ‘It is I’; we generally +say ‘It’s me’—like the French, you understand.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>160]</a></span> +If Princesses could pout, he would have said +that she pouted.</p> + +<p>“But I was right.”</p> + +<p>“Not entirely. You weren’t colloquial.”</p> + +<p>“I was correct,” she insisted. “‘It is I’ is correct. +My grammar says that the verb ‘To be’ +takes the same case after it as before it. If the +Americans say something else, they do not speak +good English.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret laughed.</p> + +<p>“The English say it, too.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” said the Lady with an emphatic nod, +“the English also.”</p> + +<p>It was a simple breakfast, but excellently +cooked, and Cartaret had come to it with a +healthy hunger. Chitta was present only in the +capacity of servant; but managed to be constantly +within earshot and generally to have hostess and +guest under her supervision. He felt her eyes +upon him when she brought in the highly-seasoned +omelette, when she replenished the coffee; frequently +he even caught her peeping around the +screen that hid the stove. It was a marvel that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>161]</a></span> +she could cook so well, since she was forever deserting +her post. She made Cartaret blush with +the memory of his gift to her; she made him feel +that his gift had only increased her distrust; when +he fell to talking about himself, he made light of +his poverty, so that, should Chitta’s evident +scruples against him ever lead her to betray what +he had done, the Lady might not feel that he had +sacrificed too much in giving so little.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, Cartaret was in no mood for complaint: +he was sitting opposite his Princess and +was happy. He told her of his life in America, +of football and of Broadway. It is a rare thing for +a lover to speak of his sister, but Cartaret even +mentioned Cora.</p> + +<p>“Is she afraid of you, monsieur?” asked the +Lady.</p> + +<p>“I can’t imagine Cora being afraid of any mere +man.”</p> + +<p>“Ah,” said the Lady; “then the American +brothers are different from brothers in my country. +I have a brother. I think he is the handsomest +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>162]</a></span> +and bravest man in the world, and I love him. +But I fear him too. I fear him very much.”</p> + +<p>“Your own brother?”</p> + +<p>The Lady was giving Cartaret some more omelette. +Cartaret, holding his ready plate, saw her +glance toward the rear of the room and saw her +meet the eyes of Chitta, whose face was thrust +around the screen.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the Lady.</p> + +<p>It struck Cartaret that she dropped her brother +rather quickly. She talked of other things.</p> + +<p>“Your name,” she said, “is English: the concierge +gave it me. It is English, is it not?”</p> + +<p>She had made enquiries about him, then: Cartaret +liked that.</p> + +<p>“My people were English, long ago,” he answered. +He grew bold. He had been a fool not +to make enquiries about her, but now he would +make them at first hand. “I don’t know your +name,” he said.</p> + +<p>He saw her glance again toward the rear of the +room, but when he looked he saw nobody. The +Lady was saying:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>163]</a></span> +“Urola.”</p> + +<p>It helped him very little. He said;</p> + +<p>“That sounds Spanish.”</p> + +<p>Instantly her head went up. There was blue +fire in her eyes as she answered:</p> + +<p>“I have not one drop of Spanish blood; not +one.”</p> + +<p>He had meant no offense, yet it was clear that +he came dangerously near one. He made haste to +apologize.</p> + +<p>“You do not understand,” she said, smiling a +little. “In my country we hate the Spaniard.”</p> + +<p>“What is your country?”</p> + +<p>It was the most natural of questions—he had +put it once before—yet he had now no sooner +uttered it than he felt that he had committed another +indiscretion. This time, when she glanced +at the rear of the room, he distinctly saw Chitta’s +head disappearing behind the screen.</p> + +<p>“It is a far country,” said Mlle. Urola. “It is +a wild country. We have no opportunities to +study art in my country. So I came to Paris.”</p> + +<p>After that there was nothing for him to do but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>164]</a></span> +to be interested in her studies, and of them she +told him willingly enough. She was very ambitious; +she worked hard, but she made, she said, +little progress.</p> + +<p>“The people that have no feeling for any art I +pity,” she said; “but, oh, I pity more those who +want to be some sort of artist and cannot be! The +desire without the talent, that kills.”</p> + +<p>Chitta was coming back, bearing aloft a fresh +dish. She bore it with an air more haughty than +any she had yet assumed. Directing at Cartaret a +glance of pride and scorn, she set before her mistress—Cartaret’s +strawberries.</p> + +<p>The Lady clapped her pretty hands. She +laughed with delight.</p> + +<p>“This,” she said, “is a surprise! I had not +known that we were to have strawberries. It is +so like Chitta. She is so kind and thoughtful, +monsieur. Always she has for me some surprise +like this.”</p> + +<p>“It is a surprise,” said Cartaret. “I’m sure I’ll +enjoy it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>165]</a></span> +She served the berries while Chitta stalked +away.</p> + +<p>“I find,” confessed the Lady in English, “that +they are not so good below as they seemed on +the top. You will not object?”</p> + +<p>Oh, no: Cartaret wouldn’t object.</p> + +<p>“I suppose,” said Mlle. Urola, “that I should +reprimand her, for their quality is”—she frowned +at the berries—“inferior; but I have not the heart. +Not for the whole world could I hurt her feelings. +She is both so kind and so proud, and she is such +a marvel of economy. You, sir, would not guess +how well she makes me fare upon how small an +expense.”</p> + +<p>After breakfast, she showed him some examples +of her work. It had delicacy and feeling. An unprejudiced +critic would have said that she had +much to learn in the way of technique, but to Cartaret +every one of her sketches was a marvel.</p> + +<p>“This,” she said, again in English, as she produced +a drawing from the bottom of her bundle, +“does not compare with what you did, sir, but it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>166]</a></span> +is not the work of a flatterer, since it is my own +work. It is I.”</p> + +<p>It was a rapid sketch of herself and it was, as +she had said, the work of no flatterer.</p> + +<p>“I like that least of all,” declared Cartaret, in +the language to which she had returned; but he +wanted her to forget those portraits he had made. +He caught, consequently, at trifles. “Why don’t +you say ‘It’s me’?” he asked.</p> + +<p>She clasped her hands behind her and stood +looking up at him with her chin tilted and her unconscious +lips close to his.</p> + +<p>“I say what is right, sir,” she challenged.</p> + +<p>He laughed, but shook his head.</p> + +<p>“I know better,” said he.</p> + +<p>“No,” she said. She was smiling, but serious. +“It is I that am right. And even if I learned that +I were wrong, I would now not change. It would +be a surrender to you.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret found his color high. His mind was +putting into her words a meaning he was afraid +she might see that he put there.</p> + +<p>“Not to me,” he said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>167]</a></span> +“Yes, yes, to you!”</p> + +<p>Surrender! What a troublesome word she was +using!</p> + +<p>The chin went higher; the lips came nearer.</p> + +<p>“A complete surrender, sir.” Quickly she +stepped back. If she had read his face rightly, +her face gave no hint of it, but she was at once +her former self. “And that I will never do,” she +said, reverting to French.</p> + +<p>It was Cartaret’s turn to want to change the +subject. He did it awkwardly.</p> + +<p>“Have you been in the Bois?” he asked.</p> + +<p>No, she had not been in the Bois. She loved +nature too well to care for artificial scenery.</p> + +<p>“But the Bois is the sort of art that improves +on nature,” he protested; “at least, so the Parisian +will tell you; and, really, it is beautiful now. You +ought to see it. I was there last night.”</p> + +<p>“You go alone into the Bois in the night? Is +not that dangerous?”</p> + +<p>He could not tell whether she was mocking him. +He said:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>168]</a></span> +“It isn’t dangerous in the afternoons, at any +rate. Let me take you there.”</p> + +<p>She hesitated. Chitta was clattering dishes in +the improvised kitchen.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” said the Lady.</p> + +<p>Cartaret’s heart bounded.</p> + +<p>“Now?” he asked.</p> + +<p>The dishes clattered mightily.</p> + +<p>“How prompt you are!” she laughed. “No, +not now. I have my lessons.”</p> + +<p>“To-morrow, then?”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” said the Lady of the Rose. “Perhaps——”</p> + +<p>Cartaret’s face brightened.</p> + +<p>“That is,” explained his hostess, “if you will +not try to teach me English, sir.”</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>169]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER X<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">AN ACCOUNT OF AN EMPTY PURSE AND A FULL +HEART, IN THE COURSE OF WHICH THE AUTHOR +BARELY ESCAPES TELLING A VERY OLD +STORY</span></h2> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">C’est état bizarre de folie tendre qui fait que nous +n’avons plus de pensée que pour des actes d’adoration. +On devient véritablement un possédé que hante une +femme, et rien n’existe plus pour nous à côté d’elle.—De +Maupassant: <i>Un Soir</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<p>The Lady’s “perhaps” meant “yes,” it seemed, +for, when Cartaret called for her the next day, +he found her ready to go to the Bois, and not the +Lady only: hovering severely in the immediate +background, like a thunder-cloud over a Spring +landscape, was Chitta, wrapped in a shawl of +marvelous lace, doubtless from her own country, +and crowned with a brilliant bonnet unmistakably +procured at some second-hand shop off the rue St. +Jacques. The Lady noticed his expression of bewilderment +and appeared a little annoyed by it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>170]</a></span> +“Of course,” she said, “Chitta accompanies us.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret had to submit.</p> + +<p>“Certainly,” said he.</p> + +<p>He proposed a taxi-cab to the Bois—he had +visited the Mont de Piété—but the Lady would +not hear of it; she was used to walking; she was a +good walker; she liked to walk.</p> + +<p>“But it’s miles,” Cartaret protested.</p> + +<p>“It is nothing,” said she.</p> + +<p>Her utmost concession was to go by tram to +the <i>Arc</i>.</p> + +<p>It was a beautiful day in the Bois, with half +of Paris there: carriages from the Faubourg St. +Germain, motors of the smart set, hired conveyances +full of tourists. The trees were a tender +green; the footways crowded by the Parisian +bourgeois, making a day of it with his family. +Slim officers walked, in black jackets and red +trousers, the calves of their legs compressed in +patent-leather riding-leggings; women of the half-world +showed brilliant toilettes that had been +copied by ladies of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">haut monde</i>, who, driven +past, wore them not quite so well. Grotesquely +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>171]</a></span> +clipped French poodles rode in the carriages, and +Belgian police-dogs in the automobiles; thin-nosed +collies frolicked after their masters; here and +there a tailless English sheep-dog waddled by, +or a Russian boar-hound paced sedately; children +played on the grass and dashed across the paths +with a suddenness that threatened the safety of +the adult pedestrians.</p> + +<p>Cartaret led the way into the less frequented +portions of the great park beyond the Lac Inférieur. +The Lady was pleasantly beside him, +Chitta unpleasantly at his heels.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you admit it’s worth coming to see?” +he began in English. “When I was here, under +the stars, the other night——”</p> + +<p>“You must speak French,” the Lady smilingly +interrupted. “You must remember my promise +to Chitta.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret ground his teeth. He spoke thereafter +in French, but he lowered his voice so as to +be sure that Chitta could not understand him.</p> + +<p>“I was thinking then that you ought to see +it.” He took his courage in both hands. “I was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>172]</a></span> +wishing very much that you were with me.” His +brown eyes sought hers steadily. “May I tell +you all that I was wishing?”</p> + +<p>“Not now,” she said.</p> + +<p>Her tone was conventional enough, but in her +face he read—and he was sure that she had meant +him to read—a something deeper.</p> + +<p>He put it to her flatly: “When?”</p> + +<p>She was looking now at the fresh green leaves +above them. When she looked down, she was +still smiling, but her smile was wistful.</p> + +<p>“When dreams come true, perhaps,” she said. +“Do dreams ever come true in the American +United States, monsieur?”</p> + +<p>The spell of the Spring was dangerously upon +them both. Cartaret’s breath came quickly.</p> + +<p>“I wish—I wish that you were franker with +me,” he said.</p> + +<p>“But am I ever anything except frank?”</p> + +<p>“You’re—I know I haven’t any right to expect +your confidence: you scarcely know me. But why +won’t you tell me even where you come from and +who you are?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>173]</a></span> +“You know my name.”</p> + +<p>“I know a part of it.”</p> + +<p>“My little name is—it is Vitoria.”</p> + +<p>“V-i-t-t-o-r-i-a?” he spelled.</p> + +<p>“Yes, but with one ‘t,’” the Lady said.</p> + +<p>“Vitoria Urola,” he repeated.</p> + +<p>She raised her even brows.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes; of course,” said she.</p> + +<p>Somehow it struck him that its sound was +scarcely familiar to her:</p> + +<p>“Do I pronounce it badly?”</p> + +<p>“No, no: you are quite correct.”</p> + +<p>“But not quite to be trusted?”</p> + +<p>She looked at him doubtfully. She looked at +Chitta and gave her a quick order that sent the +duenna reluctantly ahead of them. Then the +Lady put her gloved hand on Cartaret’s arm.</p> + +<p>“I want you to be my friend,” she said.</p> + +<p>“I am your friend,” he protested: “that is what +I want you to believe. That is why I ask you +to be frank with me. I want you to tell me just +enough to let me help—to let me protect you. If +you are in danger, I want——”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>174]</a></span> +“You might be my danger.”</p> + +<p>“I?”</p> + +<p>She bowed assent.</p> + +<p>“No, do not ask me why. I shall not tell you. +I shall never tell you—no more,” she smiled, “than +I shall ever say for you ‘it’s me.’ It is very kind +of you to want to be my friend. I am alone here +in Paris, except for poor Chitta, and I shall be +glad if you will be my friend; but it will not be +very easy.”</p> + +<p>“It would be hard to be anything else.”</p> + +<p>“Not for you: you are too curious. My friend +must let me be just what I am here. All that I +was before I came to Paris, all that I may be +after I leave it, he must ask nothing about.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret looked long into her eyes.</p> + +<p>“All right,” he said at last. “I am glad to have +that much. And—thank you.”</p> + +<p>He stuck to his side of their agreement; not +only during that afternoon in the Bois, but during +the days that followed. He worked hard. He +turned out one really good picture, and he turned +out many successful pot-boilers. He would not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>175]</a></span> +impose these on Fourget, because old Fourget had +already been too kind to him; but Lepoittevin +wanted such stuff, and Cartaret let him have it.</p> + +<p>Cartaret worked gladly now, because he was, +however little she might guess it, working for +Vitoria. He had left for himself precisely enough +to keep him alive, but every third or fourth day +he would have the happiness of slipping a little +silver into Chitta’s horny palm: Chitta came +readily to the habit of waiting for him on the +stair. He grew happier day by day, and looked—as +who does not?—the better for it. He sought +out Seraphin and Varachon; he bought brandy +for Houdon; went to hear Devignes sing, and once +he had Armand Garnier to luncheon. He rewarded +the hurdy-gurdy so splendidly that it was +a nightly visitor to the rue du Val de Grâce: the +entire street was whistling “Annie Laurie.”</p> + +<p>Seraphin guessed the truth.</p> + +<p>“Ah, my friend,” he nodded, “that foolish one, +Houdon, says that you have again decided to +spend of your income: <em>I</em> know that you are somehow +making largess with your heart.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>176]</a></span> +Cartaret took frequent walks with Vitoria, +Chitta always two feet behind, never closer, but +never farther away. Often he saw the Lady to +her classes, more frequently they walked to the +Ile Saint Louis, or between the old houses of the +rue des Francs Bourgeois; to the Jardin des +Plantes, or into the Cours de Dragon or St. Germain +des Prés: Chitta’s unsophisticated mind +should have been improved by a thorough knowledge +of picturesque Paris.</p> + +<p>He was guilty of trying to elude the guardian—guilty +of some rather shabby tricks in that direction—and +he suffered the more in conscience because +they were almost uniformly unsuccessful. +More than once, however, he reached a state of +exaltation in which he forgot Chitta, cared nothing +about Chitta, and then he felt nearer Heaven.</p> + +<p>On one such occasion he was actually nearer +than the site usually ascribed to the Celestial City. +With Vitoria and her guardian he had climbed—it +was at his own malign suggestion—to Montmartre +and, since Chitta feared the funicular, had +toiled up the last steep ascent into Notre Dame de +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>177]</a></span> +Sacre Coeur. Chitta’s piety—or her exhaustion—kept +her long upon her knees in that Byzantine +nave, and the Lady and Cartaret had a likely +flying-start up the stairs to the tower. Cartaret +possessed the wit to say nothing, but he noticed +that Vitoria’s blue eyes shone with a light of adventure, +which tacitly approved of the escapade, +and that her step was as quick as his own when +Chitta’s slower step, heavy breathing and muttered +imprecations became audible below them.</p> + +<p>“I’m sure the old girl will have to rest on the +way up, for all her spryness,” thought Cartaret. +“If we can only hold this pace, we ought to have +five minutes alone on the ramparts.”</p> + +<p>They had quite five minutes and, no other sight-seers +being about, they were quite alone. Below +them, under a faintly blue haze, Paris lay like +an outspread map, with here and there a church +steeple rising above the level of the page. The +roof of the Opéra, the gilt dome of Napoleon’s +tomb and the pointing finger of the Tour Eiffel +were immediately individualized, but all the rest +of the city merged into a common maze about the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>178]</a></span> +curving Seine with the red sun setting beyond the +Ile de Puteaux.</p> + +<p>Vitoria leaned on the rampart. She was panting +a little from her climb; her cheeks were flushed, +and her whole face glowing.</p> + +<p>“It is as if we were gods on some star,” she said, +“looking down upon a world that is strange to us.”</p> + +<p>She was speaking in English. Cartaret bent +closer. Pledges of mere friendship ceased, for the +moment, to appear of primary importance: he +wanted, suddenly, to make the most of a little +time.</p> + +<p>“Am I never to see you alone?” he asked.</p> + +<p>She forsook the view of Paris to give him a +second’s glance. There was something roguish +in it.</p> + +<p>“Chitta,” she said, “has not yet arrived.”</p> + +<p>He felt himself a poor hand at love-making. +Its language was upon his tongue—perhaps the +slower now because he so much meant what he +wanted to say. His jaw set, the lines at his mouth +deepened.</p> + +<p>“I’ve never thought much,” he blundered, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>179]</a></span> +“about some of the things that most fellows think +a lot about. I mean I’ve never—at least not till +lately—thought much about love and—” he +choked on the word—“and marriage; but——”</p> + +<p>She cut him short. Her speech was slow and +deliberate. Her eyes were on his, and in them +he saw something at once firm and sad.</p> + +<p>“Nor I, my friend,” she was saying: “it is a +subject that I am forbidden to think about.”</p> + +<p>If she conveyed a command, he disobeyed it.</p> + +<p>“Then,” he said, “I wish you’d think about it +now.”</p> + +<p>“I am forbidden to think about it,” she continued, +“and I do not think about it because I +shall not marry any one—at least not any one that—that +I——”</p> + +<p>Her voice dropped into silence. She turned +from him to the sunset over the gray city.</p> + +<p>Cartaret’s exaltation left him more suddenly +than it had come.</p> + +<p>“Any one that you care for?” he asked in a +lowered tone.</p> + +<p>Still facing the city, she bowed assent.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>180]</a></span> +“But, in Heaven’s name, whom else should you +marry except somebody that you care for?”</p> + +<p>She did not answer.</p> + +<p>“Look here,” urged Cartaret, “you—you’re not +engaged, are you?”</p> + +<p>She faced him then, still with that something +at once firm and sad in her fine eyes.</p> + +<p>“No,” she said; but he must have shown a little +of the hope he found in that monosyllable, for +she went on: “Yet I shall never marry any one +that I care for. That is all that I may tell you—my +<em>friend</em>.”</p> + +<p>As a hurrying tug puffs up to the liner that it is +to tow safely into port, Chitta puffed up to her +mistress. She met a Cartaret, could she have +guessed it, as hopeless as she wanted him to be.