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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41284 ***</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<div class="figleft" style="width: 86px;">
<img src="images/ispine.jpg" width="86" height="448" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<div class="figright" style="width: 294px;">
<img src="images/icover.jpg" width="294" height="448" alt="" title="" />
</div>
</div>
<p class="center caption-largest">THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 423px;">
<a name="Frontispiece" id="Frontispiece"></a>
<img src="images/i_alt_frontis.jpg" width="423" height="640" alt="Mignon" title="" />
<span class="caption">Mignon</span>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h1>THE ARM-CHAIR<br />
AT THE INN<br />
<br />
<span class="caption-smallest">BY</span><br />
<span class="caption-small">F. HOPKINSON SMITH</span></h1>
<p class="center"><small>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY<br />
A. I. KELLER, HERBERT WARD<br />
AND THE AUTHOR</small></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 105px;">
<img src="images/ititle.jpg" width="105" height="115" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<p class="center"><small>NEW YORK</small><br />
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS<br />
1912</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p class="center caption-small"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1912, by</span><br />
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS<br />
<br />Published August, 1912</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 90px;">
<img src="images/iverso.jpg" width="90" height="105" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'>[v]</span></p>
<div class="blockquot">
<div class="figleft" style="width: 210px;">
<img src="images/i007a.png" width="210" height="314" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<p class="center"><span class="caption-largest">AUTHOR’S
PREFACE</span></p>
<p>If I have dared to veil
under a thin disguise some of
the men whose talk and adventures
fill these pages it is
because of my profound belief
that truth is infinitely
more strange and infinitely
more interesting than fiction.
The characters around the
table are all my personal friends; the incidents,
each and every one, absolutely true, and the
setting of the Marmouset, as well as the Inn
itself, has been known to many hundreds of
my readers, who have enjoyed for years the
rare hospitality of its quaint
and accomplished landlord.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 160px;">
<img src="images/i007b.png" width="160" height="125" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<p style='text-align: right'>F. H. S.</p>
<p>November, 1911</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'>[vi]</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'>[vii]</span></p>
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 448px;">
<img src="images/i_alt_f007.jpg" width="448" height="306" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<div class='center'>
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align='left'><small>CHAPTER</small></td><td align='left'></td><td align='right'><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>I.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Marmouset</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>II.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Wood Fire and Its Friends</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_18">18</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>III.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">With Special Reference to a Certain Colony of Penguins</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>IV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Arrival of a Lady of Quality</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_60">60</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>V.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">In which the Difference Between a Cannibal and a Freebooter is Clearly Set Forth</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>VI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Proving that the Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>VII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">In which Our Landlord Becomes Both Entertaining and Instructive</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>VIII.<span class='pagenum'>[viii]</span></td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Containing Several Experiences and Adventures Showing the Wide Contrasts in Life</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>IX.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">In which Madame la Marquise Binds Up Broken Heads and Bleeding Hearts</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_182">182</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>X.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">In which We Entertain a Jail-bird</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">In which the Habits of Certain Ghosts, Goblins, Bandits, and Other Objectionable Persons Are Duly Set Forth</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_240">240</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Why Mignon Went to Market</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_267">267</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XIII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">With a Dissertation on Round Pegs and Square Holes</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_280">280</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XIV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Woman’s Way</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_304">304</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Apple-blossoms and White Muslin</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_335">335</a></td></tr>
</table></div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'>[ix]</span></p>
<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 401px;">
<img src="images/i_alt_f009.jpg" width="401" height="336" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<div class='center'>
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align='left'>Mignon</td><td align='right'><a href="#Frontispiece"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'></td><td align='right'><small>FACING PAGE</small></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>Howls of derision welcomed him</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>Flooding the garden, the flowers, and the roofs</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_60">60</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>As her boy’s sagging, insensible body was brought clear of the wreck</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_132">132</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>Herbert caught up his sketch-book and ... transferred her dear old head ... to paper</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_184">184</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>Lemois crossed the room and began searching through the old fifteenth-century triptych</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_240">240</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>“Just think, monsieur, what <i>does</i> go on below Coco in the season”</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_308">308</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>First, of course, came the mayor—his worthy spouse on his left</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_350">350</a></td></tr>
</table></div>
<p><span class='pagenum'>[x]</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN</h2>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p>
<h2><big>THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN</big></h2>
<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I
<br /><br />THE MARMOUSET</h2>
<p>“How many did you say?” inquired Lemois,
our landlord.</p>
<p>“Five for dinner, and perhaps one more. I
will know when the train gets in. Have the
fires started in the bedrooms and please tell
Mignon and old Leà to put on their white caps.”</p>
<p>We were in the Marmouset at the moment—the
most enchanting of all the rooms in
this most enchanting of all Normandy inns.