</p> + +<p>He did his best to put from him all desire to +unravel the mystery, and for some days he was +again content to remain Vitoria’s unquestioning +friend. She had told him that she could not marry +him: nothing could have been plainer. What more +could he gain by further enquiry? Did she mean +that she loved somebody else whom she could not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>181]</a></span> +marry? Or did she mean that she loved, but +could not marry—<em>him</em>? Cartaret highly resolved +to take what good the gods provided: to remain +her friend; to work on, in secret, for her comfort, +and to be as happy as he could in so much of her +companionship as she permitted him. He would +never tell her that he loved her.</p> + +<p>And then, very early on an evening in May, +Destiny, who had been somnolent under the soft +influence of Spring, awoke and once more took a +hand in Cartaret’s affairs and those of the Lady +of the Rose.</p> + +<p>Cartaret had just returned from a mission to Lepoittevin’s +shop and, having there disposed of a +particularly bad picture, had put money in his +purse: Chitta was waiting on the stairs and accepted +the bulk of his earnings with her usual bad +grace. He went into his studio, leaving the door +ajar. The cool breeze of the Spring twilight fluttered +the curtains; it bore upward the laughter of +the concierge’s children, playing at diavolo in the +garden; it brought the fainter notes of the hurdy-gurdy, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>182]</a></span> +grinding out its music somewhere farther +down the street.</p> + +<p>Somebody was tapping at the door.</p> + +<p>“Who is it?” he called.</p> + +<p>“It’s—<em>I</em>,” came the answer, with the least perceptible +pause before the pronoun. “May I come +in?”</p> + +<p>“Do,” he said, and rose.</p> + +<p>Before he could reach the door, Vitoria had +entered, closing it carefully behind her. He could +see that she was in her student’s blouse; tendrils +of her hair, slightly disarrayed, curled about the +nape of her white neck; her delicate nostrils were +extended and her manner strangely quiet.</p> + +<p>“This is good of you,” he gratefully began. “I +didn’t expect——”</p> + +<p>“What is this that you have been doing?”</p> + +<p>Her tone, though low, was hasty. Cartaret bewilderedly +realized that she was angry. Before +he could reply, she had repeated her question:</p> + +<p>“Sir, what is this that you have been doing?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t understand.” He had drawn away +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>183]</a></span> +from her, his face unmistakably expressive of his +puzzled pain.</p> + +<p>“You have been—— oh, that I should live to +say it!—you have been giving money to my maid.”</p> + +<p>He drew back farther now. He was detected; +he was ashamed.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he confessed; “I thought—You see, she +gave me to understand that you were—were poor.”</p> + +<p>“None of my family has ever taken charity of +any man!”</p> + +<p>“Charity?” He did not dare to look at her, but +he knew just how high she was holding her head +and just how her eyes were flashing. “It wasn’t +that. Believe me—please believe me when I say +it wasn’t that. It never struck me in that way.” +He was on the point of telling her how he had +caught Chitta red-handed in a theft, and how this +had led to his enlightenment; but he realized in +time that such an explanation would only deepen +the wound that he had inflicted on the Lady’s +pride. “I merely thought,” he concluded, “that it +was one comrade—one neighbor—helping another.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>184]</a></span> +“How much have you given that wretched +woman?”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t the least idea.”</p> + +<p>“You must know!” She stamped her foot. +“Or are you, after all, one of those rich Americans +that do not have to count their money, and that +are proud of insulting the people of older and +poorer countries by flinging it at them?”</p> + +<p>It was a bitter thing to say. He received it +with head still bent, and his answer was scarcely +a whisper:</p> + +<p>“I am not quite rich.”</p> + +<p>“Then count. Recollect yourself, sir, and +count. Tell me, and you shall be repaid. Within +three days you shall be repaid.”</p> + +<p>It never occurred to him further to humiliate +her by seeking sympathy through a reference to his +own poverty. He looked up. In her clenched +hands and parted lips, in her hot eyes and face, he +saw the tokens of the blow that he had dealt her. +He came toward her with outstretched hands, petitioning.</p> + +<p>“Can’t you guess why I did this?” he asked her. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>185]</a></span> +His amazement, even his sorrow, left him. In +their place was only the sublimation of a worthy +tenderness, the masterfulness of a firm resolve. +His face was tense. “Listen,” he said: “I don’t +want you to answer me; I wouldn’t say this if I +were going to allow you to make any reply. I +don’t want pity; I don’t deserve it. Anything else +I wouldn’t ask, because I don’t deserve anything +else, either, and don’t hope for it. I just want to +make my action clear to you. Perhaps I should +have done for any neighbor what I did for—what +little I have been doing; I trust so; I don’t know. +But the reason I did it in this case was a reason +that I’ve never had in all my life before. Remember, +I’m hopeless and I shan’t let you reply to +me: I did this because”—his unswerving glance +was on hers now—“because I love you.”</p> + +<p>But she did reply. At first she seemed unable +to credit him, but then her face became scarlet +and her eyes blazed.</p> + +<p>“Love me! And you do this? Yes, sir, insult +me by contributing—and through my servant—to +my support! If I had not come back unexpectedly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>186]</a></span> +but now and found her counting more silver than +I knew she could by right possess—if I had not +frightened her into a confession—it might have +gone on for months.” The Lady stopped abruptly. +“How long <em>has</em> it been going on?”</p> + +<p>“I tell you that I have no idea.”</p> + +<p>“But once, sir, was enough! You insult me +with your money, and when I ask you why you +do it, you answer that you love me. Love!”</p> + +<p>She uttered the concluding word with an intensity +of scorn that lashed him. She turned to +go, but, as on the occasion of their first meeting, +he stepped forward and barred the way.</p> + +<p>“You have no right to put that construction on +what I say. Our points of view are different.”</p> + +<p>“Yes—thank the Holy Saints they <em>are</em> different!”</p> + +<p>“I shall try to understand yours; I beg you to +try to understand mine.”</p> + +<p>Their eyes met again. In his it was impossible +for her not to read the truth. Slowly she lowered +hers.</p> + +<p>“In my country,” she said, more softly now, but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>187]</a></span> +still proudly, “love is another sort of thing. In +my country I should have said: ‘If you respect me, +sir, you perhaps love me; if you do not respect me, +it is out of the question that you should love me.’”</p> + +<p>“Respect you?” This was a challenge to his +love that he could not leave unanswered. His +voice rose fresh and clear. He was no longer under +the necessity of seeking words: they leaped, living, +to his lips. “Respect you? Good God, I’ve +been worshiping the very thought of you from +the first glimpse of you I ever had. This miserable +room has been a holy place to me because you +have twice been in it. It’s been a holy place, +because, from the moment I first found you here, +it has been a place where I dreamed of you. Night +and day I’ve dreamed of you; and yet have I ever +once knowingly done you any harm, trespassed or +presumed on your kindness? I’ve seen no pure +morning without thinking of you, no beautiful +sunset without remembering you; you’ve been the +harmony of every bar of music, of every bird-song, +that I’ve heard. When you were gone, the +world was empty for me; when I was with you, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>188]</a></span> +all the rest of the world was nothing, and less +than nothing. Respect you? Why, I should have +cut off my right hand before I let you even guess +what you’ve discovered to-day!”</p> + +<p>As he spoke, her whole attitude altered. Her +hands were still clenched at her sides, but clenched +now in another emotion.</p> + +<p>“Is—is this true?” she asked. Her voice was +very low.</p> + +<p>“It is true,” he answered.</p> + +<p>“And yet”—she seemed to be not so much addressing +him as trying to quiet an accuser in her +own heart—“I never spoke one word that could +give you any hope.”</p> + +<p>“Not one,” he gravely assented. “I never +asked for hope; I don’t expect it now.”</p> + +<p>“And it is—it is really true?” she murmured.</p> + +<p>Again he spoke in answer to what she seemed +rather to address to her own heart:</p> + +<p>“Because you found out what I’d done, I wanted +you to know why I’d done it—and no more. If +you hadn’t found out about Chitta, I would never +have told you—this.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>189]</a></span> +She tried to smile, but something caught the +smile and broke it. With a sudden movement, +she raised her white hands to her burning face.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” she whispered, “why did you tell me? +Why?”</p> + +<p>“Because you accused me, because——” He +could not stand there and see her suffer. “I’ve +been a brute,” he said; “I’ve been a bungling +brute.”</p> + +<p>“No, no!” She refused to hear him.</p> + +<p>He drew her hands from before her face and revealed +it, the underlip indrawn, the blue eyes +swimming in hushed tears, all humbled in a wistful +appeal.</p> + +<p>“A brute!” he repeated.</p> + +<p>“No, you are not!” Her fingers closed on his. +“You are splendid; you are fine; you are all that +I—that I ever——”</p> + +<p>“Vitoria!”</p> + +<p>Out in the rue du Val de Grâce that rattletrap +French hurdy-gurdy struck up “Annie Laurie.” +It played badly; its time was uncertain and its conception +of the tune was questionable; yet Cartaret +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>190]</a></span> +thought that, save for her voice, he had never +heard diviner melody. She was looking up at him, +her hands clasped in his over his pounding heart, +her eyes like altar-fires, her lips sacrosanct, and, +wreathing her upturned face, seeming to float +upon the twilight, hovered, fresh from sunlit +mountain-crests of virgin snow, the subtle and +haunting perfume that was like a poem in a tongue +unknown: the perfume of the Azure Rose.</p> + +<p>“Vitoria!” he began again. “You don’t mean +that you—that you——”</p> + +<p>She interrupted him with a sharp cry. She +freed her hands. She went by him to the door.</p> + +<p>Her voice, as she paused there, was broken, but +brave:</p> + +<p>“You do not understand. How could you? +And I cannot tell you. Only—only it must be +‘Good-by.’ Often I have wondered how Love +would come to me, and whether he would come +singing, as he comes to most, or with a sword, +as he comes to some.” She opened the door and +stepped across the threshold. She was closing it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>191]</a></span> +upon herself when she spoke, but she held it open +and kept her eyes on Cartaret until she ended. “I +know now, my beloved: he has come with a +sword.”</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>192]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER XI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">TELLS HOW CARTARET’S FORTUNE TURNED TWICE +IN A FEW HOURS AND HOW HE FOUND ONE +THING AND LOST ANOTHER</span></h2> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>A man is rich in proportion to the things he can +afford to let alone.—Thoreau: <i>Walden</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<p>A great deal has been said, to not much purpose, +about the vagaries of the feminine heart; +but its masculine counterpart is equally mysterious. +The seat of Charlie Cartaret’s emotions +furnishes a case in point.</p> + +<p>Cartaret had resolved never to tell Vitoria that +he loved her, and he told her. Similarly, when +he told her, he sought to make it clear to her, quite +sincerely, that he nursed no hope of winning her +for his wife, and, now that she was gone, hope +took possession of his breast and brought with it +determination. Why not? Had she not amazingly +confessed her love for him? That left him, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>193]</a></span> +as he saw it, no reason for abnegation; it made +sacrifice wrong for them both. The secret difficulty +at which she hinted became something that +it was now as much his duty, as it was his highest +desire, to remove. For the rest, though he could +now no more than previously consider offering her +a union with a man condemned to a lifelong +poverty, there remained for him no task save the +simple one of acquiring affluence. What could +seem easier—for a young man in love?</p> + +<p>The more he thought about it, the more obvious +his course became. During all his boyhood, art +had been his single passion; during all his residence +in Paris he had flung the best that was in +him upon the altar of his artistic ambition; but +now, without a single pang of regret, he resolved +to give up art forever. He would see Vitoria on +the morrow and come to a practical understanding +with her: was he not always a practical man? +Then he would reopen negotiation with his uncle +and ask for a place in the elder Cartaret’s business. +Perhaps it would not even be necessary for him +to return to America: he had the brilliant idea that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>194]</a></span> +his uncle’s business—which was to say, the great +monopoly of which his uncle’s holdings were a +small part—had never been properly “pushed” +in France, and that Charles Cartaret was the man +of all men to push it. The mystery that dear +Vitoria made of some private obstacle? That, of +course, was but the exaggeration of a sensitive +girl; it was the long effect of some parental command +or childish vow. He had only to wrest +from her the statement of it in order to prove it so. +It was some unpractical fancy wholly beneath the +regard of a practical, and now wholly assured, +man of affairs.</p> + +<p>By way of beginning a conservative business-career, +Charlie went to the front window and, as +he had done one day not long since, emptied his +pockets for the delight of the hurdy-gurdy grinder. +Then, singing under his breath, and inwardly +blessing every pair of lovers that he passed, he +went out for a long walk in the twilight.</p> + +<p>He walked along the Quai D’Orsay, beside +which the crowded little passenger-steamers were +tearing the silver waters of the Seine; crossed the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>195]</a></span> +white Pont de l’Alma; struck through the Trocadero +gardens, and so, by the rue de Passy and +the shaded Avenue Ingrez, came to the railway +bridge, crossed it and strolled along the Allée des +Fortifications. He walked until the night overtook +him, and only then turned back through +Auteuil and over the Pont Grenelle toward home.</p> + +<p>Alike in the perfumed shadows beneath the +trees and under the yellow lamps of the Boulevard +de Mont Parnasse, he walked upon the clouds of +resolution. The city that has in her tender keeping +the dust of many lovers, cradled him and +drew him forward. Her soft breath fanned his +cheek, her sweet voice whispered in his ears:</p> + +<p>“Trust me and obey me! Did I not know and +shelter Gabrielle d’Estrées and her royal suitor? +Have I not had a care for De Musset and for +Heine? In that walled garden over there, Balzac +dreamed of Mme. Hanska. Along this street +Chopin wandered with George Sand.”</p> + +<p>That whisper followed him to his room, still +thrilling with Vitoria’s visit. It charmed him +into a wonderful sense of her nearness, into a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>196]</a></span> +belief that he was keeping ward over her as long +as he sat by his windows and watched the stars +go down and the pink dawn climb the eastern +sky. It lulled him at last to sleep with his head +upon his arms and his arms upon the mottled +table.</p> + +<p>He overslept. It must have been nearly noon +when he woke, and then he was wakened only by +a pounding at the door of his room. Fat Mme. +Refrogné had brought him a cable-message. When +she had gone, he opened it, surprised at once by its +extravagant length. It was from Cora; a modern +miracle had happened: there was oil in the black +keeping of the plot of ground that only sentiment +had so long bade them retain in the little +Ohio town. Cartaret was rich....</p> + + +<p class="break">When the first force of the shock was over, +when he could realize, in some small measure, what +that message meant to him, Cartaret’s earliest +thought was of the Lady of the Rose. Holding +the bit of paper as tightly as if it were itself his +riches and wanted to fly away on the wings that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>197]</a></span> +had brought it, he staggered, like a drunken man, +to the door of the Room Opposite.</p> + +<p>He knocked, but received no answer. A clock +struck mid-day. Vitoria had probably gone to +her class, and Chitta to her marketing.</p> + +<p>A mad impulse to spread the good news possessed +him. It was as if telling the news were +recording a deed that there was only a brief time +to record: he must do it at once in order to secure +title. He knew that his friends, if they were in +funds, would soon be gathered at the Café Des +Deux Colombes.</p> + +<p>When he passed the rue St. André Des Arts, he +remembered Fourget. Cartaret was ashamed that +his memory had been so tardy. Fourget had +helped him in his heavy need; Fourget should be +the first to know of his affluence....</p> + +<p>The old dealer, his bushy brows drawn tight together, +his spectacles gleaming, was trying to say +“No” to a lad with a picture under his arm—a +crestfallen lad that was a stranger to Cartaret.</p> + +<p>“Let me see the picture,” said Cartaret, without +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>198]</a></span> +further preface. He put out a ready hand.</p> + +<p>The boy blushed. Cartaret had been abrupt and +did not present the appearance of a possible purchaser.</p> + +<p>“If you please,” urged Cartaret. “I may care +to buy.”</p> + +<p>Fourget gaped. The boy turned up his canvas—an +execrable daub.</p> + +<p>“I’ll buy that,” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p>“Are you mad?” asked Fourget.</p> + +<p>“Bring back that picture to M. Fourget in half +an hour,” pursued the heedless American, “and he +will give you for it two hundred francs that he +will have lent me and that I shall have left with +him.”</p> + +<p>He pushed the stammering lad out of the shop +and turned to Fourget.</p> + +<p>“Are you drunk?” asked the dealer, changing +the form of his suspicions.</p> + +<p>“Fourget,” cried Cartaret, clapping his friend +on the back, “I shall never be hungry again—never—never—never! +Look at that.” He produced +the precious cable-message. “That piece of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>199]</a></span> +paper will feed me all my life long. It will buy me +houses, horses, motors, steamship-tickets. It looks +like paper, Fourget.” He spread it under Fourget’s +nose. “But it isn’t; it’s a dozen suits of +clothes a year; it’s a watch-and-chain, a diamond +scarf-pin (if I’d wear one!); it’s a yacht. It’s +an oil-well, Fourget—and a godsend!”</p> + +<p>Fourget took it in his blue-veined hands. His +hands trembled.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I forgot,” said Cartaret. “It is in English. +Let me translate.” He translated.</p> + +<p>When Charlie looked up from his reading, he +found Fourget busily engaged in polishing his +spectacles. Perhaps the old man’s eyes were weak +and could not bear to be without their glasses: +they certainly were moist.</p> + +<p>“I do not see so well as I once saw,” the dealer +was explaining: his voice was very gruff indeed. +“You are wholly certain that this is no trick which +one plays upon you?”</p> + +<p>Cartaret was wholly certain.</p> + +<p>Fourget made a valiant attempt at expressing +his congratulations in a mere Anglo-Saxon +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>200]</a></span> +handshake. He found it quite inadequate, and this +annoyed him.</p> + +<p>“The world,” he growled, “loses a possibly fair +artist and gets an idle millionaire.”</p> + +<p>“You get a new shop,” vowed Cartaret. “Don’t +shake your head! I’ll make it a business proposition: +I’ve had enough trouble by being suspected +of charity. I’m going to buy an interest, and I +shan’t want my money sunk in anything dark +and unsanitary.”</p> + +<p>Fourget shook his gray head again.</p> + +<p>“Thank you with all my heart, my friend,” he +said; “but no. This little shop meets my little +needs and will last out my little remaining days. +I would not leave it for the largest establishment +on the boulevards.”</p> + +<p>They talked until Cartaret again bethought him +of the café in the rue Jacob.</p> + +<p>“But you will lend me the two hundred francs,” +he asked, “and give it to that boy for his picture?” +How much a boy that boy seemed now: he was +just the boy that Cartaret had been in the long +ago time that was yesterday!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>201]</a></span> +“Since you insist; but truly, my dear monsieur, +myself I was about to weaken and purchase the +terrible thing when you interrupted and saved +me.” ...</p> + +<p>The money from Seraphin’s latest <i>magnum opus</i> +not being yet exhausted, Seraphin’s friends were +lunching at the Café Des Deux Colombes, with +little Pasbeaucoup fluttering between them and +the kitchen, and Madame, expressionless under +her mountain of hair, stuffed into the wire cage +and bulging out of it. The company rose when +they espied Cartaret, the cadaverous poet Garnier +picking up his plate of roast chicken so as not to +lose, in his welcoming, time that might be given +to eating.</p> + +<p>Cartaret felt at first somewhat ashamed before +them. He felt the contrast between his changed +fortunes and their fortunes unchanged. At last, +however, the truth escaped him, and then he felt +more ashamed than ever, so unenvious were the +congratulations that they poured upon him.</p> + +<p>Devignes’ round belly shook with delight. +Garnier even stopped eating.