Lemois was busying himself about the table,
selecting his best linen and china—an old Venetian
altar cloth and some Nancy ware—replacing
the candles in the hanging chandelier, and
sorting the silver and glass. Every one of my
expected guests was personally known to him;
some of them for years. All had shared his
hospitality, and each and every one appreciated
its rare value. Nothing was too good for them,
and nothing should be left undone which would
add to their comfort.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p>
<p>I had just helped him light the first blaze in
the big baronial fireplace, an occupation I revel
in, for to me the kindling of a fire is the gathering
of half a dozen friends together, each log
nudging his neighbor, the cheer of good comradeship
warming them all. And a roaring
fire it was when I had piled high the logs,
swept the hearth, and made it ready for the
choice spirits who were to share it with me.
For years we have had our outings—or rather
our “in-tings” before it—red-letter days for us
in which the swish of a petticoat is never heard,
and we are free to enjoy a “man’s time” together;
red-letter days, too, in the calendar of
the Inn, when even Lemois, tired out with the
whirl of the season, takes on a new lease of life.</p>
<p>His annual rejuvenation began at dawn to-day,
when he disappeared in the direction of the
market and returned an hour later with his
procession of baskets filled with fish and lobsters
fresh out of the sea a mile away (caught at
daylight), some capons, a string of pigeons, and
an armful of vegetables snatched in the nick of
time from the early grave of an impending frost.</p>
<p>As for the more important items, the Chablis
Moutonne and Roumanée Conti—rare Burgundies—they
were still asleep in their cob<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>webs
on a low Spanish bench that had once
served as a temporary resting-place outside a
cardinal’s door.</p>
<p>Until to-night Lemois and I have dined in
the kitchen. You would too could you see
it. Not by any manner of means the sort of
an interior the name suggests, but one all shining
brass, rare pottery, copper braziers, and
resplendent pewter, reflecting the dancing blaze
of a huge open hearth with a spit turned by
the weight of a cannon ball fired by the British,
and on which—the spit, not the ball—are
roasted the joints, chickens, and game for which
the Inn is famous, Pierre, the sole remaining
chef—there are three in the season—ineffectually
cudgelling his French pate under his short-cropped,
shoe-brush hair for some dish better
than the last.</p>
<p>Because, however, of the immediate gathering
of the clan, I have abandoned the kitchen
and have shifted my quarters to the Marmouset.
Over it up a steep, twisted staircase with
a dangling rope for banisters is my bedroom,
the Chambre de Cure, next to the Chambre de
Officier—where the gluttonous king tossed on
his royal bed (a true story, I am told, with all
the details set forth in the State Archives of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
France). Mine has a high-poster with a half
lambrequin, or bed curtain, that being all Lemois
could find, and he being too honest an
antiquary to piece it out with modern calico
or chintz. My guests, of course, will take their
pick of the adjoining rooms—Madame Sévigné’s,
Grèvin’s, the Chambre du Roi, and the
others—and may thank their stars that it is
not a month back. Then, even if they had
written ten days ahead, they would have been
received with a shrug—one of Lemois’ most
engaging shrugs tinged with grief—at his inability
to provide better accommodation for their
comfort, under which one could have seen a
slight trace of suppressed glee at the prosperity
of the season. They would then doubtless
have been presented with a massive key unlocking
the door of a box of a bedroom over
the cake-shop, or above the apothecary’s, or
next to the man who mends furniture—all in
the village of Dives itself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And now a word about the Inn itself—even
before I tell you of the Arm-Chair or the man
who sat in it or the others of the clan who listened
and talked back.</p>
<p>Not the low-pitched, smothered-in-ivy Kings<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>
Arms you knew on the Thames, with its swinging
sign, horse-block, and the rest of it; nor the
queer sixteenth-century tavern in that Dutch
town on the Maas, with its high wainscoting,
leaded window-panes, and porcelain stove set
out with pewter flagons—not that kind of an
inn at all.</p>
<p>This one bolsters up one corner of a quaint
little town in Normandy; is faced by walls of
sombre gray stone loop-holed with slits of windows,
topped by a row of dormers, with here
and there a chimney, and covers an area as
large as a city block, the only break in its monotony
being an arched gate-way in which
swing a pair of big iron-bound doors. These
are always open, giving the passer-by a glimpse
of the court within.</p>
<p>You will be disappointed, of course, when
you drive up to it on a summer’s day. You
will think it some public building supported by
the State—a hospital or orphan asylum—and,
tourist-like, will search for the legend deep cut
in the key-stone of the archway to reassure
yourself of its identity. Nobody can blame
you—hundreds have made that same mistake,
I among them.</p>
<p>But don’t lose heart—keep on through the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
gate, take a dozen steps into the court-yard and
look about, and if you have any red corpuscles
left in your veins you will get a thrill that will
take your breath away. Spread out before you
lies a flower-choked yard flanked about on three
sides by a chain of moss-encrusted, red-tiled,
seesaw roofs, all out of plumb. Below, snug
under the eaves, runs a long go-as-you-please
corridor, dodging into a dozen or more bedrooms.