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>202]</a></span> +“Now you may have the leisure for serious +work, which,” squeaked Varachon through his +broken nose, “your art has so badly needed.”</p> + +<p>Seraphin said nothing, but put his hand on +Cartaret’s shoulder and gripped it hard.</p> + +<p>Houdon embraced the fortunate one.</p> + +<p>“Did I not always tell you?” he demanded of +Seraphin. “Did I not say he was a disguised +millionaire?”</p> + +<p>“But he has but now got his money,” Seraphin +protested.</p> + +<p>“Poof!” said Houdon, dismissing the argument +with a trill upon his invisible piano. “La-la-la!”</p> + +<p>“Without doubt to mark the event you will +give a dinner?” suggested Garnier.</p> + +<p>“Without doubt,” said Houdon.</p> + +<p>Cartaret said that he would give a dinner that +very evening if Pasbeaucoup would strain the +Median laws of the establishment so far as to +trust him for a few days, and Pasbeaucoup, receiving +the necessary nod from Madame, said that +they would be but too happy to trust M. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>203]</a></span> +Cartarette for any sum and for any length of time +that he might choose to name.</p> + +<p>So Cartaret left them for a few hours and went +back to his room at the earliest possible moment +for finding Vitoria returned from her class. This +time he not only knocked: he tried, in his haste, +the knob of the door, and the door, swinging open, +revealed an empty room, stripped of even its +furniture.</p> + +<p>He nearly fell downstairs to the cave of +Refrogné.</p> + +<p>“Where are they?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>Had monsieur again been missing strawberries? +Where were what?</p> + +<p>“Where is Mlle. Urola—where are the occupants +of the room across from mine?” Cartaret’s +frenzied tones implied that he would hold the +concierge personally responsible for whatever +might have happened to his neighbors.</p> + +<p>“Likely they are occupying some other room by +this time,” growled Refrogné. “I was unaware +that they were such great friends of monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“They are. Where are they?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>204]</a></span> +“In that case, they must have told monsieur of +their contemplated departure.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean they’ve moved to another room +in this house?”</p> + +<p>“But no.”</p> + +<p>“Then where have they gone?”</p> + +<p>They had gone away. They had paid their +bill honestly, even the rent for the unconsumed +portion of the month, and gone away. That was +all it was an honest concierge’s business to know.</p> + +<p>“When did they go?”</p> + +<p>“Early this morning.”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t they leave any address?”</p> + +<p>“None. Why should they? Mademoiselle +never received letters.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret could bear no more. Even the man +that hauled away the furniture had only taken it +to the shop from which it had been leased. +Refrogné had seen the two women get into a cab +with their scanty luggage and had heard them order +themselves driven to the Gare d’Orsay. That +was the end of the trail....</p> + + +<p class="break"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>205]</a></span> +Cartaret climbed to his own room. Thrust +under the door, where he had missed it in the rush +of his hopeful exit that morning, was an envelope. +It did not hold the expected note of explanation. +It held only a pressed rose, yellow now, and dry +and odorless.</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>206]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER XII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">NARRATING HOW CARTARET BEGAN HIS QUEST OF +THE ROSE</span></h2> + +<div class="cpoem2"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The power of herbs can other harms remove,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And find a cure for every ill, but love.<br /></span> +<span class="poet">—Gray: <i>Elegy I</i>.<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>For a great while Cartaret remained as a man +stunned. It was only very slowly that there +came to him the full realization of his loss, and +then it came with all the agony with which a return +to life is said to come to one narrowly saved +from death by drowning.</p> + +<p>Blindly his brain bashed itself against the +mysterious wall of Vitoria’s flight. Why had she +gone? Where had she gone? Why had she left +no word? A thousand times that day these unanswerable +questions whirled through his dizzy +consciousness. Had he offended her? He had +explained his one offense, and she had given no +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>207]</a></span> +sign of having taken any other hurt. Was she indeed +a revolutionist from some strange country, +summoned away, without a moment’s warning, +by the inner council of her party? Revolutionist +conspirators did not go to art-classes and do not +walk only under the chaperonage of an ancient +duenna. Was she, then, that claimant to power +that he had once imagined her, now gone to seize +her rights? Things of that sort did not, Cartaret +knew, occur in these prosy days. Then why had +she gone, and where, and why had she left no +word for him? Again these dreary questions +began their circle.</p> + +<p>Less than twenty-four hours ago, he had +thought that money would resolve all his troubles. +Money! Fervently he wished himself poor again—poor +again, as yesterday, with Her across the +landing in the Room Opposite.</p> + +<p>Somehow, he did not forget his friends and the +dinner he had promised them. He went to the +Deux Colombes and ordered the dinner.</p> + +<p>“Say to them, Pasbeaucoup,” he gave instructions, +“that I am indisposed and shall not be able +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>208]</a></span> +to dine with them. Say that we shall all dine together +some other night—very soon I hope. Say +that I am sorry.”</p> + +<p>He was bitter now against all the world. +“What will they care, as long as they have the +dinner?” he reflected.</p> + +<p>Pasbeaucoup cared. He expressed great concern +for monsieur’s health.</p> + +<p>“That,” thought Cartaret, “is because I’m rich. +A month or two ago and they wouldn’t trust me: +they’d have let me starve.”</p> + +<p>He went back to his desolate room and to his +dreary questioning. He was there, with his head +in his hands, when Seraphin found him.</p> + +<p>Seraphin’s suit was still new, and it was evident +that he had dressed carefully his twin wisps of +whisker in honor of Cartaret’s celebration. The +Frenchman’s face was grave.</p> + +<p>“Why aren’t you dining?” sneered Cartaret.</p> + +<p>Seraphin passed by the sneer.</p> + +<p>“They told me that you were ill,” he said, +simply.</p> + +<p>“And you came to see if it was true?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>209]</a></span> +“I came to see if I could be of any assistance.”</p> + +<p>(“Ah,” ran Cartaret’s unjust thoughts, “it’s very +evident you’re rich now, Charlie!”)</p> + +<p>“Nobody else came with you,” he said.</p> + +<p>Seraphin hesitated. He twirled his soft hat in +his hands.</p> + +<p>“They thought—all but Houdon, who still persists +that you have been rich always—they thought +that, now that you were rich, you might prefer +other society.”</p> + +<p>“<em>You</em> didn’t think it?”</p> + +<p>“I did not.”</p> + +<p>It was said so frankly that even Cartaret’s present +mood could not resist its sincerity. Charlie +frowned and put both his hands on Seraphin’s +shoulders.</p> + +<p>“Dieudonné,” he said, “I’m in trouble.”</p> + +<p>“I feared it.”</p> + +<p>“Not money-trouble.”</p> + +<p>“I feared that it was not money-trouble.”</p> + +<p>“You understood?”</p> + +<p>“I guessed. You have been so happy of late, +while you were so poor, that to absent yourself +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>210]</a></span> +from this gayety when you were rich——” An expressive +gesture finished the sentence. “Besides,” +added Seraphin, “one cannot be happy long, and +when you told me that you had money, I feared +that you would lose something else.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret wrung the hand of his friend.</p> + +<p>“Go back,” he said. “Go back and tell them +that it’s not pride. Tell them it’s illness. I <em>am</em> +ill. It was good of you to come here, but there’s +nothing you can do just now. To-morrow, or +next day, perhaps I can talk to you about it. +Perhaps. But not now. I couldn’t talk to any +one now. Good-night.”</p> + +<p>He sat down again—sat silent for many hours +after he had heard Seraphin’s footsteps die away +down the stairs. He heard the hurdy-gurdy and +thought that he could not bear it. He heard the +other lodgers return. He heard the strange sounds—the +creaking boards, the complaining stairway, +the whispering of curtains—which are the night-sounds +of every house. In the ear of his mind, +he heard the voices of his distant guests:</p> + +<div class="cpoem2"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>211]</a></span> +<span class="i0">“What woman’s lips compare to this:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This sturdy seidel’s frothy kiss?——”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Because he grew afraid of the ghosts of doubt +that haunt the darkness, he lighted his lamp; +but for a long time the ghosts remained.</p> + +<p>This was the very room in which he had told +her that he loved her; this desert place was once +the garden in which he had said that little of +what was so much. She had stood by that table +(so shabby now!) and made it a wonderful thing. +She had touched that curtain; her fingers, at parting, +had held that rattling handle of the shattered +door. He half thought that the door might open +and reveal her, even now. Memory joined hands +with love to make her poignantly present. Her +lightest word, her least action: his mind retained +them and rehearsed them every one. The music +of her laughter, the melody of her grace, wove +spells in the lamplit room; but they ceased as +she had ceased; they left the song unfinished, they +stopped in the middle of a bar.</p> + +<p>He wondered whether it must always remain +unfinished, this allegro of love in what, without it, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>212]</a></span> +would be the dull biographic symphony of his +life; whether he would grow to be an old man +with no memories but broken memories to warm +his heart; and whether even this memory would +become as the mere memory of a beautiful portrait +seen in youth, a Ghirlandaio’s or a Guido +Reni’s work, some other man’s vision, a part of +the whole world’s rich heritage, a portion of the +eternal riddle of existence.</p> + +<p>“So short a time ago,” crooned the ghosts—“and +doubtless she has already forgotten you. +You have but touched her hands: how could you +hope that you had touched her heart? She will +be happy, though she knows that you are unhappy; +glad, though you are desolate. You gave +her your dreams to keep, your hopes, your faith +in love and womankind: and this is what she did +with them! They are withered like that rose.”</p> + +<p>He had put the yellow thing against his heart, +where once he had put it when it was fresh and +pure. He drew it out now and looked at it. What +did it mean—that message of the rose? That, +as she had once treasured the flower, so now she +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>213]</a></span> +would treasure in its place her memory of him?</p> + +<p>“It means,” chanted the ghosts, “that her +friendship is as dead as this dry flower!”</p> + +<p>Did it? He would make one trial more.</p> + +<p>Vivid as was her face in his mind, he brought +to the lamp his pictures of her. She had liked +those pictures; in spite of herself, she had shown +him that she liked them——</p> + +<p>(The ghosts were crooning:</p> + +<p>“Though you had the brush of Diego Velasquez, +she would not heed you now!”)</p> + +<p>Had he painted her—he had tried to—as she +should have been? Or had he painted her as she +really was?</p> + +<p>He searched the pictures. Her eyes seemed to +look at him with a long farewell in their blue-black +depths, the parted lips to tremble on a sob. +A light was born in the canvas—the reflected light +of his own high faith revived. Whatever separated +them, it was by no will of hers. No, there was +no ghost in all the fields of night that he would +listen to again: in that pictured face there was as +much of pride as there was of beauty, but there +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>214]</a></span> +was nothing of either cruelty or deceit. Yes, he +had only touched her hand, but certainly hand had +never yet touched hand as his touched hers. He +was sure of it and sure of her. A short acquaintance—it +had been long enough to prove her. A few +broken words in the twilight—they were volumes. +The merest breath of feeling—it would last them +to their graves.</p> + +<p>He would move earth and Heaven to find +Vitoria: the wine of that resolution rang in his +ears and fired his heart. The sun, coming up +over the Panthéon in a glory of red and gold, sent +into Cartaret’s room a shining messenger of royal +encouragement before whose sword the ghosts +forever fled. The lover was almost gay again: +here was new service for her; here, for him, was +work, the best surcease of sorrow. He felt like +an athlete trained to the minute and crouching +for the starter’s pistol-shot. He believed in +Vitoria! He believed in her, and so he could not +doubt his own ability to discover her in the face +of all hardships and to win her against all odds; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>215]</a></span> +he believed in her and in himself, and so he could +not doubt God.</p> + +<p>He understood something of the difficulties that +presented themselves. He knew scarcely anything +of the woman whom he sought; his only clews +were her name and the name of the rose; he must +first find to what country those names belonged, +and to find that country he might have to seek +through all the world. He could not ask help of +the police; he would not summon to his assistance +those vile rats who call themselves private-detectives. +It was a task for himself alone; it was a +task that must occupy his every working-hour; but +it was a task that he would accomplish.</p> + +<p>A second cable-message interrupted him at his +ablutions. It was from his uncle, and it read:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“Cora wires me received no reply from you. Do you +accept trust’s offer stated in her cable? Advise you say +yes. Better come home and attend to business.”</p> +</div> + +<p>This brought Cartaret to the realization that +he was in a paradoxical position: he was a penniless +millionaire. He went to Fourget’s and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>216]</a></span> +borrowed some money. Thence he went to the cable-office +in the Avenue de l’Opera. There had been, +he now recalled, an offer—a really dazzling offer—mentioned +in his sister’s message; but more +practical matters had driven it from his mind. He +therefore sent his uncle this:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“I accept trust’s offer. Advise Cora to agree. Don’t +worry: New York’s not the only place for business. +There’s business in Paris—lots of it.”</p> +</div> + +<p>His uncle had been very annoying: Charlie +should have been at work at the Bibliothèque Nationale +a full half-hour ago. He had resolved +to begin with the floral clew.</p> + +<p>He went there immediately and asked what +books they had about flowers; they told him that +they had many thousand. Cartaret narrowed his +field; he said what he wanted was a book on roses, +and he was told that he might choose any of +hundreds that were at hand. In despair, he ordered +brought to him any one that began with an +“A”; he would work through the alphabet.</p> + +<p>By closing-time he had reached “Ac.” He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>217]</a></span> +hurried out into the fresh breeze that blew down +through the public square and the narrow rue +Colbert, and so cut across to the cable-office.</p> + +<p>He wanted to send a message mentioning a little +matter he had forgotten that morning. As it +happened, the operator had just received a message +for Charlie. It was again from his uncle, +and said that the sale would be consummated +early next day. There was about it a brevity +more severe than even cables require: the elder +Cartaret patently disapproved of the communication +that his nephew had sent him. Still, the +sale seemed to be assured, and that was the main +thing, so Charlie put the word “Five” in place +of the word “One” in the message he was drafting, +and sent it off:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“Cable me five thousand.”</p> +</div> + +<p>He interrupted his library-researches the next +day to make a sporadic raid upon florist-shops +along the boulevards, but found no florist that +had ever heard of the Azure Rose.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>218]</a></span> +The answer to his latest cable-message came +the next day at noon. He had resumed his search +at the Bibliothèque and instructed the cable-clerk +to hold all messages until he should call for them. +He called for this at lunch-time:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“Sale completed, thanks to power-of-attorney you left +me when sailing. Do you mean dollars?”</p> +</div> + +<p>Cartaret groaned at this procrastination.</p> + +<p>“And my uncle brags of his American hustle!” +he cried.</p> + +<p>He filed his reply:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“Of course I meant dollars. What did you suppose +I meant? Francs? Pounds sterling? I mean dollars. +Hurry!”</p> +</div> + +<p>“Be sure to put in the punctuation marks,” he +admonished the pretty clerk.</p> + +<p>He dashed back to the library. During the +next hundred and twenty hours, he divided his +time between botanical researches and one side +of the following cable-conversation:</p> + +<p>“Come home.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>219]</a></span> +“Can’t.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“Busy.”</p> + +<p>“How?”</p> + +<p>“Botanizing. But if you don’t send me immediately +that little bit of all that belongs to me, +I’ll knock off work to find out the reason why.”</p> + +<p>The money arrived just as his credit in short-credit +Paris was everywhere close to the breaking-point, +and just as he gave up hope of ever finding +what he wanted at the great library, where he had +driven every sub and deputy librarian to the brink +of insanity. Money, however, brings resourcefulness: +Cartaret then remembered the Jardin des +Plantes, where he had once been with Vitoria.</p> + +<p>No official knew anything about the Azure +Rose, but an old gardener (Cartaret was trying +them all) gave him hope. He was a little Gascon, +that gardener, with white hair and blue eyes, and +his long labor had bent him forward, as if the +earth in which he worked had one day laid hold of +his shoulders and never since let go.</p> + +<p>“I had a brother once who was a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fainéant</i> and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>220]</a></span> +so a great traveler. He spoke of such a rose,” the +Gascon nodded; “but I cannot remember what +it was that he told me.”</p> + +<p>“Here are five francs to help you remember,” +said Cartaret.</p> + +<p>The old man took the money and thanked him.</p> + +<p>“But I cannot remember what my brother told +me,” he said, “except that the rose was found +nowhere but in the Basque provinces of Spain.” ...</p> + +<p>A half-hour later Cartaret had bought his traveling-kit, +which included a forty-five caliber automatic +revolver. Forty minutes later he had paid +Refrogné ten months’ rent in advance, together +with a twenty-five franc tip, and directed that his +room be held against his return. An hour later he +was sheepishly handing Seraphin a bulky package, +evidently containing certain canvases, and saying +to him:</p> + +<p>“These are something I wouldn’t leave about +and couldn’t bring myself to store, and you’re—well, +I think you’ll understand.”</p> + +<p>At twelve o’clock that night, from an opened +window in his compartment of a sleeping-car on +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>221]</a></span> +a southward-speeding <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">train de luxe</i>, Cartaret was +looking up at the yellow stars somewhere about +Tours.</p> + +<p>“Good-night, Vitoria!” he was whispering. +“Good-night, and—God keep you!”</p> + +<p>He was a very practical man.</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>222]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER XIII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">FURTHER ADVENTURES OF AN AMATEUR BOTANIST</span></h2> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>The happiness of the good old times is a mere dream +in every age; but to keep on the laws of the old times, +in preserving to reform, in reforming to preserve, is +the true life of a free people.—Freeman: +<i>The Norman Conquest</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<p>“Vitoria,” explained the guard, whom Cartaret +inveigled into conversation next morning, +“is the capital of the province of Alava.”</p> + +<p>“Eh?” said Cartaret. “Then there’s more than +one Vitoria, my friend. If I’d only studied geography +when I was at school, it might have saved +me a week now.”</p> + +<p>He tried to make talk with a hatless Englishman +in tweeds, who was smoking a briar-pipe in +the corridor.</p> + +<p>“Vitoria,” said the Englishman, “is one of the +places where Wellington beat the French under +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>223]</a></span> +Joseph Buonaparte and Jourdan, in the Peninsular +War.”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t the Spanish help?” asked Cartaret.</p> + +<p>“They thought they did,” said the Englishman.</p> + +<p>Cartaret had had small time in Paris to learn +anything about the strange people and the strange +country for which he was bound; but, had he +had weeks for study, he would have learned little +more. Centuries had availed almost nothing +to the scholars that sought to explain them. The +origin of their race and language still unknown, +the Basques, proud and wild, free and self-sufficient, +have held to themselves their sea and mountain-fortresses +from the dawn of recorded history. +The successive tides of the Suavi, the Franks and +the Goths have swept through those rugged valleys, +and left the Basque unmixed and untainted. +From the days of the Roman legions to those +of the Napoleonic armies, he has withstood the +onslaughts of every conqueror of Western Europe, +unconquered and unchanged. The rivers of his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>224]</a></span> +legends draw direct from the source of all +legends; the boundary of his customs is as unalterable +as the foundation of his Pyrenees. The +engines of imperial slaughter, the steady blows +of progress, the erosion of time itself, have left +him as they found him: the serene despair of the +philologist, the Sphynx of ethnology, the riddle +of the races of mankind.</p> + +<p>Cartaret picked up the scanty threads of the +Basques’ known chronicle. He learned that these +Celtiberi had preserved an independence which +outlasted the Western Empire, gave no more than +a nominal allegiance to Leovigild, to Wamba +and to Charlemagne, cast their fortunes with the +Moors at Roncesvalles and, in the eleventh century, +formed a free confederation of three separate +republics under a ruler of their own blood and +choice, whose tenure was dependent upon constitutional +guarantees and whose power was wholly +executive. Even the yoke of Spain, hated as it +was, had failed materially to affect this form of +government and could be justly regarded as little +save a name. The three provinces—the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>225]</a></span> +Vascongadas as they were called: the sea-coast Viscaza +and Guipuzcoa and the inland Alava—retained +their ancient identity. Somewhere among their +swift rivers and well-nigh inaccessible mountains +must be the house of her whom he sought. Because +of the name that she had given him, Cartaret +headed now for Vitoria.</p> + +<p>Twice he had to change his train, each time for +a worse. From Bayonne he crossed the Spanish +border at Hendaya, whence the railway, after running +west along the rocky coast of the Bay of Biscay, +turned southward toward the heights about +Tolosa. All afternoon the scenery was varied and +romantic. The hard-clay soil, cultivated with +painful care by young giants and graceful +amazons, gave place to pine-forests, to tree-cloaked +hills, to mountains dark with mystery.</p> + +<p>Twilight fell, then night. Cartaret could now +see nothing of the landscape through which he +was jolted, but, from the puffing of the engine, +the slow advance, the frightful swinging about +curves, it was clear to him that he was being +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>226]</a></span> +hauled, in a series of half-circles, up long and +steep ascents.</p> + +<p>“What station is this?” he asked a French-speaking +guard that passed his window at a stop +where the air was cool and sweet with the odor +of pine. The lantern showed only a good-natured +face in a world of darkness.</p> + +<p>“Ormaiztegua, monsieur,” said the guard.</p> + +<p>“What?” said Cartaret. “Say it slow, please, +and say it plainly: I am a stranger and of tender +years.”</p> + +<p>The guard repeated that outlandish name.</p> + +<p>“And now which way do we go?” Cartaret inquired.</p> + +<p>“North again to Zumarraga.”</p> + +<p>“North again?” repeated Cartaret. “Look +here: I’m in a hurry. Isn’t there any more direct +route to Vitoria?”</p> + +<p>“Evidently monsieur does not know the Pyrenees.”</p> + +<p>From Zumarraga, the train bent yet again southward, +out of Guipuzcoa across the Navarra line.</p> + +<p>“Aren’t we late?” asked Cartaret.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>227]</a></span> +“But a little,” the guard reassured him: +“scarcely two hours.”</p> + +<p>At last, when they had climbed that precipitous +spur of the Pyrenees which forms the northern +wall of Alava; after they had stopped once to +harness an extra locomotive, and stopped again to +unharness it; after they had descended again, ascended +again and once more descended—this last +time for what seemed but a little way—the train +came to the end of this stage of Cartaret’s journey. +He alighted on a smoky platform only partially +illuminated by more smoky lamps and had himself +driven to the hotel that the first accessible +cabby recommended.</p> + +<p>Vitoria is a curious city of nearly 150,000 inhabitants, +situated on a hill overlooking the Plain +of Alava. Cartaret, waking with the sun, could +see from his window the Campillo, the oldest portion +of the town, crowning the hill-crest, an almost +deserted jumble of ruined walls and ancient +towers, surrounded by public-gardens and topped +by the twelfth-century Cathedral of St. Mary, +the effect of its Gothic arches sadly lessened by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>228]</a></span> +ugly modern additions to the pile. Below, the +Vitoria Antigua clung to the hillside, a maze of +narrow, twisting streets; and still lower lay the +new town, a place of wide thoroughfares and +shady walks, among which was Cartaret’s hotel.</p> + +<p>He breakfasted early and, having no leisure for +sight-seeing, asked his way to the city’s administrative-offices. +He passed rows of hardware-factories, +wine and wool warehouses, paper-mills +and tanneries, wide yards in which rows of +earthenware lay drying, and plazas where the +horse and mule trade flourished, and so came at +last to the arcaded market-place opposite which +was the building that he was in search of; the offices +were not yet open for the day.</p> + +<p>He sat down to wait at a table under an awning +and before a café that faced the market. The +market was full of country-folk, men and women, +all of great height and splendid physique, and +Cartaret saw at once that the latter wore the same +sort of peculiar head-dress that, in Paris, had distinguished +Chitta.</p> + +<p>A loquacious waiter, wholly unintelligible, was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>229]</a></span> +accosting him. Cartaret, guessing that he was +expected to pay for his chair with an order for +drink, made signs to fit that conjecture, and the +waiter brought him a flask of the native <i lang="eu" xml:lang="eu">chacoli</i>. +It was a poor wine, and Cartaret did not care for +it, but he sat on, pretending to, watching the white +municipal building and looking, from time to time, +at the farmers from the market who passed into +the café and out of it.</p> + +<p>He half expected to see Chitta among their +womenfolk: Chitta, of whom he would so lately +have said that he never wanted to see her again! +The farmers all gravely bowed to him, and Cartaret, +of course, bowed in return. Finally it occurred +to him that he might get news from one +of them and so, one by one, he would stop them +with an inquiry as to whether they spoke French. +A dozen failures were convincing him of his folly, +when their result was ruined by the appearance +of a rosy-cheeked young man in a wide hat and +swathed legs, who appeared to be more prosperous +than his neighbors and who replied to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>230]</a></span> +Cartaret in a French that the American could understand.</p> + +<p>“Then do sit down and have a drink with me,” +urged Cartaret. “I’m a stranger here and I’d be +greatly obliged to you if you would.”</p> + +<p>The young man agreed. He explained complacently +that the folk of Alava, though invariably +hospitable, generally distrusted strangers, +but that he had had advantages, having been sent +to the Jesuit school in St. Jean Pied-de-Port. He +was the one chance in a thousand: he knew something +of what Cartaret wanted to learn.</p> + +<p>Had he ever heard of a rose, a white rose, called +the Azure Rose?</p> + +<p>Had he not heard! It was one of the foolish +superstitions of the folk of Northern Alava, that +rose. His own mother, being from the North—God +rest her soul—had not been exempt: when he +was sent into France to school, she had pinned +an Azure Rose against his heart in order to insure +his return home.</p> + +<p>“Then it grows in the North?”</p> + +<p>“For the most part, yes, monsieur, and even +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>231]</a></span> +there it is something rare: that, without doubt, is +why it is esteemed so dearly by the common folk. +It grows only near the snows, the high snows. +There are but few white peaks there, and on them +a few such roses. The country beyond Alegria +is the place of all places for them. If monsieur +wants to find the Azure Rose, he should go to the +wild country beyond Alegria.”</p> + +<p>“Do you know that country?” asked Cartaret.</p> + +<p>The young man shrugged. He ought to know +it: he had been brought up there. But it was no +place for strangers; it was very wild.</p> + +<p>“I wonder,” said Cartaret, hope shining in his +brown eyes—“I wonder if you ever heard of a +family there by the name of Urola?”</p> + +<p>The farmer shook his head. Urola? No, he +had never heard of Urola. But stay: there was +the great family, the Ethenard-Eskurola d’Alegria. +Eskurola was somewhat like Urola; indeed, +Urola was part of Eskurola. Perhaps, monsieur——</p> + +<p>Cartaret was leaning far over the table.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>232]</a></span> +“Is there,” he asked, “a young lady in that +family named Vitoria?”</p> + +<p>The farmer reflected.</p> + +<p>“There was one daughter,” he said; “a little +girl when I was a lad. She was the Lady Dolorez. +She had, however, many names: people of great +houses among us have many names, monsieur, and +Vitoria is not uncommonly among them. Vitoria? +Yes, I think she was also called Vitoria.”</p> + +<p>“Did she speak English?”</p> + +<p>“It was likely, monsieur.” Nearly all of the +Ethenard-Eskurolas spoke English, because one +of their so numerous ancestors was the great Don +Miguel Ricardo d’Alava, general under the Duke +of Wellington, who valued him above all his generals +in that Spanish campaign. Since then there +had always been English teachers for the children +of the house. So much was common knowledge.</p> + +<p>It was enough for Cartaret. Within the hour +he was summoning the proprietor of his hotel to +his assistance in arranging for an expedition to +Alegria.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>233]</a></span> +The hotel proprietor stroked a beard so bristling +as to threaten his caressing fingers.</p> + +<p>“It is a wild country,” he remarked.</p> + +<p>“That’s what they all say,” returned Cartaret. +“When does the next train leave for it?”</p> + +<p>“There is no train. Alegria is a little town +in the high Cantabrian Mountains, far from any +train.”</p> + +<p>“Then come along downtown and help me buy +a horse,” said Cartaret. “I saw a lot of likely-looking +ones this morning.”</p> + +<p>“But, monsieur,” expostulated the hotel proprietor, +“nobody between here and Alegria speaks +French. Nobody in Alegria speaks French—and +you do not speak <i lang="eu" xml:lang="eu">Eskura</i>.”</p> + +<p>“What’s that?”</p> + +<p>“It is how we Basques name our own tongue.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t care. Get me a guide.”</p> + +<p>“I fear I cannot, monsieur. The country people +do not want Alava to become the prey of tourists, +and they will be slow to allow a stranger.”</p> + +<p>“Have you got a road-map?”</p> + +<p>Yes, the proprietor had a road-map—of sorts. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>234]</a></span> +It looked faulty, and Cartaret found later that +it was more faulty than it looked; but he resolved +to make it do, and that afternoon found +him in the saddle of a lean and hardy mare, ten +miles on his way. He had brought with him a +pair of English riding-breeches and leggings—purchased +in Paris for no other reason than that +he had the money and used to love to ride—his +reduced equipment was in saddle-bags, and the +road-map in his handiest pocket.</p> + +<p>He put up at a little inn that night and rode +hard, east by south, all the next day. He rode +through fertile valleys where the fields were already +yellow with wheat and barley. He came +upon patches of Indian corn that made him think +of the country about his own Ohio home, and +upon flax-fields and fields of hemp. His way lay +steadily upward, and in the hills he met with +iron-banks and some lead and copper mines. +Queerly costumed peasants herded sheep and +goats along the roadside; but nobody that Cartaret +addressed could understand a word of his +speech. The road-map was bad, indeed: twice he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>235]</a></span> +lost his way by consulting it and once, he thought, +by failing to consult it. A road that the map informed +him would lead straight to Alegria ended +in a marble-quarry.</p> + +<p>Cartaret accosted the only workman in sight.</p> + +<p>“Alegria?” he asked.</p> + +<p>The man pointed back the way that Cartaret +had come.</p> + +<p>He followed the direction thus indicated and +took a turning that he had missed before. He +passed through a countryside of small plains. +Then he began to climb again and left these for +stretches of bare heath and hills covered with +furze. From one hilltop he looked ahead to a +vast pile of mountains crowned by two white +peaks that shone in the sun like the lances of a +celestial guard. The farms were less and less in +size and farther and farther apart—tiny farms +cultivated with antique implements. Apple-orchards +appeared and disappeared, and then, quite +suddenly, the hills became mountains, their bases +covered by great forests of straight chestnut-trees, +gigantic oaks and stately bushes whose limbs met +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>236]</a></span> +in a dark canopy above the rider’s head. At his +approach, rabbits scurried, white tails erect, across +the road; from one rare clearing a flock of +partridges whirred skyward, and once, in the distance, +he saw a grazing herd of wild deer.</p> + +<p>Late in the afternoon, he came to a wide plateau, +surrounded on three sides with mountain-peaks. +There was a lake in the center, with a +few cottages scattered along its shores, and at +one end of the lake a high-gabled, wide-eaved +inn, in front of which a short man, dark and +wiry and unlike the people of that country, +lounged in the sun. He proved to be the innkeeper, +a native of Navarre, and, to Cartaret’s +delight, spoke French.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he nodded, “I learned it years ago from +a French servant that they used to have at the +castle in the old lord’s time.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve come from Vitoria,” Cartaret explained. +“Can you tell me how far it is to Alegria?”</p> + +<p>“If you have come from Vitoria,” was the suspicious +answer, “you must have taken the wrong +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>237]</a></span> +road and come around Alegria. Alegria is a score +of miles behind you.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret swore softly at that road-map. He +was tired and stiff, however, and so he dismounted +and let the landlord attend to his mare and bring +him, at the inn-porch, some black bread and +cheese and a small pitcher of <i lang="eu" xml:lang="eu">zaragua</i>, the native +cider.</p> + +<p>“These are a strange people here,” he said as +the landlord took a chair opposite.</p> + +<p>The landlord shook his swarthy head.</p> + +<p>“I do not speak ill of them,” said he. His +tone implied that such a course would be unwise. +“They call themselves,” he went on after +a ruminative pause, “the direct descendants of +those Celtiberi whom the old Romans could never +conquer, and I can well believe it of them. However, +I know nothing: the lord at the castle +knows.”</p> + +<p>“They don’t like the Spaniards?” asked Cartaret.</p> + +<p>“They hate us,” said the innkeeper.</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>238]</a></span> +“I do not know. Perhaps because Spain rules +them—so much as any power could. But I know +nothing: the lord at the castle knows.”</p> + +<p>“What’s his name?”</p> + +<p>The question fell thoughtlessly from the lips +of the American, but he had no sooner uttered it +than he surmised its answer:</p> + +<p>“The Don Ricardo Ethenard-Eskurola d’Alegria.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret produced a gold-piece and spun it on +the rude table before him.</p> + +<p>“An important man, isn’t he?”</p> + +<p>The innkeeper was eyeing the money, but his +reply was cautious:</p> + +<p>“How—‘important’?”</p> + +<p>“Rich?”</p> + +<p>“The old lord lost much when there was the +great rising for Don Carlos. But an Ethenard-Eskurola +does not need riches.”</p> + +<p>“Then he’s lucky. How does that happen?”</p> + +<p>“Because his family is the most ancient and +powerful in all the Vascongadas. There is no +family older in Spain, nor any prouder.” It was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>239]</a></span> +plainly one subject of which this alien was permitted +to know something. “They have been +lords of this land since before the time that men +made chronicles. The papers in the castle go +back to the Fifteenth Century—to the time when +<i lang="eu" xml:lang="eu">Eskura</i> was first turned into an alphabet. They +were at Roncesvalles; they made pilgrimages to +Jerusalem and fought in the crusades. One of +them was Lord-Lieutenant of Jerusalem when +Godfrey de Bouillon was its King. There was +an Ethenard-Eskurola at La Isla de los Faisanes +when the French Louis XI arranged there with +our Henry the marriage of the Duc de Guienne. +Always they have been lords and over-lords—always.”</p> + +<p>“I see,” said Cartaret. “And the present lord +lives near here at the castle?”</p> + +<p>“As all his fathers lived before him. At their +place and in their manner. What they did, he +does; what they believed, he believes. Monsieur, +even the ancient Basque traditions of hospitality +are there a law infringeable. Were you his +bitterest blood-enemy and knocked at the castle-gate +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>240]</a></span> +for a night’s shelter, he himself, Ricardo +d’Alegria, would greet you and wait upon you, +and keep you safe until morning.”</p> + +<p>“And then shoot my head off?” suggested Cartaret.</p> + +<p>The innkeeper smiled: “I know nothing; but +the lord at the castle knows.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose he hasn’t a drop of any blood but +Basque blood in him?”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur, there is but one way in which a +foreigner may marry even the humblest Basque, +and that is by some act that saves the Basque’s +entire line. Thus even the humblest. As for +the grandee at the castle, if I so much as asked +him that question, so proud is he of his nationality +and family that likely he would kill me.”</p> + +<p>“He must be a pleasant neighbor,” said the +American. “He lives alone?”</p> + +<p>“With his servants. He has, of course, many +servants.”</p> + +<p>“He is not married?”</p> + +<p>Still eyeing the gold-piece, the landlord answered:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>241]</a></span> +“No. There was something, once, long ago, +that men say—but I know nothing. The Don +Ricardo is the last of his house. Unless he marries, +the Eskurolas will cease. However, he will +marry.”</p> + +<p>“You seem certain of it.”</p> + +<p>“Naturally, monsieur. He will marry in order +that the Eskurolas do not cease.”</p> + +<p>“Yes-s-s.” Cartaret hesitated before his next +question. “So he’s alone up there? I mean—I +mean there’s no other member of his family with +him now?”</p> + +<p>Instantly the innkeeper’s face became blank.</p> + +<p>“I know nothing——” he began.</p> + +<p>“But the lord at the castle knows!” interrupted +Cartaret. “I said it first that time. The lord at +the castle must know everything.”</p> + +<p>“He does,” said the landlord simply.</p> + +<p>Cartaret rose. He pushed the gold-piece across +the table.</p> + +<p>“That sentiment earns it,” said he. “Bring +my mare, please. And you might point out the +way to this castle. I’ve a mind to run up there.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>242]</a></span> +The innkeeper looked at him oddly, but, when +the mare had been brought around, pointed a +lean brown finger across the lake toward the +mountains that ended in twin white peaks: the +peaks that Cartaret had seen a few hours since +and that now seemed to him to be the crests of +which he had dreamed when first he saw the Azure +Rose.</p> + +<p>“The road leads from the head of the lake, +monsieur,” said the innkeeper: “you cannot lose +your way.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret followed the instructions thus conveyed. +After three miles’ riding, a curved ascent +had shut the lake and the cottages from view, had +shut from view every trace of human habitation. +He rode among scenery that, save for the grassy +bridle-path, was as wild as if it had never before +been known of man.</p> + +<p>It was a ravishing country, a fairy-country of +blue skies and fleecy clouds; of acicular summits +and sharp-edged crags; of mist-hung valleys shimmering +in the sun; of black chasms dizzily bridged +by scarlet-flowered vines. The road ran along +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>243]</a></span> +the edges of precipices and wreathed the gray outcropping +rock; thick ropes of honeysuckle festooned +the limbs of ancient trees and perfumed +all the air. Here a blue cliff hid its distant face +behind a bridal-veil of descending spray, broken +by a dozen rainbows; there, down the terrifying +depths of a vertical wall, roared a white and +mighty cataract. The traveler’s ears began to +listen for the song of the hamadryad from the +branches of the oak; his eyes to seek the flashing +limbs of a frightened nymph; here if anywhere +the gods of the elder-revelation still held sway.</p> + +<p>Evening, which comes so suddenly in the Cantabrians, +was falling before the luxuriant verdure +lessened and he came to a break in the forest. +Below him, billow upon billow, the foothills fell +away in rolling waves of green. Above, the +jagged circle of the horizon was a line of salient +summits and tapering spires of every tint of blue—turquoise, +indigo, mauve—mounting up and +up like the seats in a Titanic amphitheater, to the +royal purple of the sky.