Below this again, as if tired out with
the weight, staggers a basement from which
peer out windows of stained glass protected
by Spanish grills of polished iron, their leaded
panes blinking in the sunshine, while in and
out, up the door-jambs, over the lintels, along
the rain-spouts, even to the top of the ridge-poles
of the wavy, red-tiled roofs, thousands of
blossoms and tangled vines are running riot.</p>
<p>And this is not all. Close beside you stands
a fuchsia-covered, shingle-hooded, Norman well,
and a little way off a quaint kiosk roofed with
flowering plants, and near by a great lichen-covered
bust of Louis VI, to say nothing of
dozens of white chairs and settees grouped
against a background of flaring reds and brilliant
greens. And then, with a gasp of joy, you
follow the daring flight of a giant feather-blown<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
clematis in a clear leap from the ground, its
topmost tendrils throttling the dormers.</p>
<p>Even then your surprises are not over. You
have yet to come in touch with the real spirit
of the Inn, and be introduced to our jewel of a
dining-room, the “Marmouset,” opening flat
to the ground and hidden behind a carved
oaken door mounted in hammered iron: a low-ceilinged,
Venetian-beamed room, with priceless
furniture, tapestries, and fittings—chairs, tables,
wainscoting of carved oak surmounted by Spanish
leather; quaint andirons, mirrors, arms, cabinets,
silver, glass, and china; all of them genuine
and most of them rare, for Lemois, our
landlord, has searched the Continent from end
to end.</p>
<p>Yes!—a great inn this inn of William the
Conqueror at Dives, and unique the world
over. You will be ready now to believe all its
legends and traditions, and you can quite understand
why half the noted men of Europe
have, at one time or another, been housed
within its hospitable walls, including such exalted
personages as Louis XI and Henry IV—the
latter being the particular potentate who
was laid low with a royal colic from a too free
indulgence in the seductive oyster—not to men<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>tion
such rare spirits as Molière, Dumas, George
Sand, Daubigny, as well as most of the litterateurs,
painters, and sculptors of France, including
the immortal Grèvin, many of whose drawings
decorate the walls of one of the garden
kiosks, and whose apartment still bears his
name.</p>
<p>And not only savants and men of rank and
letters, but the frivolous world of to-day—the
flotsam and jetsam of Trouville, Houlgate, and
Cabourg—have gathered here in the afternoon
for tea in the court-yard, their motors crowding
the garage, and at night in the Marmouset
when, under the soft glow of overhead candles
falling on bare shoulders and ravishing toilettes,
laughter and merry-making extend far into the
small hours. At night, too, out in the gardens,
what whisperings and love-makings in the soft,
starry air!—what seductive laughter and little
half-smothered screams! And then the long
silences with only the light of telltale cigarettes
to mark their hiding-places!</p>
<p>All summer this goes on until one fine morning
the most knowing, or the most restless, or
the poorest of these gay birds of passage (the
Inn is not a benevolent institution) spreads its
wings and the flight begins. The next day the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>
court is empty, as are all the roosting-places
up and down the shore. Then everybody at
the Inn takes a long breath—the first they have
had for weeks.</p>
<p>About this time, too, the crisp autumn air,
fresh from the sea, begins to blow, dulling the
hunger for the open. The mad whirl of blossoms
no longer intoxicates. Even the geraniums,
which have flamed their bravest all
summer, lose their snap and freshness; while
the blue and pink hydrangeas hang their heads,
tired out with nodding to so many passers-by:
they, too, are paying the price; you can see it
in their faces. Only the sturdy chrysanthemums
are rejoicing in the first frost, while the
more daring of the roses are unbuckling their
petals ready to fight their way through the
perils of an October bloom.</p>
<p>It is just at this blessed moment that I move
in and settle down with my companions, for
now that the rush is over, and the little Normandy
maids and the older peasant women
who have served the hungry and thirsty mob
all summer, as well as two of the three French
cooks, have gone back to their homes, we have
Leà, Mignon, and Pierre all to ourselves.</p>
<p>I put dear old Leà first because it might as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
well be said at once that without her loving
care life at the Inn, with all its comforts,
would be no life at all—none worth living.