</p> + +<p>Cartaret had turned in his saddle to look at the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>244]</a></span> +magnificent panorama. Now, turning forward, +he saw, rising ahead of him—ten miles or more +ahead, but so gigantic as to seem bending directly +above him and tottering to crush him and the +world at his feet—one of the peaks that the innkeeper +had indicated. It was a mountain piled +upon the mountains, a sheer mountain of naked +chalcedonous rock, rising to a snow-topped pinnacle; +and, at its foot, almost at the extreme edge +of the timber-line, a broad, muricated natural gallery, +stood a vast Gothic pile, a somber, rambling +mass of wall and tower: the castle of the Eskurolas.</p> + +<p>Almost as Cartaret looked, the sun went down +behind that peak and wrapped the way in utter +darkness. The traveler regarded with something +like dismay the last faint glow that vanished from +the west.</p> + +<p>“So sorry you had to go,” he said, addressing +the departed lord of day. He tried to look about +him. “A nice fix I’m in,” he added.</p> + +<p>He attempted to ride on in the dark, but, remembering +the precipices, dared not touch rein. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>245]</a></span> +He thought of trusting to the instinct of the mare, +but that soon failed him: the animal came to a +full stop. The stillness grew profound, the night +impenetrable.</p> + +<p>Then, suddenly, there was a wild cacophony +from the forest on his left. It shook the air and +set the echoes clanging from cliff to cavern. The +mare reared and snorted. Lights danced among +the trees; the lights became leaping flames; the +noise was identifiable as the clatter of dogs and +the shouts of men. Cartaret subdued his mare +just as a torch-bearing party of picturesquely-garbed +hunters plunged into the road directly in +front of him and came, at sight of him, to a stand.</p> + +<p>In the flickering light from a trio of burning +pine-knots, the sight was enough strange. There +were six men in all: three of them, in peasant costume, +bearing aloft the torches, and two more, +similarly dressed, holding leashes at which huge +boar-hounds tugged. A pair of torch-bearers carried +a large bough from the shoulder of one to +the shoulder of the other, and suspended feet upward +from this bough—bending with the weight—was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>246]</a></span> +a great, gray-black boar, its woolly hair red +with blood, the coarse bristles standing erect like +a comb along its spine, its two enormous tusks +prism-shaped and shining like prisms in the light +from the pine-knots.</p> + +<p>A deep bass voice issued a challenge in <i lang="eu" xml:lang="eu">Eskura</i>. +It came from the sixth member of the party, unmistakably +in command.</p> + +<p>He was one of the biggest men Cartaret had +ever seen. He must have stood six-feet-six in his +boots and was proportionately broad, deep-chested +and long-armed. In one hand he held an old-fashioned +boar-spear—its blade was red—as a +sportsman that scorns the safety of a boar-hunt +with a modern rifle.</p> + +<p>The torchlight, flickering over his tanned and +bearded face, showed features handsome and aquiline, +fashioned with a severe nobility. Instead of +a hat, a scarf of red silk was wrapped about his +black curls and knotted at one side. His eyes, +under eagle-brows, were fierce and gray. Cartaret +instinctively recalled his early ideas of a dark +Wotan in the <i>Nibelungen-Lied</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>247]</a></span> +The American dismounted. He said, in English:</p> + +<p>“You are the Don Ricardo Ethenard-Eskurola?”</p> + +<p>He had guessed rightly: the big man bowed +assent.</p> + +<p>“I’m an American,” explained Cartaret. “The +innkeeper down in the valley told me your castle +was near here, so I thought that this was you. I’m +rather caught here by the darkness. I wonder +if——” He noted Eskurola’s eye and did not +like it. “I wonder if there’s another inn—one +somewhere near here.”</p> + +<p>The Basque frowned. For a moment he said +nothing. When he did speak it was in the slow, +but precise, English that Cartaret had first heard +from the lips of the Lady of the Rose.</p> + +<p>“You, sir, are upon my land——”</p> + +<p>“I’m very sorry,” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p>“And,” continued Don Ricardo, “I could not +permit to go to a mere inn any gentleman whom +darkness has overtaken upon the land of the Eskurolas. +It is true: on my land merely, you are +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>248]</a></span> +not my guest; according to our customs, I am permitted +to fight a duel, if need arises, with a gentleman +that is on my land.” He smiled: he had, in +the torchlight, a fearsome smile. “But on my +land, you are in the way of becoming my guest. +Will you be so good as to accompany me to my +poor house and accept such entertainment as my +best can give you?”</p> + +<p>Cartaret accepted, and, in the act, thought the +acceptance too ready.</p> + +<p>“Pray remount,” urged Eskurola.</p> + +<p>But Cartaret said that he would walk with his +host, and so the still trembling mare was given to +an unencumbered torch-bearer to lead, and, by +the light of the pine-knots, the party began its +ten-mile climb.</p> + +<p>The night air, at that altitude, was keen even +in Summer, and the way was dark. The American +had an uneasy sense that he was often toiling +along the edges of invisible abysses, and once or +twice, from the forest, he heard the scurry of a +fox and saw the green eyes of a lynx. He tried +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>249]</a></span> +to make conversation and, to his surprise, found +himself courteously met more than half way.</p> + +<p>“I know very little of this part of Spain,” he +said: “nothing, in fact, except what I’ve learned +in the past few days and what the innkeeper +down there told me.”</p> + +<p>“We Basques do not call this a part of Spain,” +Eskurola corrected him in a voice patently striving +to be gentle; “and the innkeeper knows little. +He is but a poor thing from Navarre.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” Cartaret agreed; “the staple of his talk +was the statement that he knew nothing at all.”</p> + +<p>Eskurola smiled.</p> + +<p>“That is the truth,” said he.</p> + +<p>He went on to speak freely enough of his own +people. He explained something of their almost +Mongolian language: its genderless nouns; its +countless diminutives; its endless compounds +formed by mere juxtaposition and elision; its +staggering array of affixes to supply all ordinary +grammatical distinctions, doing away with our +need of periphrasis and making the ending of a +word determine its number and person and mood, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>250]</a></span> +the case and number of the object, and even the +rank, sex and number of the persons addressed.</p> + +<p>He talked with a modesty so formed as really +to show his high pride in everything that was +Basque. When Cartaret pressed him, he told, +with only a pretense of doubt in his voice, how +the Celtiberi considered themselves descendants +of the ocean-engulfed Atalantes, and former owners +of all the Spanish peninsula. Even now, he +insisted, they were the sole power over themselves +from the bold coast-line of Vizcaya to the borders +of Navarre and had so been long before Sancho +the Wise was forced to grant them a <i lang="eu" xml:lang="eu">fuero</i>. They +had always named their own governors and fixed +their own taxes by republican methods. The sign +of the Vascongadas, the three interlaced hands +with the motto <i>Iruracacabat</i>, signified three-in-one, +because delegates from their three parliaments +met each year to care for the common interests +of all; but there was no written pact between +them: the Basques were people of honor.</p> + +<p>Spain? Don Ricardo disliked its mention. St. +Mary of Salvaterra! The Basque parliaments +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>251]</a></span> +named a deputation that negotiated with representatives +of the Escorial and preserved Basque +liberties and law. If Madrid called that sovereignty, +it was welcome to the term.</p> + +<p>“We remain untouched by Spain,” he said, +“and untouched by the world. Our legends are +still Grecian, our customs are what the English +call ‘iron-clad.’ Basque blood is Basque and so +remains. It never mixes. It could mix in only +one contingency.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret was glad that the darkness hid his +flushed cheek as he answered:</p> + +<p>“I have recently heard of that contingency.”</p> + +<p>“It never occurs,” said Eskurola quickly, “because +the Basque always chooses not to permit +himself to be saved. It is a traditional law among +us as strong as that against the disgrace of suicide.”</p> + +<p>Their feet were sounding over a bridge: the +bridge, as Cartaret reflected, to the castle’s moat. +Through the light of the torches, the great gray +walls of the pile climbed above him and disappeared +into the night. A studded door, with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>252]</a></span> +mighty heaving of bolts, swung open before them, +and they passed through into a vaulted gateway. +The pine-knots cast dancing shadows on the +stones.</p> + +<p>Into what medieval world was he being admitted? +Did Vitoria indeed inhabit it? And if +she did, what difficulties and dangers must he +overcome before ever he could take her thence?</p> + +<p>Don Ricardo was speaking.</p> + +<p>“I welcome you to my poor home,” he said.</p> + +<p>Cartaret’s heart beat high. He was ready for +any difficulty, for any danger....</p> + +<p>With a solemn boom the great gate swung shut +behind him. He felt that it had shut out the +Twentieth Century.</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>253]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER XIV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">SOMETHING OR OTHER ABOUT TRADITIONS</span></h2> + +<div class="cpoem2"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">... Since we must part, down right<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With happy day; burdens well borne are light.<br /></span> +<span class="poet">—Donne: <i>Eleg. XIII</i>.<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>Cartaret was lighted by his host himself to a +bedroom high up in the castle and deep within it—a +bedroom big enough and dreary enough to +hold all the ghosts of Spain. An old man-servant +brought him a supper calculated to stay the hunger +of a shipwrecked merchant-crew. He lay down in +a great four-poster bed both canopied and curtained, +and, in spite of his weariness, he tossed +for hours, wondering whether Vitoria was also +somewhere within those grim walls and what +course he was to pursue in regard to her.</p> + +<p>The same uncertainty gripped him when breakfast +was brought to his bedside in the early morning. +Was this, after all, Vitoria’s home; and if it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>254]</a></span> +was, had she returned to it? Supposing an affirmative +answer to these questions, what was he +to say to her brother? So far, thank Heaven, +Don Ricardo, though he had once or twice looked +queerly at the American, had been too polite to +make awkward inquiries, but such inquiries were +so natural that they were bound soon to be made; +and Cartaret could not remain forever an unexplained +and self-invited guest in the castle of his +almost involuntary host. The guest recalled all +that he had heard of the national and family pride +and traditions of the Eskurolas, and only his native +hopefulness sustained him.</p> + +<p>He found his own way down twisting stairs +and into a vast court-yard across which servants +were passing. The great gate was open, and he +stepped through it toward the battlemented terrace +that he saw beyond.</p> + +<p>His first shock was there. The bridge that he +had crossed the night before was indeed a drawbridge +and did indeed span the castle-moat, but +the bridge was unrailed and that moat was a terrible +thing. It was no pit of twenty or thirty +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>255]</a></span> +feet dug by the hand of man. The terrace to +which the castle clung was separated from that +to which climbed the steep approach by a natural +chasm of at least twelve yards across, with sheer +sides, like those of a glacial crevasse, shooting +downwards into black invisibility and echoing +upward the thunderous rush of unseen waters.</p> + +<p>Leaning on the weather-worn wall that climbed +along the edge of this precipice and guarded a +broad promenade between it and the castle, Cartaret +looked with a new sensation at the marvelous +scene about him. Behind rose the frowning +castle, a maze of parapets and towers, built +against that naked, snow-capped, chalcedonous +peak. In front, falling away through a hundred +gradations of green, a riot of luxuriant vegetation, +lay the now apparently uninhabited country +through which he had ridden, and beyond this, +circling it like the teeth of the celestial dragon +that the Chinese believe is to swallow the sun, +rose row on row of bare mountains, ridges and +pinnacles blue and gray.</p> + +<p>A hand fell on Cartaret’s shoulder. He turned +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>256]</a></span> +to find Don Ricardo standing beside him. The +giant gave every appearance of having been up +and about for hours, and, despite his bulk, he had +approached his guest unheard.</p> + +<p>“I trust that you, sir, have slept well in my +poor house.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret replied that he had slept like a top.</p> + +<p>“And that you could eat of the little breakfast +which my servants provided?”</p> + +<p>“I made a wonderful breakfast,” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p>“It is good, sir. If you can bear with my house, +it is yours for so long as you care to honor it with +your presence.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret knew that this must be only an exaggerated +fashion of speech, but he chose to take it +literally.</p> + +<p>“That’s very good of you,” he said. “I haven’t +ridden for years and I’m rather done up. If you +really don’t mind, I think I will rest here over +another night.”</p> + +<p>Don Ricardo seemed unprepared for this, but +he checked a frown and bowed gravely.</p> + +<p>“A year would be too short for me,” he vowed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>257]</a></span> +They fell to talking, the host now trying to +turn the conversation into the valley, the guest +holding it fast to the castle-heights.</p> + +<p>“It is a beautiful place,” said Cartaret; “I don’t +know when I’ve seen anything to compare with +it; and yet I should think you’d find it rather +lonely.”</p> + +<p>“Not lonely, sir,” said the Basque. “The hunting +in the valley is a compensation. For example, +where you see those oaks about the curve of +that river, I hunted, not ten days ago, a wolf as +large as those for which my ancestors paid the +wolf-money.”</p> + +<p>“Still,” Cartaret persisted, “you do live here +quite alone, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>He knew that he was impudent, and he felt +that only his host’s reverence for the laws of hospitality +prevented an open resentment. Nevertheless, +Cartaret was bound to find out what he +could, and this time he was rewarded.</p> + +<p>“There is good enough to live with me,” said +Don Ricardo stiffly, “my lady sister, the Doña +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>258]</a></span> +Dolorez Eulalia Vitoria.” He looked out across +the chasm.</p> + +<p>Cartaret caught his breath. There was an awkward +pause. Then, glancing up, he saw, coming +toward them along the terrace, the figure of a +woman-servant that seemed startlingly familiar.</p> + +<p>It was Chitta. She was bent, no doubt, on +some household errand to her master, whose face +was luckily turned away—luckily because, when +she caught sight of Cartaret, her jaw dropped and +her knees gave under her.</p> + +<p>Cartaret had just time to knit his brows with +the most forbidding scowl he could assume. The +old woman clasped her hands in what was plainly +a prayer to him to be silent concerning all knowledge +of her and her mistress. A moment more, +and Don Ricardo was giving her orders in the +Basque tongue.</p> + +<p>“Our servants,” he said apologetically when +she had gone, “are faithful, but stupid.” His gray +eyes peered at Cartaret searchingly. “Very stupid, +sir,” he added. “For instance, you, sir, know +something of our customs; you know that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>259]</a></span> +centuries-old tradition—the best of laws—makes it +the worst of social crimes for a Basque to marry +any save a Basque——”</p> + +<p>He stopped short, holding Cartaret with his +eyes. Cartaret nodded.</p> + +<p>“Very well, sir,” Ricardo continued: “one +time a lady of our house—it was years upon years +ago, when Wellington and the English were here—fell +in love, or thought that she did, with a +British officer. For an Englishman, his degree +was high, but had he been the English King it +would have served him nothing among us. Knowing +of course that the head of our house would +never consent to such a marriage, this lady commanded +her most loyal servant to assist in an +elopement. Now, the Basque servant must obey +her mistress, but also the Basque servant must +protect the honor of the house that she has the +privilege to serve. This one sought to do both +things. She assisted in the elopement and brought +the lady to the English camp. Then, thus having +been faithful to one duty, she was faithful to the +other: before the wedding, she killed both her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>260]</a></span> +mistress and herself.” He turned quickly. “Sir, +I have pressing duties in the valley, and you are +too weary to ride with me: my poor house is at +your disposal.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret leaned against the parapet and, when +his host was out of earshot, whistled softly.</p> + +<p>“What a delightful <i>raconteur</i>,” he mused. “I +wonder if he meant me to draw any special moral +from that bit of family-history.”</p> + +<p>He waited until, a quarter of an hour later, he +saw Don Ricardo and two servants ride across the +drawbridge and wind their way toward the valley. +He waited until the green forest engulfed +them. What he was going to do might be questionable +conduct in a guest, but there was no time +to waste over nice points of etiquette. He was +going to find Vitoria.</p> + +<p>He started for the court-yard. His plan was +to accost the first servant that he encountered and +mention Chitta’s name, but this trouble was saved +him. In the shadowy gateway, he found Chitta +crouching.</p> + +<p>She glanced to right and left, saw that they +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>261]</a></span> +were unobserved, passed beyond a narrow door +that opened into the gate, and led Cartaret up a +spiral stone staircase to the entrance of a circular +room in one of the twin gate-towers. There she +turned and left him alone with Vitoria.</p> + +<p>In the center of that bare room, standing beside +one of the bowmen’s windows that commanded +the approach to the castle, the Lady of the Rose +awaited him. For an instant, he scarcely recognized +her. She was gowned in a single-piece +Basque dress of embroidered silk, closely fitted +about her full lithe figure to below the hips, the +skirt widening and hanging loosely about her slim +ankles. A black silk scarf, in sharp contrast to +the embroidery, was sewn to the dress and drawn +tightly over the right shoulder, across the bust, +and then draped beneath the left hip. But the +glory of her blue-black hair was as he had first +seen it in the twilight of his far-off studio; the +creamy whiteness of her cheeks was just touched +with pink, and her blue eyes, under curling lashes, +seemed at first the frank eyes that he loved.</p> + +<p>“Vitoria!” he cried.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>262]</a></span> +She drew back. She raised one hand, its pink +palm toward him.</p> + +<p>“You should not have done this,” she said in a +rapid whisper. “How did you find me? How +did you come here?” Her voice was kind, but +steady.</p> + +<p>Cartaret stood still. This he had not looked +for. His cheeks were flushed, and the lines about +his mouth deepened, as they always did at moments +of crisis, and made his face very firm.</p> + +<p>“Does it matter how?” he asked. “Not all +the width of the world could have kept me away. +There’s something I’ve got to know and know instantly.”</p> + +<p>“But you should not have come, and you must +go immediately! Listen—no, listen to me now! +I am not Vitoria Urola in these mountains; +whether I want it or not, I have to be the Doña +Dolorez Ethenard-Eskurola. That would perhaps +sound amusing in the rue du Val de Grâce; +here it is a serious matter: the most serious matter +in this little mountain-world. You will have +to listen to me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>263]</a></span> +Cartaret folded his arms.</p> + +<p>“Go on,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Last Winter,” she continued, her face challenging +his, “I had a time of rebellion against all +these things amongst which I had been brought +up. I had never been farther away from this place +than Alegria, but I had had French and English +governesses, and I read books and dreamed dreams. +I loved to paint; I thought that I could learn +to be a real artist, but I knew that my brother +would think that a shame in an Eskurola and +would never permit his unmarried sister to go to +a foreign city to study. Nevertheless, I was hungry +for the great world outside—for the real +world—and so I took poor Chitta, gathered what +jewels were my own and not family-jewels, and +ran away.”</p> + +<p>She looked from the window to the road that +led into the valley; but the road was still deserted.</p> + +<p>“Chitta sold the jewels,” she presently went on. +“They brought very little; but to me, who had +never used money, it seemed much. We went to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>264]</a></span> +Paris: I and Chitta, who, because she had often +been so far as Vitoria before, became as much my +guardian as she was my servant—and I was long +afraid to go but a little distance in the streets +without her: the streets terrified me, and, after +one fright, she made me promise to go nowhere +without her. So we took the room that you know +of. We were used to regarding my brother as +all-powerful; we feared that he would find us. +Therefore, we would let no one know who we were +or whence we came. Now that is over.” Her +voice trembled a little. She made a hopeless +gesture. “It is all over, and we have come back +to our own people.” She raised her head proudly; +she had regained her self-control: to Cartaret, she +seemed to have regained an ancient pride. “I +have learned that I must be what I was born to +be.”</p> + +<p>He squared his jaw.</p> + +<p>“A slave to your brother’s will,” he said.</p> + +<p>“A creature,” she answered with steady gaze—“a +creature of the will of God.”</p> + +<p>“But this is nonsense!” He came forward. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>265]</a></span> +“This sort of thing may have been all very well +in the Fourteenth Century; but we’re living in the +Twentieth, and it doesn’t go now. Oh,”—he +flung out a hand—“I know all about your old +laws and traditions! I dare say they’re extremely +quaint and all that, and I dare say there was a +time when they had some reason in them; but that +time isn’t this time, and I refuse to hear any more +about them. I won’t let them interfere with me.”</p> + +<p>She flashed crimson.</p> + +<p>“You speak for yourself, sir: permit me to +speak for myself.”</p> + +<p>His answer was to seize her hands.</p> + +<p>“Let me go!” she ordered.</p> + +<p>“I’ll never let you go,” said he.</p> + +<p>“Let me go. You are a brave man to restrain +a woman! Shall I call a servant?”</p> + +<p>She struggled fiercely, panting.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got to make you understand me,” he protested, +holding fast her hands. “I didn’t mean +any harm to your traditions or your customs. +Whatever you love I’ll try to love too—just so +long as it doesn’t hurt you. But <em>this</em> does hurt +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>266]</a></span> +you. Tell me one thing: Why did you leave +Paris? What was it made you change your +mind?” He saw in her face the signs of an effort +to disregard the demand. “Tell me why you +left Paris,” he repeated.</p> + +<p>Her eyes wavered. The lids fluttered.</p> + +<p>“That night,” she began in an uneven tone, “I +gave you to understand, that night——”</p> + +<p>“You gave me to understand that you loved +me.”</p> + +<p>He said it fearlessly, and, on the edge of a sob, +she fearlessly answered him. She had ceased to +struggle. Her hands lay still and cold in his.</p> + +<p>“I told you that love had brought me a sword.”</p> + +<p>“You’ve changed. What has changed you?”</p> + +<p>“I have not changed. I have only come back +to these unchangeable mountains, to this unchanging +castle, to the ancient laws and customs of my +people—their ancient and unalterable laws. I +had to come back to them,” she said, “because I +realized that it was not in me to be false to all +that my fathers have for centuries been true to.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret leaned forward. He could not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>267]</a></span> +believe that this was her only reason; he could not +understand that the sway of any custom can be +so powerful. He held her hands tighter. His +eyes searched her quailing eyes.</p> + +<p>“Do you love me? That’s all I want to know, +and I’ll attend to everything else. I’ve no time +for sparring. I’ve got to know if you love me. +I’ve got to know that, right here and now.”</p> + +<p>She shook her head.</p> + +<p>“Don’t!” she whispered.</p> + +<p>“Do you love me?” he relentlessly persisted.</p> + +<p>“To love in Paris is one thing: here I may not +love.”</p> + +<p>“You may not—but <em>do</em> you?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t. Please don’t. Oh!”—her red lips +parted, her breath came fast—“if love were +all——”</p> + +<p>“It <em>is</em> all!” he declared. He slipped both her +cold hands into his right hand and put his freed +arm about her waist. “Vitoria,” he whispered, +drawing her to him, “it <em>is</em> all. It’s all that matters, +all that counts. It can mock all custom and +defy all law. I love you, Vitoria.” Slowly her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>268]</a></span> +eyes closed; slowly she sank against his arm; +slowly her head drooped backward, and slowly he +bent toward its parted, unresisting lips—— “And +love’s the one thing in the world worth living and +dying for.”</p> + +<p>At that word, she came to sudden life. With +one wrench, she had darted from his arms. Instantly +she had recovered self-control.</p> + +<p>“No, no, no!” she cried. “Go away! There is +danger here. Oh, go away!”</p> + +<p>The suddenness of her action shattered his delirium. +He read in her words only her reply to +the question that he had put to her.</p> + +<p>Impossible as it would have seemed a moment +since, that negative meant a catastrophic denial of +any love for him. He glanced at the old walls +that surrounded them—at all the expressions of a +remorseless self in which he could have no part. +He felt, with a sudden certainty, that these things +were of her, and she of them—that what she +meant by her distinction between herself in Paris +and this other self here was the vast difference +between a Byzantine empress breaking plebeian +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>269]</a></span> +hearts in the alleys of her capital and that same +woman on her throne, passionless and raised above +the reach of men’s desires.</p> + +<p>The most modest of young fellows is always a +little vain, and his vanity is always wounded; it +is ever seeking hurts, anxious to suffer: Cartaret +was no exception to human rules. He told his +heart that Vitoria’s words meant but one thing: +She had entertained herself with him during an +incognito escapade and, now that the escapade was +finished, wanted no reminders. A Byzantine empress? +This was worse: the empress gave, if only +to take away. What Vitoria must mean was that +even her momentary softening toward him on this +spot was no more than momentary. She was saying +that, having had her amusement by making +him love her, she was now returned to her proper +station, where to love her was to insult her. He had +been her plaything, and now she was tired of it.</p> + +<p>“Very well,” he said, “if you think my love is +worth so little. If you can’t brave one miserable +medieval superstition for it, then I’ve got the answer +to what I asked you, and you’re right: I’d +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>270]</a></span> +better go.” He turned to the narrow door at the +head of the spiral stairs. “I know,” he said, as +if to the stone walls about them, “that I’m not +worth much sacrifice; but my love has been worth +a sacrifice. Some day you’ll understand what +my love might have meant. Some day, when +you’re old, you’ll look from one of these windows +out over these valleys and mountains and think +of what could have happened—what there was +once, just this one time, one chance for.” He +half faced her. “Other men will love you, many +of them. They’ll love your happiness and grace +and beauty as well, I dare say, as I do and always +will. But you’ll remember one man that +loved your soul; you’ll remember me——”</p> + +<p>Vitoria was swaying dizzily. Her recaptured +self-command visibly wavered. She leaned +against the rough wall. He leaped toward her, +but she had the strength left to warn him away.</p> + +<p>“No, no, no!” she repeated. “I do not——” +She raised her hands to the vaulted roof. By a +tremendous effort she became again mistress of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>271]</a></span> +herself—and of him. “Why will you not understand? +I do not love you. Go!”</p> + +<p>At that moment a cry rang out. It was a cry +from the gateway. It was the cry of Chitta, who +came bounding into the narrow room and hurled +herself at her mistress’s feet.</p> + +<p>Before any one of the trio could speak, there +was the clatter of a galloping horse on the road, +the thunder of hoofs over the drawbridge above +that frightful chasm.</p> + +<p>“Go!” shrieked Vitoria. “Will you never go? +Do you not understand what this means? Do +you not know who is coming here?”</p> + +<p>Chitta set up a loud wail.</p> + +<p>“I don’t care who’s coming here,” said Cartaret. +“If there’s any danger——”</p> + +<p>Vitoria leaped over the prostrate servant and +began pushing Cartaret away.</p> + +<p>“I hate you!” she cried. “Do you hear that? +<em>I hate you!</em> Now will you go?”</p> + +<p>He looked at her, and his face hardened.</p> + +<p>“I’ll go,” he said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>272]</a></span> +He turned away.</p> + +<p>“My brother!” gasped Vitoria.</p> + +<p>Don Ricardo came in at the door of the tower-room.</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>273]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER XV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">IN WHICH CARTARET TAKES PART IN THE +REVIVAL OF AN ANCIENT CUSTOM</span></h2> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>La vieille humanité porte encore dans ses entrailles +la brutalité primitive; un anthropoïde féroce survit en +chacun de nous.—Opinions à Répandre.</p> +</div> + + +<p>For a moment none moved. There was Chitta, +groveling on the stone floor of the circular room, +her face hidden in her hands; there was Vitoria, +her arms outstretched, struck rigid in the act of +repulsing Cartaret; and there were the two men—the +American white, but determined and unafraid; +the Basque with a dull red spreading on his tanned +cheeks—facing each other as pugilists, entering +the ring, face each other at pause during the fleeting +instant before they begin to circle for an +opening. Cartaret, with the eye that, in times of +high emotion, takes account of even trivial detail, +noted how Don Ricardo, who had been forced to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>274]</a></span> +stoop in order to pass the doorway, gradually +straightened himself with a slow, unconscious +expansion of the muscles such as a tiger might employ.</p> + +<p>Vitoria was the first to speak: she lowered her +arms and turned upon her brother a glance of +which the pride proved that her self-possession +was regained. She spoke in English, though +whether for Cartaret’s comprehension, for the +servant’s mystification, or as an added gibe at +Ricardo, the American was unable to determine.</p> + +<p>“You came unannounced, brother,” she said. +“I am not accustomed to such entrances.”</p> + +<p>The red deepened over Don Ricardo’s high +cheek-bones, but he bit his lip and seemed to bite +down his rage.</p> + +<p>“These are not your apartments, Doña Dolorez,” +he said, adopting, with visible repugnance, +the language she employed. “And I am the head +of your house.” He bent his gray eyes on Cartaret. +“Be so good as to come with me, sir,” he +said. He stood aside from the door. “I follow +after my guest.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>275]</a></span> +Cartaret’s heart had place only for the last +words that Vitoria had said to him. He would +not look at her again, and he cared little what +might happen to himself, so long as he could draw +this irate brother after him and away from the +endangered women. Vitoria had said that she +hated him: well, he would do what he could to +save her, and then leave Alava forever. He passed +through the door....</p> + +<p>“He is my guest,” he heard Don Ricardo saying. +“An Eskurola remembers the laws of hospitality.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret went on to the court-yard. There +his host followed him.</p> + +<p>“Will you come to my offices?” he asked.</p> + +<p>He walked across to the north wing of the castle +and into a large room that looked upon the terrace. +The ceiling was a mass of blackened rafters; +the walls, wainscoted in oak, were hung with +ancient arms and armor, with the antlers of deer +and the stuffed heads of tusked boar, and with +some rags of long-faded tapestry. There was a +yawning fire-place at one end, between high +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>276]</a></span> +bookshelves filled with leather-bound folios, and, near +one of the windows, stood an open Seventeenth +Century desk massed with dusty papers.</p> + +<p>Eskurola waved his guest to a stiff-backed chair. +Cartaret, seeing that Don Ricardo intended to +remain standing, merely stood beside it.</p> + +<p>“Sir,” began the Basque, “you have said that +you are a stranger to our country and its ways. +It is my duty to enlighten you in regard to some +details.”</p> + +<p>He towered nearly half a foot above Cartaret. +The nostrils of his beaked nose quivered above +his bristling beard, but he kept his voice rigorously +to the conversational pitch.</p> + +<p>Cartaret, however, was in no mood to hear any +more exposition of Vascongada manners and customs. +He had had enough of them.</p> + +<p>“There’s no need of that,” he said. “If I’ve +done anything I shouldn’t have done, I’m sorry. +But I want you to understand that I’m to blame: +<em>I’m</em> to blame—and nobody else.”</p> + +<p>Eskurola went on as if Cartaret had not spoken:</p> + +<p>“It is not our custom to present to our ladies +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>277]</a></span> +such casual strangers as happen to ask shelter of +us; nor is it the custom of our ladies to permit +such presentations, still less to seek them. Of +that last fact, I say but one word more: the Doña +Dolorez has been lately from home, and I fear +that her contact with the outer world has temporarily +dulled the edge of her native sensitiveness.”</p> + +<p>“Look here,” said Cartaret, his hands clenched, +“if you mean to imply——”</p> + +<p>“Sir!” The Basque’s eyes snapped. “I speak +of my sister.”</p> + +<p>“All right then. But you’d better be told a +few facts, too. Paris isn’t Alava. I met the +Doña Dolorez in Paris. We were neighbors. +What could be more natural, then, than that, +when I came here——”</p> + +<p>“Ah-h-h!” Eskurola softly interrupted. In +the meshes of his beard, his red lips were smiling +unpleasantly. “So that was it! How stupid of +me not to have guessed before, sir. I was sure +that there had been in Paris something beside +Art.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret’s impulse was to fly at the man’s throat. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>278]</a></span> +His reason, determined to protect the woman that +cared no more for him, dictated another course.</p> + +<p>“I wanted,” he said quietly, “to make your +sister my wife.”</p> + +<p>The effect of this statement was twofold. At +first a violent anger shook the Basque, and the +veins stood out in ridges along his neck and at +his temples, below the red cloth bound about his +head. Then, as quickly, the anger passed and was +succeeded by a look reminiscent, almost tender.</p> + +<p>“You know that no alien can marry one of our +people,” he said. “You know that now.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret thought again of Vitoria’s parting +word to him.</p> + +<p>“I know it <em>now</em>,” he said.</p> + +<p>“You are my guest,” Eskurola pursued. “I +shall tell you something. You have seen me only +as what must seem to you a strange and hard +man—perhaps a fierce and cruel man. I am the +head of my ancient house; on me there depends +not only its honor, but also its continuance. Sir, +I exact of my relatives no less than I have already +exacted of myself.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>279]</a></span> +Cartaret looked at him in amazement. Could +it be possible that there had ever been in this +medieval mind anything but ruthless pride of race?</p> + +<p>“Years ago—but not so many years ago as you, +sir, might suppose—there came to this house a +young lady. She came here as a governess for my +sister, but she was a lady, a person of birth. Also, +she spoke your language.” He paused, and then +went on in a still gentler voice. “Sir, because of +her, your language, barbarous as it is, has always +been dear to me, and yet, still because of her, I +have ever since wanted not to speak it.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret looked at the floor. Even though this +confession of a past weakness was voluntary, it +seemed somehow unfair to watch, during it, the +man whose pride was so strong.</p> + +<p>“And you sent her away?” he found himself +asking.</p> + +<p>“She went when her work was finished. She +went without knowing.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret raised his eyes. There was no false +assumption in the man upon whom they rested: it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>280]</a></span> +was impossible to believe that, seeing him thus, a +woman would not love him.</p> + +<p>“I’ll go,” said Cartaret. Eskurola’s words had +assured him of Vitoria’s safety. “I’ll go now.”</p> + +<p>“I would not drive you away. You have said +that you would be my guest for another night; you +may remain as long as you care to remain.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll go,” Cartaret repeated. “It isn’t you +that’s driving me. Will you please send up to my +room for my saddle-bags, and have my mare +brought around?”</p> + +<p>Don Ricardo bowed. He went out.</p> + +<p>Cartaret stood for some time on the spot where +he had been standing throughout the talk with +his host. He was thinking of his ruined hopes and +of the woman that had ruined them. Once he +asked himself what had so changed her; but, when +he could find no answer to that question, he asked +what the cause could matter, since the effect was +so apparent. He walked to a window. He could +see that part of the terrace which lay between the +gate and the drawbridge, but he saw no sign of +his mare. What could Eskurola be doing? He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>281]</a></span> +seemed, whatever it was, to be a long time about +it.</p> + +<p>The oaken door of the room opened and closed +with a bang. Don Ricardo stood before it. The +dull red had returned to his cheeks.</p> + +<p>“Sir,” said he, “I have just been having another +word with the Doña Dolorez: she informs me that +you have had the impertinence to tell her that you +love her.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret laughed bitterly. “In <em>my</em> country,” +he said, “when a man wants to marry a woman it +is customary to say something of that kind.”</p> + +<p>“You are in Alava, sir, and you speak of a member +of my family.”</p> + +<p>“I was in Paris then.”</p> + +<p>“But this morning—just now?” Eskurola +came a step forward.</p> + +<p>“I won’t talk any more about it,” said Cartaret. +“Please have my mare brought around at +once.”</p> + +<p>“No,” Eskurola replied: “you shall talk no +more about it. Mr. Cartaret, you must fight me.”</p> + +<p>The American could not believe his ears. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>282]</a></span> +recollected that when the Continental speaks of +fighting he does not refer to mere pugilism.</p> + +<p>“You’re crazy,” said Cartaret. “I don’t want +to fight you.”</p> + +<p>“So soon as you have passed that gate, you will +be my guest no longer. What, sir, you may then +want will not matter. You will have to fight me.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret sat down. He crossed his legs and +looked up at his host.</p> + +<p>“Is this your little way of persuading me to +stay awhile?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“You cannot go too soon to please me.”</p> + +<p>“Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell +me what it’s all about.”</p> + +<p>Eskurola’s giant figure bent forward. His eyes +blazed down in Cartaret’s face.</p> + +<p>“You came into this place, the place of my people, +under false pretenses. I made you welcome; +you were my guest, sir. Yet you used your opportunities +to insult my sister.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret got slowly to his feet. He knew the +probable consequences of what he was about to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>283]</a></span> +say, but, never shifting his gaze from the Basque’s, +he said it quietly:</p> + +<p>“That’s a lie.”</p> + +<p>Don Ricardo leaped backward. It was doubtless +the first time in his life that such a phrase +had been addressed to him, and he received it as +he might have received a blow. Both in mind +and body, he staggered.</p> + +<p>“My sister has told me——” he began.</p> + +<p>“I don’t want to hear any more, señor. I’ve +said all that I have to say.” Cartaret thrust his +hands into the pockets of his riding-breeches and, +turning his back on Eskurola, looked out of the +window.</p> + +<p>“Now,” the Basque was saying, as his mental +balance reasserted itself—“now we must indeed +fight.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret himself was thinking rapidly and by +no means clearly. To say that dueling was not +an American custom would avail him nothing—would +be interpreted as cowardice; to fight with +a man bred as Don Ricardo was evidently bred +would be to walk out to death. Cartaret +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>284]</a></span> +looked at the panorama of the mountains. Well, +why not death? Less than an hour ago his +whole life had been mined, had been sent crashing +about his head. The only thing that he +cared for in life was taken from him: Vitoria +had herself declared that she hated him. Nor +that alone—the thought burned in his brain: she +had told this wild brother of hers that he, Cartaret, +had insulted her; she had incited Eskurola +to battle—perhaps to save herself, perhaps to +salve some strange Basque conception of honor +or pride. So be it; Cartaret could render her one +more service—the last: if he allowed himself to +be killed by this half-savage who so serenely +thought that he was better than all the rest of the +world, Don Ricardo’s wounded honor would be +healed, and Vitoria—now evidently herself in +danger or revengeful—would be either safe or +pacified. The Twentieth Century had never entered +these mountains, and Cartaret, entering +them, had left his own modernity behind.</p> + +<p>“All right,” said he, “since you’re so +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>285]</a></span> +confounded hungry for it, I’ll fight you. Anything +to oblige.”</p> + +<p>He looked about to find Eskurola bowing gratefully: +the man’s eyes seemed to be selecting the +spot on their enemy’s body at which to inflict the +fatal wound.</p> + +<p>“I am glad, sir, that you see reason,” said Don +Ricardo.</p> + +<p>“I’m not sure that I see reason,” said Cartaret, +“but I’m going to fight you.”</p> + +<p>“I do not suppose that you can use a rapier, +Mr. Cartaret?”