Louis, the running-water painter, known as the
Man in High-Water Boots—one of the best
beloved of our group—always insists that in
the days gone by Leà occupied a pedestal at
the main entrance of the twelfth-century church
at the end of the street, and is out for a holiday.
In proof he points out the empty pedestal
set in a niche, and has even gone so far as
to pencil her name on the rough stone.</p>
<p>Mignon, however, he admits, is a saint of
another kind—a dainty, modest, captivating
little maid, who looks at you with her wondering
blue eyes, and who is as shy as a
frightened gazelle. There is a young fisherman
named Gaston, a weather-tanned, frank,
fearless fellow who knows all about these eyes.
He brings the fish to the Inn—those he catches
himself—and Mignon generally manages to
help in their unpacking. It is not a part of
her duty. Her special business is to make
everybody happy; to crack the great white
sugar-loaf into bits with a pair of pincers—no
machine-made dominoes for Lemois—and
to turn the coffee-roaster—an old-fashioned,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
sheet-iron drum swinging above a brazier of hot
coals—and to cool its contents by tossing them
in a pan—much as an Egyptian girl winnows
wheat. It is a pity you never tasted her coffee,
served in the garden—old Leà on the run
with it boiling-hot to your table. You might
better have stopped what you were doing and
taken steamer for Havre and the Inn. You
would never have regretted it.</p>
<p>Nor would you even at this late hour regret
any one of the dishes made by Pierre, the chef.
And now I think of it, it is but fair to tell you
that if you repent the delay and show a fit
appreciation of his efforts, or come properly
endorsed (I’ll give you a letter), he may, perhaps,
invite you into his kitchen which I have
just vacated, a place of such various enticing
smells from things baking, broiling, and frying;
with unforgettable, appetizing whiffs of burnt
sugar, garlic, fine herbs, and sherry, to say
nothing of the flavors of bowls of mayonnaise,
heaps of chopped onions, platters of cream—even
a basket of eggs still warm from the nest—that
the memory of it will linger with you
for the rest of your days.</p>
<p>Best of all at this season, we have quite to
ourselves that prince of major-domos, our land<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>lord,
Lemois. For as this inn is no ordinary
inn, this banquet room no ordinary room, and
this kitchen no ordinary kitchen, so, too, is
Monsieur Lemois no ordinary landlord. A
small, gray, gently moving, low-voiced man
with thoughtful, contented face, past the prime
of life; a passionate lover of animals, flowers,
and all beautiful things; quick of temper, but
over in a moment; a poet withal, yet a man
with so quaint a humor and of so odd a taste,
and so completely absorbed in his pets, cuisine,
garden, and collection, that it is easy to believe
that when he is missed from his carnal body, he
will be found wandering as a ghost among these
very flower-beds or looking down from the walls
of the Marmouset—doubtless an old haunt of
his prior to this his latest incarnation. Only
here would he be really happy, and only here,
perhaps, among his treasures, would he be fully
understood.</p>
<p>One of the rarest of these—a superb Florentine
chair—the most important chair he owns,
stood within reach of my hand as I sat listening
to him before the crackling blaze.</p>
<p>“Unquestionably of the sixteenth century!”
he exclaimed with his customary enthusiasm,
as I admired it anew, for, although I had heard<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
most of it many times, I am always glad to listen,
so quaint are his descriptions of everything
he owns, and so sincerely does he believe
in the personalities and lineage of each individual
piece.</p>
<p>“I found it,” he continued, “in a little chapel
in Ravenna. For years it had stood outside the
cabinet of Alessandro, one of the Florentine
dukes. Think of all the men and women who
have sat in it, and of all the cruel and anxious
thoughts that raced through their brains while
they waited for an audience with the tyrant!