</p> + +<p>It was clear that not to understand the rapier +was to be not quite a gentleman; but Cartaret +made the confession. “Not that it matters,” he +reflected.</p> + +<p>“But you can shoot?”</p> + +<p>Cartaret remembered the boyish days when he +had taken prizes for his marksmanship with a revolver. +It was the one folly of his youth that he +had continued, and he found a certain satisfaction +(so much did Eskurola’s pride impress him) +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>286]</a></span> +in admitting this, albeit he did not mean to use +the accomplishment now.</p> + +<p>“I carry this with me,” said he, producing his +automatic revolver.</p> + +<p>Don Ricardo scarcely glanced at it.</p> + +<p>“That is not the weapon for a marksman,” he +said. “Nevertheless, let me see what you can +do. None will be disturbed; these walls are +sound-proof.” He took a gold coin, an alfonso, +from his pocket and flung it into the air. “Shoot!” +he commanded.</p> + +<p>Cartaret had expected nothing of the sort. He +fired and missed. The report roared through the +room; the acrid taste of the powder filled the air. +Eskurola caught the descending coin in his hand. +Cartaret saw that his failure had annoyed Don +Ricardo, and this in its turn annoyed the American.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know you were going to try me,” he +said, “and I’m not used to marking up the ceilings +of my friends’ houses. Try again.”</p> + +<p>The Basque, without comment, flung up the +alfonso a second time, and a second time +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>287]</a></span> +Cartaret fired. Eskurola reached for the coin as before, +but this time it flew off at an angle and +struck the farther wall. When they picked it up, +they found that it had been hit close to the edge +of the disk.</p> + +<p>“Not the center,” said Don Ricardo.</p> + +<p>“Indeed?” said Cartaret. What sort of shot +would please the man? “Suppose you try.”</p> + +<p>Eskurola explained that he was not accustomed +to such a revolver, but he would not shirk the challenge; +and there was no need for him to shirk it: +when Cartaret recovered the alfonso after Don +Ricardo had shot, there was a mark full in its +middle.</p> + +<p>“So much for His Spanish Majesty,” said the +Basque, as he glanced at the mark made by his +bullet in the face upon the coin. “We shall use +dueling-pistols. I have them here.” He went to +the desk.</p> + +<p>Cartaret had no doubt that Eskurola had them +there: he probably had a rack and thumbscrews +handy below-stairs.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>288]</a></span> +“We shall have to dispense with the formality +of a surgeon,” Don Ricardo was saying.</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t look as if one would be needed,” +Cartaret smiled; “and it doesn’t look as if we +were to have seconds, either.”</p> + +<p>The Basque turned sharply. “We are the only +gentlemen within miles, and we cannot have servants +for witnesses. Moreover, an Eskurola needs +no seconds, either of his choosing to watch his +safety, or of his enemy’s to suspect his honor.”</p> + +<p>He pressed a spring, released a secret drawer +in the desk and found what he was seeking: a +box of polished mahogany. Opening the lid, he +beckoned to Cartaret. There, on a purple velvet +lining, lay a beautifully kept pair of dueling-pistols, +muzzle-loaders of the Eighteenth Century +pattern and of about .32 caliber, their long +octagonal barrels of shining dark blue steel, their +curved butts of ivory handsomely inlaid with a +Moorish design in gold.</p> + +<p>“Listen,” said Eskurola, “as we are to have no +seconds, I shall write a line to exculpate you in +case you survive me. Then”—his gray eyes +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>289]</a></span> +shone; he seemed to take a satisfaction that was +close to delight in arranging these lethal details—“also +as we are to have no seconds to give a +signal, we shall have but one true shot between us. +Certainly. Are we not men, we two? And we +have proved ourselves marksmen. You cannot +doubt me, but I have a man that speaks French, so +that you shall see that I do not trick you, sir.”</p> + +<p>He went to the door and called into the court-yard. +Presently there answered him a man whom +Cartaret recognized as one of those who, the night +before, held the dogs in leash.</p> + +<p>“Murillo Gomez,” said Eskurola, in a French +more labored than his English, “in five minutes +this gentleman and I shall want the terrace to ourselves. +You will close the gate when we go out. +You will remain on this side of it, and you will +permit none to pass. Answer me in French.”</p> + +<p>The servant’s face showed no surprise.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Oui, señor</i>,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Now you will take these pistols and bring them +back without delay. In the armory you will load +one with powder and shot, the other with powder +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>290]</a></span> +only. Neither this gentleman nor I must know +which is which. You understand?”</p> + +<p>The servant’s face was still impassive.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Oui, señor.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Go then. Also see that the Doña Dolorez remains +in her own apartments. And hurry.”</p> + +<p>The servant disappeared with the pistols. +Eskurola, apologizing gravely, went to the desk +and wrote—apparently the lines of which he had +spoken. He sanded them, folded the paper, lit a +candle and sealed the missive with an engraved +jade ring that he wore on the little finger of his +left hand.</p> + +<p>“This is your first duel, sir?” he said to Cartaret. +He said it much as an Englishman at +luncheon might ask an American guest whether he +had ever eaten turbot.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Cartaret.</p> + +<p>“Well, you may have what the gamblers of +London call ‘beginner’s luck.’”</p> + +<p>The servant knocked at the door.</p> + +<p>“Will you be so good as to take the pistols?” +asked Don Ricardo in English of Cartaret. “It +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>291]</a></span> +appears better if I do not speak with him. Thank +you. And please to tell him in French that he may +have your mare and saddle-bags ready in the gateway +within five minutes, in case you should want +them.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret obeyed.</p> + +<p>Eskurola again held the door for his guest to +pass.</p> + +<p>“After you, sir,” he said.</p> + +<p>They crossed the court-yard leisurely and +shoulder to shoulder, for all the world as if they +were two friends going out to enjoy the view. +Any one observing them from the windows, had +there been any one, would have said that Don Ricardo +was pointing out to Cartaret the beauties +of the scene. In reality he was saying:</p> + +<p>“With your agreement, we shall fix the distance +at ten paces, and I shall step it. There is no choice +for light, and the wind is at rest. Therefore, there +being no person to count for us, I shall ask you +to toss a coin again, this time that I may call it: +if I fail to do so, you fire first; if I succeed, I +fire first. Permit me to advise you, sir, that, if +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>292]</a></span> +you are unaccustomed to the hair-trigger, it is as +well that you be careful lest you lose your shot.”</p> + +<p>Eskurola’s manners were apparently never so +polished as when he was about to kill or be killed. +He measured off the ground and marked the stand +for each, always asking Cartaret’s opinion. He +stood while Cartaret again tossed a glittering gold-piece +in the air.</p> + +<p>“Tails!” cried Don Ricardo. “I always prefer,” +he explained, “to see this king with his face +in the dust. Let us look at him together, so that +there will be no mistake.”</p> + +<p>The piece lay with its face to the terrace.</p> + +<p>“I win,” said Eskurola. “I shoot first. It is +bad to begin well.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret smiled. With such a marksman as +this Basque to shoot at one, the speech became the +merest pleasantry. There was only the question +of the choice of the pistol, and as to that——</p> + +<p>“If you will open the box, I shall choose,” +Eskurola was saying. Evidently the choice was +also to go to the winner of the toss. Cartaret +was certain this would not have been the case if +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>293]</a></span> +the toss had gone otherwise. “I must touch +neither until I have chosen, although the additional +powder in the blank pistol tends toward +making their weight equal.”</p> + +<p>Mechanically Cartaret opened the mahogany +box. Don Ricardo scarcely glanced at the pair +of beautiful and deadly weapons lying on the +purple velvet: he took the one farther from him.</p> + +<p>“Pray remember the hair-trigger,” he continued: +“you might easily wound yourself. Now, if you +please: to our places.”</p> + +<p>Each man took off his hat and coat and stood +at his post in his white shirt, his feet together, his +right side fronting his enemy, his pistol pointing +downwards from the hand against his right +thigh.</p> + +<p>“Are you ready, sir?” asked Eskurola.</p> + +<p>For a flashing instant Cartaret wanted to scream +with hysterical laughter: the whole proceeding +seemed so archaic, so grotesque, so useless. Then +he thought of how little he had to lose and of +whom he might serve in losing that little....</p> + +<p>“Ready, señor,” he said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>294]</a></span> +If only she could, for only that last moment, +love him! That last moment, for he made no +doubt of the end of this adventure. The Basque +had been too punctilious in all his arrangements: +from the first Cartaret had been sure that Don +Ricardo and the French-speaking servant had +played this tragic farce before, and that the master +so arranged matters as easily to choose the one +pistol that held death in its mouth. To convict +him was impossible, and, were it possible, would +be but to strike a fatal blow at the honor of that +family which Vitoria held so dear. How false his +vanity had played him! What was he that a +goddess should not cease to love him when she +chose? Enough and more that she had loved him +once; an ultimate blessing could she love him a +moment more. But once again, then: but that +one instant! To see her pitiful eyes upon him, +to hear her pure lips whisper the last good-by like +music in his dying ears!</p> + +<p>He saw the arm of his enemy slowly—slowly—rising, +without speed and without hesitation, as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>295]</a></span> +the paw of a great cat rises to strike, but with a +claw of shining steel.</p> + +<p>Cartaret would look his last on the scene that +her eyes had known when she was a child, that +her eyes would know long after his—so soon now!—were +closed forever. It was mid-morning; the +golden sun was half-way to the zenith. At Cartaret’s +left, above the walls, the turrets and towers +of the Gothic castle, rose the sheer front of that +sheer chalcedonous peak. Its top was crowned +with the dazzling and eternal snow; its face was +waxen, almost translucent; its outcroppings of +crypto-crystalline quartz, multi-toned by the wind +and rain of centuries, caught the sunlight and +flamed in every gradation of blue and yellow, of +onyx, carnelian and sard. To the right lay the +wide and peaceful valley, mass after mass of +foliage, silver-green and emerald, and, above that, +the ridges of the vast, scabrous amphitheater: +beetling peaks of gray, dark pectinated cones, +fusiform apexes, dancing lancets and swords’ +points, a hundred beetling crags and darting spires +under a turquoise sky.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>296]</a></span> +(Eskurola’s arm was rising ... rising....)</p> + +<p>Her face came before his eyes; not the face of +the woman that sent him from the tower-room, +but the face of The Girl that had parted from him +in his shabby studio: the frame of blue-black +hair, the clear cheek touched with healthy pink, +the red lips and white teeth, the level brows, the +curling lashes and the frank violet eyes.... +Into his own eyes came a mist; it blotted out the +landscape.</p> + +<p>He dragged his glance back to his executioner. +He must meet death face forward. A horrid fear +beset him that he had been tardy in this—had +seemed ever so little to waver.</p> + +<p>But Eskurola had observed no faltering, and +had not faltered: his arm still crept upward. It +must all have happened in the twinkling of an +eye, then: that impulse toward mad laughter, that +thought of what he had suffered, that realization +of the landscape, even the memory of her face—the +Lady of the Rose.</p> + +<p>Don Ricardo’s arm had just risen a trifle above +his shoulder and then come back to its level.... +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>297]</a></span> +It would come now—the flash, the quick pang that +would outstrip and shut out the very sound of +the explosion—come now and be over.</p> + +<p>The man was taking an aim, careful, +deadly....</p> + +<p>But if everything else had been quick, this was +an eternity. Cartaret could feel the Basque’s +eye, he could see that the leveled pistol-barrel +covered his throat directly below the ear. He +wanted to shout out to Eskurola to shoot; to say, +“You’ve got me!” He ground his teeth to enforce +his tongue to silence. And still he waited. Good +God, would the man never fire?</p> + +<p>Don Ricardo was lowering his pistol, and his +pistol was smoking. He had fired. Moreover, he +had aimed truly. But he had chosen his weapon +honorably—it was the one that did not hold a +bullet.</p> + +<p>Cartaret was dazed, but knew instantly what +to do. As if it was the performance of an act +long since subconsciously decided upon, he raised +his own pistol slowly—the death-laden pistol—and +shot straight up into the air....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>298]</a></span> +The smoke was still circling about the American’s +head when he saw Eskurola striding toward +him. The Basque’s face was a study of humiliation +and dismay.</p> + +<p>“What is this?” he demanded. “After I have +tried to kill you, you do not kill me? You refuse +to kill me? You inflict the greatest insult and +the only one that I cannot resent?”</p> + +<p>Cartaret threw down his pistol: it frightened +him now. “I don’t know whether it’s an insult to +let you live or not,” he said, “and I don’t care a +damn. Where’s my mare?”</p> + +<p>He went to the gate. It was opened by the +French-speaking servant, wide-eyed now, but with +his curiosity inarticulate. Cartaret mounted. His +hand trembled as he gathered up the reins. He +was angry at this and at the comedy that Fate had +made of his attempted heroism. Was there ever +before, he reflected, a duel the two principals of +which were angry because they survived?</p> + +<p>Eskurola was standing at the edge of the unrailed +drawbridge that crossed the precipitous +abyss. It was evident even to Cartaret that the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>299]</a></span> +Basque was still too amazed to think, much less +speak, coherently; that something beyond his comprehension +had occurred; that a phenomenon +hitherto unknown had wrecked his cosmos.</p> + +<p>“Sir,” he began, “will you not return first into +the castle and there——”</p> + +<p>“If you don’t get out of my way,” said Cartaret, +“I’ll ride you into this chasm!”</p> + +<p>Don Ricardo drew dumbly aside, and Cartaret +rode on. With Vitoria relentless and unattainable, +abjured by the woman he had loved, robbed +even of the chance to give his life for her, he was +riding anywhere to get away from Alava, was +fleeing from his sense of loss and failure. He rode +as fast as the steep descent permitted, and only +once, at a sharp twist of the way, a full mile down +the mountain, did he allow himself to turn in his +saddle and look back.</p> + +<p>There was Eskurola, a silhouette against the +gray walls. Behind him rose the castle of his +fathers, and back of it the great peak towered, +through a hundred flashing colors, to its shining +crown of eternal snow.</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>300]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER XVI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">AND LAST</span></h2> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>It must be a very dear and intimate reality for which +people will be content to give up a dream.—Hawthorne: +<i>The Marble Faun</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<p>Summer held Paris in his arms when Cartaret +returned there—held her, wearied from the dance +with Spring, in his warm arms, and was rocking +her to sleep. Romance had crowded commerce +from the boulevards; poets wrote their verses at +the marble-topped tables along the awninged pavements; +the lesser streets were lovers’ lanes.</p> + +<p>For Cartaret had not hurried. Once the Pyrenees +were behind him, he felt growing upon him +a dread of any return to the city in which he had +first met and loved the Lady of the Rose; and only +the necessity of settling his affairs there—of collecting +his few possessions, paying two or three +remaining bills and bidding a last good-by to his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>301]</a></span> +friends—drew him forward. He lingered at one +town after the other, caring nothing for what he +saw, but hating the thought of even a week in a +Paris without her. Vaguely he had decided to return +to America, though what of interest life could +hold there, or anywhere, for him he could not +imagine: some dull business routine, most likely—for +he would never paint again—and the duller +the better. Thus he wasted a fortnight along the +Loire and among the chateaux of Touraine and +found himself at last leaving his train in the +Gare D’Orsay at the end of a Summer afternoon.</p> + +<p>He made for his own room with the objectless +hurry of a native American, his feet keeping time +to a remembered stanza of Andrew Lang:</p> + +<div class="cpoem3"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“In dreams she grows not older<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The lands of Dream among,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though all the world wax colder,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Though all the songs be sung;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In dreams doth he behold her<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Still fair and kind and young.”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Taciturn Refrogné seemed no more surprised +to see him than if he had gone out but an hour +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>302]</a></span> +since: the trade of the Parisian concierge slays +surprise early.</p> + +<p>“A letter for monsieur,” said Refrogné.</p> + +<p>Cartaret took it from the grimy paw that was +extended out of the concierge’s cave. He went +on up the stairs.</p> + +<p>The door of the magic Room Opposite—in all +probability commonplace enough now—stood +slightly ajar, and Cartaret felt a new pang as he +glanced at it. He passed on to his own room.</p> + +<p>His own room! It was precisely as he had seen +it last—a little dustier, and far more dreary, but +with no other change. The table at which she had +leaned, the easel on which he had painted those +portraits of her, were just as when he had left +them. He went to the window at which he used +to store the provisions that Chitta looted, and +there he opened the envelope Refrogné had given +him. It contained only one piece of paper: A +Spanish draft on the Comptoir Général for a hundred +and twenty francs, and on the back, in a +labored English script, was written:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>303]</a></span> +“For repayment of the sum advanced to my servant, +Chitta Grekekora.</p> + +<p class="sigleft">“Ricardo B. F. R. Ethenard-Eskurola (d’Alegria).”</p> +</div> + +<p>A limb of wisteria had climbed to the window +and hung a cluster of its purple flowers on the +sill. Below, Refrogné’s lilacs were in full bloom, +and the laughter of Refrogné’s children rose from +among them as piercing sweet as the scent of the +flowers. Cartaret took a match from his pocket, +struck it and set the bit of paper aflame. He +held it until the flame burnt his fingers, crushed it +in his palm and watched the ashes circle slowly +downward toward the lilac-trees.</p> + +<p>The sun had set and, as Cartaret walked aimlessly +toward the front windows, the long shadows +of the twilight were deepening from wall to wall. +Summer was in all the air.</p> + +<p>So much the same! He leaned forward and +looked down into the silent rue du Val-de-Grâce. +He was thinking how she had once stood where +he was leaning now; thinking how he had leaned +there so often, looking for her return up that narrow +thoroughfare, waiting for the sound of her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>304]</a></span> +light footfall on the stair. So much the same, indeed: +the unchanged street outside, the unchanged +room within; the room in which he had found her +on that February night. Here she had admitted +that she loved him, and here she had said the +good-by that he would not understand—a few +short weeks ago. And now he was back—back +after having heard her repudiate him, back after +losing her forever.</p> + +<p>Fate works everywhere, but her favorite workshop +is Paris. Something was moving in the +deepest shadow in the room—the shadow about +the doorway. Blue-black hair and long-lashed +eyes of violet, lips of red and cheeks of white +and pink; the incredible was realized, the miracle +had happened: Vitoria was here.</p> + +<p>He was beside her in a single bound. He +thought that he cried her name aloud; in reality, +his lips moved without speech.</p> + +<p>“Wait,” she said. She drew away from him; +but the statues of the Greek gods in the Luxembourg +gardens must have felt the thrill in the +evening air as she faced him. She was looking +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>305]</a></span> +at him bravely with only the least tremor of her +lips. “Do you—do you still love me?” she asked.</p> + +<p>Her voice was like a violin; her words dazed +him.</p> + +<p>“Love you? I—I can’t tell you how much—I—haven’t +the words to say——”</p> + +<p>He seized the hand with which she had checked +him and kissed its unjeweled fingers.</p> + +<p>“What is it?... Why did you say you hated +me?... What has brought you back?... Is +is true? Is it <em>true</em>?”</p> + +<p>From Refrogné’s garden came the last good-night-song +of the birds.</p> + +<p>“Love you? Why, from the day I left you—no, +from that night I found you here, I’ve +thought nothing but Vitoria, dreamed nothing +but Vitoria——”</p> + +<p>Now incoherent and afraid, then with hectic +eloquence and finally with a complete abandon, he +poured out his soul in libation to her. With the +first word of it, she saw that she was forgiven.</p> + +<p>“I came,” she said, “to—to tell you this: You +know now that I ran away from Paris because I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>306]</a></span> +loved you and knew that I could not marry you; +but you do not know why I said that terrible thing +which I said in the tower-room. I was afraid of +what my brother might do to you. That is why I +would not take your kisses. To try to make you +leave before he found you, I said what first came +to my mind as likely to drive you away. I said +it at what fearful cost! I blasphemed against +my love for you.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret was recovering himself. Love gives +all, but it demands everything.</p> + +<p>“Your brother said that I had offered you some +insult. He said you’d told him so. I thought +you’d told him that in order to make him all the +angrier against me.”</p> + +<p>“Ever since Chitta and I returned to our home, +he had been suspecting,” she said. “He would +not forgive me for going away. Chitta he tortured, +but she told him nothing. Me, he kept +almost a prisoner. When you came, I knew that +he would soon guess what was true, so I sent for +you that morning to send you away, and when that +failed and he found us together, I told him that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>307]</a></span> +we loved each other, because I hoped that he would +spare the man I loved, even though he would +never let me—let me marry that man. I should +have known him too well to think that, but I was +too afraid to reason—too afraid for your sake. +He was so proud that he would not repeat it to +you as I said it to him: he repeated it in the way +least hateful to him—and after you had gone, I +found that all I had done served only to make +him try to kill you. Of this I knew nothing until +hours later. Then—then——”</p> + +<p>The birds had ceased their song, but the scent +of the lilacs still rose from the garden.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you understand now?” she asked, her +cheeks crimson in the fading light. “I guessed +you did not understand then; but don’t you understand +now?”</p> + +<p>He stood bewildered. She had to go through +with it.</p> + +<p>“My brother had to live—you made him live. +To kill himself is the worst disgrace that a Basque +can put upon his family. Besides, the thing was +done; you had fired into the air; nothing that he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>308]</a></span> +might do would undo that. At the bridge he +tried to tell you so, but you rode by. You know—my +brother told it you—that one reason which +allows a foreigner to marry a Basque. We Eskurolas +pay our debts; to let you go a creditor for +that was to put a stain upon our house indelibly. +I would have accepted the disgrace and made my +brother continue to accept it, had you not now +said that you still loved me; but you have said +it. Oh, do—do, please, understand!” She +stamped her foot. “My brother is the last man +of our name. In saving him, you saved the house +of Eskurola.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret was seized by the same impulse toward +hysteria that had seized him when he first faced +Don Ricardo’s pistol.</p> + +<p>“Was <em>that</em> what he tried to say at the bridge? +What a fool I was not to listen! If I had all the +world to give, I’d give it to you!”</p> + +<p>He tried to seize her hand again, but she drew +it away.</p> + +<p>“And so,” she said, with a crooked smile and a +flaming face, “since you say that you love me, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>309]</a></span> +I—I have to pay the just debt of my house and +save its honor—I must marry you whether I love +you or not.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her with fear renewed.</p> + +<p>“Then you <em>have</em> changed?” he asked.</p> + +<p>Suddenly she put her own right hand to her +lips and kissed the fingers on which his lips had +rested.</p> + +<p>“You have all the world,” she said.... “Give +it me.”</p> + +<p>He found both of her hands this time, but still +she kept him from her. The scent of the lilacs +mingled with another scent—a scent that made +him see again the tall Cantabrians.... Suddenly +he realized that she was wearing her +student-blouse.</p> + +<p>“You’ve been here—When did you come back +to Paris?”</p> + +<p>“A week ago.”</p> + +<p>“To this house?”</p> + +<p>“Of <em>course</em> I am living in this house as before, +and with your friend Chitta. You know that I +could not have lived anywhere else in Paris. I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>310]</a></span> +<em>couldn’t</em>. So I took the old room—the dear little +old room—again.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Before</em> you knew that I still loved you!” She +hung her head. “But I’ll surely never let you go +this time.” He held her hands fast as if fearing +that she might escape him. “No custom—no law—no +force could take you now. Tell me: would +you have wanted to go back?”</p> + +<p>She freed herself. That newer perfume filled +the purple twilight: the pure perfume of the Azure +Rose that the wandering Basque carries with +him abroad to bring him safely home. She drew +the rose from beneath her blouse and held it out +to him. Cartaret kissed it. She took it back, +kissed it too, went to the nearest window and, +tearing the flower petal from petal, dropped it into +the Paris street.</p> + +<p>“No,” she said softly when she had turned to +him again, “do not kiss me yet. I want you first +to understand me. I do love my own country, but +I cannot stay in it forever. I was being smothered +there by all the dust of those dead centuries; +I was being slowly crushed by the iron weight of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>311]</a></span> +their old customs and their old laws—all horribly +alive when they should have been long ago +in their graves. There was nothing around me +that was not old: old walls and towers, ancient +tapestries and arms, musty rooms, yellowed manuscripts. +The age of the place, it seemed to become +a soul-in-itself. It seemed to get a consciousness +and to hate me because I was not as it was. There +was nothing that was not old—and I was young.” +As she remembered it, her face grew almost +sulky. “Even if it had not been for you, I believe +I should have come away again. I was so +angry at it all that I could even have put on a +Paquin gown—if I had had a Paquin gown!—and +worn it at dinner in the big dining-hall of +my ancestors.”</p> + +<p>He understood. He realized—none better—the +hunger and thirst for Paris: for the lights of +the boulevards, the clatter of the dominoes on the +café-tables, the procession of carriages and motors +along the Champs Élysées, the very cries and +hurry of the rue St. Honoré by day or the Boul’ +Miche’ by night. Nevertheless, he had lately been +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>312]</a></span> +an American headed for America, and so he said:</p> + +<p>“Just wait till you see Broadway!”</p> + +<p>Vitoria smiled, but she remained serious.</p> + +<p>“I wanted you to know that—first,” she said: +“to know that I came away this second time in +large part because of you, but not wholly.”</p> + +<p>“I think,” said Cartaret, “that I can manage +to forgive that.”</p> + +<p>“And then—there is something else. You saw +my brother in a great castle and on a great estate, +but he is not rich, and I am very poor.”</p> + +<p>Cartaret laughed.</p> + +<p>“Was that what was on your mind? My +dear, <em>I’m</em> rich—I’m frightfully rich!”</p> + +<p>“Rich?” Her tone was all incredulity.</p> + +<p>“It happened the day you left Paris. Oh, I +know I ought to have told you at the castle, but +I forgot it. You see, there was so little time to +talk to you and so many more important things to +say.”</p> + +<p>He told her all about it while the dusk slowly +deepened. Chitta should have a salary for remaining +in a cottage that he would give her in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>313]</a></span> +Alava and never leaving it. He would give his +friends that dinner now—Houdon and Devignes, +Varachon and Garnier—a dinner of celebration +at which the host would be present and to which +even Gaston François Louis Pasbeaucoup and the +elephantine Madame would sit down. There +would be bushels of strawberries. Seraphin would +be pensioned for life, so that he might paint only +the pictures that his heart demanded, and Fourget—yes, +Cartaret would embrace dear old Fourget +like a true Gaul. In the Luxembourg Gardens +the statues of the old gods smiled and held their +peace.</p> + +<p>“You—you can study too,” said Cartaret. +“You can have the best art-masters in the world, +and you shall have them.”</p> + +<p>But Vitoria shook her head.</p> + +<p>“There,” she said, “is another confession and +the last. I was the more ready to leave Paris +when I ran away from you, because I was disheartened: +the master had told me that I could +never learn, and so I was afraid to face you.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>314]</a></span> +“Then <em>I’ll</em> never paint again,” vowed Cartaret. +“Pictures? I was successful only when I painted +pictures of you, and why should I paint them when +I have you?”</p> + +<p>She looked at him gravely.</p> + +<p>“I am glad,” she said, “that you are rich, but +I am also glad that we have both been poor—together. +Oh,”—she looked about the familiar +room,—“it needs but one thing more: if only the +street-organ were playing that Scotch song that +it used to play!”</p> + +<p>“If it only were!” he agreed. “However, we +can’t have everything, can we?”</p> + +<p>But lovers, if they only want it enough, can +have everything, and, somehow, the hurdy-gurdy +did, just at that moment, begin to play “Annie +Laurie” as it used to do, out in the rue du Val-de-Grâce.</p> + +<p>Cartaret led her toward the darkened window, +but stopped half-way across the room.</p> + +<p>“I will try to deserve you,” he said. “I <em>will</em> +make myself what you want me to be.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>315]</a></span> +“You <em>are</em> that,” she answered, her face raised +toward his. “All that I ask is to have you with +me always as you are now.” The clear contralto +of her voice ran like a refrain to the simple air +of the ballad. “I want you with me when you are +unhappy, so that I may comfort you; when you +are ill, so that I may nurse you; when you are +glad, so that I may be glad because you are. I +want to know you in every mood: I want to belong +to you.”</p> + +<p>High over the gleaming roofs, the moon, a disk +of yellow glass, swung out upon the indigo sky +and peeped in at that window. One silver beam +enveloped her. It bathed her lithe, firm figure; +it touched her pure face, her scarlet lips; it made +a refulgent glory of her hair, and, out of it, the +splendor of her wonderful eyes was for him.</p> + +<p>“Soon,” he whispered, “in the chapel of Ste. +Jeanne D’Arc at the church of St. Germain des +Prés.”</p> + +<p>“Good-night,” she said.... “Good-night, my +love.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>316]</a></span> +She raised her white hands to him and drew one +step nearer. Then she yielded herself to his arms +and, as they closed, strong and tight, about her, +her own arms circled his neck.</p> + +<p>The scent of the Azure Rose returned with her +lips: a vision of mountain-peaks and sunlight upon +crests of snow, a perfume sweeter than the scent +of any rose in any garden, a poem in a language +that Cartaret at last could understand.</p> + +<p>Her lips met his....</p> + +<p>“Oh,” he whispered, “sweetheart, is it really, +really you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the lady of the Rose, “it—is <em>me</em>!”</p> + + +<p class="center smlfont padtop padbase">THE END.</p> + + + +<p class="padtop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>317]</a></span></p> + +<h2><i>ENVOI: THE SON OF JOEL.</i></h2> + + +<div class="cpoem5"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The poet is a beggar blind<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That sits beside a city gate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The while the busy people wind<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Their daily way, less fortunate.<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The many pass with slavish speed;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The few remember this or that;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some hear and jeer, some stop to heed—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And some drop pennies in his hat....<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O, you that pause and understand,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Though I may never see your face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Across the years I touch your hand:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I kiss you through the leagues of space!<br /></span> +<span class="poet">R. W. K.<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + + + + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="center padtop lrgfont"><i>Famous Books at Popular Prices</i></p> + +<p class="center vlrgfont">STORIES OF WESTERN LIFE</p> + + +<p>TREASURE AND TROUBLE, by Geraldine Bonner.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">The wild and glowing golden West; a hold-up; a buried treasure; +outlaws of the excitingly adventurous type, and something new, too, +in the outlaw line in the shape of a Social Pirate; real dyed-in-the-wool +bandits; miners who delve for the riches of the Earth; dazzlingly +beautiful women; youth—and Love, vivid and beautiful.</p> + + +<p>THE SHERIFF OF BADGER, by George E. Pattullo.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">Lafe Johnson—strong, brave, big-hearted cowboy of the higher +type—through his courage in routing a gun-fighter, is hailed as a +hero and made Sheriff of Badger, a ranch town in the Southwest. +The story is more than interesting; it is exciting, and the vein of +romance running through it adds to its strength as a first class breezy +Western ranch yarn.</p> + + +<p>WOLFVILLE FOLKS, by Alfred Henry Lewis.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">Here is another “Wolfville” book. The characters are of the +picturesque cowboy type. “Doc” Seely, “Cherokee Bill,” “Faro +Nell,” “The Rose of Wolfville,” etc. The novel is full of Western +philosophy, pistol play, gambling duel, and a remarkable series of +romance and adventures. A lively cowboy novel.</p> + + +<p>BILLY FORTUNE, by William R. Lighton.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">Billy Fortune, able cow-puncher of Wyoming, is a chap for whom +things are always happening. Billy is a lover of life in all its heights +and depths, with a special fondness for the frail sex. There is plenty +of swift comedy action in this story and not a line of melancholy. +And incidentally it gives one a splendid picture of the jocund cow +country of Wyoming.</p> + + +<p>THE COAST OF OPPORTUNITY, by Page Philips.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">Author of “The Trail of the Waving Palm.”</p> + +<p class="smlfont">Unmistakably a work struck hot from the forge of human experience, +this rapid-action story yields a wealth of intrigue and adventure +to all lovers of stirring romance.</p> + + +<p>THE TRAIL OF THE WAVING PALM, by Page +Philips.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">“A story of the open that is highly captivating throughout.”—Cincinnati +Times-Star.</p> + + +<p class="center lrgfont">THE MACAULAY COMPANY, 15-17 W. 38th St., New York</p> + +<p class="center">Send for Illustrated Catalogue</p> + + +<p class="center padtop lrgfont"><i>Famous Books at Popular Prices</i></p> + +<p class="center vlrgfont">ADVENTURE, ROMANCE AND LOVE</p> + + +<p>THE RED LANTERN, by Edith Wherry.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">A novel of deep undercurrents, with a theme that wakes the +pulses of the heart and fills the imagination with the irresistible lure +of secret Asia.</p> + + +<p>THE SIGN OF FREEDOM, by Arthur Goodrich.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">The pinnacle of real old-fashioned, bred-in-the-bone patriotism, +made militant by love, tender and true, and steadfast, is the theme of +this story—and the hero, David Warburton, like the David of old, is a +“Corker.” You will love his absorbing tale.</p> + + +<p>THE AZURE ROSE, by Reginald Wright Kauffman.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">A delightful love romance of a young American: handsome, witty +and daring—and a beautiful girl: attractive, mysterious and coming +nobody knows whence. Set against the picturesque background of +the Latin Quarter of Paris.</p> + + +<p>UNEASY MONEY, by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">Clean, clever, packed full of wit and humor, like all of Wodehouse’s +tales, in this one he outdoes himself. Imagine yourself trying +to give away a fortune, and, finding the one girl to give it to—who +won’t have it at any price—a bully good yarn.</p> + + +<p>WOLF-LURE, by Agnes and Egerton Castle.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">Love, Adventure Political Intrigue, Mystery Rivalry, Vaulting Ambition. +Pride which goeth before a fall, and the light pride of personal +honor and of conquest—all are here in this amazingly absorbing +tale of the “Greatest Thing in the World”—Love.</p> + + +<p>UP THE ROAD WITH SALLIE, by Frances R. Sterrett.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">This tale of a most astounding abduction told by the author of +“The Jam Girl!” will thrill you with the most surprising adventures +you have ever encountered. Sallie Waters’ plot for the winning of a +fortune—and her sweetheart, too, is compelling and fascinating.</p> + + +<p>HIS DEAR UNINTENDED, by J. B. Ellis.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">A delightful story with thrills aplenty when a bewitching girl appears +mysteriously out of the night and exerts a strange influence +over several people.</p> + + +<p>THE DIARY OF MY HONEYMOON, Anonymous.</p> + +<p class="smlfont">A work of intense and throbbing humanity, appearing in the +cloak of fiction, in which the moral is sound throughout and plain to +see.</p> + + +<p class="center lrgfont">THE MACAULAY COMPANY, 15-17 W. 38th St., New York</p> + +<p class="center">Send for Illustrated Catalogue</p> + + +<p class="center lrgfont padtop"><i>And Paul Verdayne—what of him?<br /> +Of course you want to know.<br /> +Read the sequel</i></p> + +<p class="center vlrgfont"><i>HIGH NOON</i></p> + +<p>A powerful, stirring love-story of twenty +years after. Abounding in beautiful +descriptions and delicate pathos, this +charming love idyl will instantly appeal +to the million and a quarter people who +have read and enjoyed “Three Weeks.” +You can get</p> + +<p class="center vlrgfont"><i>HIGH NOON</i></p> + +<p>from your bookseller, or for $1.10, +carriage paid, from the publishers</p> + +<p class="center padbase"><span class="vlrgfont">The Macaulay Company</span><br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">Publishers 15 West 38th St. New York</span></p> +</div> + + + + +<div class="bbox"> +<p><b>Transcriber's Note</b></p> + +<p>Variations in spelling are preserved as printed.</p> + +<p>This book uses forms of both enquire and inquire; these are preserved as printed.</p> + +<p>Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.</p> + +<p>Both rue du Val-de-Grâce and rue du Val de Grâce are used; these are preserved as +printed. Hyphenation usage has otherwise been made consistent. There are also some inconsistencies in capitalisation of +French street and place names, and these are preserved as printed.</p> + +<p>The following typographic errors have been repaired:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>Page <a href="#Page_71">71</a>—Carteret amended to Cartaret—"... whose nose always reminded +Cartaret of an antique and long lost bit of statuary, ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_84">84</a>—Deaux amended to Deux—"He left the Café des Deux Colombes, ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_87">87</a>—drawn amended to dawn—"“Oh”—it began to dawn on Cartaret ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_99">99</a>—Good-bye amended to Good-by—"... this time she had not said +“Good-by.”"</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_118">118</a>—saraient amended to sauraient—"L’indiscrétion d’un de ces amis +officieux qui ne sauraient ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_129">129</a>—peeked amended to peaked—"... turning upon his friend a +face that was peaked and drawn."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_165">165</a>—unprejudicd amended to unprejudiced—"An unprejudiced critic would +have said ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_177">177</a>—Eifel amended to Eiffel—"... and the pointing finger of the +Tour Eiffel ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_195">195</a>—DeMusset amended to De Musset—"Have I not had a care for De Musset +and for Heine?"</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_197">197</a>—Cataret amended to Cartaret—"... a crestfallen lad that was a +stranger to Cartaret."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_268">268</a>—elf amended to self—"... at all the expressions of a remorseless +self ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_311">311</a>—Mich’ amended to Miche’—"... of the rue St. Honoré by day or +the Boul’ Miche’ by night."</p> +</div> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Azure Rose, by Reginald Wright Kauffman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AZURE ROSE *** + +***** This file should be named 38436-h.htm or 38436-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/4/3/38436/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Sam W. and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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