Nothing like a chair for stirring up old memories
and traditions. And do you see the carved
heads on the top! I assure you they are alive!
I have caught them smiling or frowning too
often at the talk around my table not to know.
Once when De Bouf, the great French clown
was here, the head next you came near splitting
itself in two over his grimaces, and when
Marcot told one of his pathetic stories that
other one wept such tears that I had to mop
them up to keep the velvet from being spoilt.
You don’t believe it?—you laugh! Ah!—that
is just like you modern writers—you do not believe
anything—you have no imagination! You
must measure things with a rule! You must<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
have them drawn on the blackboard! It is because
you do not see them as they are. You
shut your eyes and ears to the real things of
life; it is because you cannot understand that
it is the <i>soul</i> of the chair that laughs and weeps.
Monsieur Herbert will not think it funny. He
understands these queer heads—and, let me tell
you, they understand <i>him</i>. I have often caught
them nodding and winking at each other when
he says something that pleases them. He has
himself seen things much more remarkable.
That is the reason why he is the only one of
all who enters this room worthy to sit in it.”</p>
<p>“You like Herbert, then?” I interrupted,
knowing just what he would say.</p>
<p>“How absurd, my dear friend! You like a
filet, and a gown on a woman—but you don’t
like a man. You <i>love</i> him—when he is a <i>man</i>!—and
Monsieur Herbert is all that. It is the
English in him which counts. Since he was
fourteen years of age he has been roaming
around the world doing everything a man could
to make his bread—and he a gentleman born,
with his father’s house to go home to if he
pleased. Yet he has been farm-hand, acrobat,
hostler, sailor before the mast, newspaper
reporter, next four years in Africa among<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
the natives; then painter, and now, at forty-five,
after only six years’ practice, one of the
great sculptors of France, with his work in
the Luxembourg and the ribbon of the Legion
in his button-hole! Have I not the right to
say that he is a <i>man</i>? And one thing more:
not for one moment has he ever lost the
good heart and the fine manner of the gentleman.
Ah! that is most extraordinary of all,
when you think of the adventures and hair-breadth
escapes and sufferings he has gone
through! Did he ever tell you of his stealing
a ride in Australia on a locomotive tender to
get to Sydney, two hundred miles away?”</p>
<p>I shook my head.</p>
<p>“Well—get him to tell you. You will be so
sorry for him, even now, that you cannot keep
the tears from your eyes. Listen! There goes
the scream of his horn—and I wager you, too,
that he brings that delightful wild man, Monsieur
Louis, with him.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II
<br /><br />THE WOOD FIRE AND ITS FRIENDS</h2>
<p>Two men burst in.</p>
<p>Herbert, compact, wellknit, ruddy, simple
in his bearing and manner; Louis, broad-shouldered,
strong as a bull, and bubbling over
with unrepressed merriment. Both were muffled
to their chins—Herbert in his fur motor-coat,
his cap drawn close over his steady gray
eyes; Louis in his big sketching-cloak and hood
and a pair of goggles which gave him so owlish
a look that both Mignon and Leà broke out
laughing at the sight.</p>
<p>“Fifty miles an hour, High-Muck” (I am
High-Muck) “this brute of a Herbert kept up.
Everything went by in a blur; but for these
gig-lamps I’d be stone blind.”</p>
<p>The brace and the snap of the crisp autumn
air clinging to their clothes suddenly permeated
the room as with electricity. Even slow-moving
Lemois felt its vivifying current as he hurriedly
dragged the Florentine nearer the fire.</p>
<p>“See, Monsieur Herbert, the chair has been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
waiting for you. I have kept even Monsieur
High-Muck out of it.”</p>
<p>“That’s very good of you, Lemois,” returned
the sculptor as he handed Leà his coat and
gloves and settled himself in its depths. “I’m
glad to get back to it. What the chair thinks
about it is another thing—make it tell you some
time.”</p>
<p>“But it has—only last night one of the heads
was saying——”</p>
<p>“None of that, Lemois,” laughed Louis,
abreast of the fireplace now, his fingers outspread
to the blaze. “Too many wooden heads
talking around here as it is. I don’t, of course,
object to Herbert’s wobbling around in its upholstered
magnificence, but he can’t play doge
and monopolize everything. Shove your high-backed
pulpit with its grinning cherubs to one
side, I tell you, Herbert, and let me warm up”—and
off came the cloak and goggles, his broad
shoulders and massive arms coming into view.
Then tossing them to Mignon, he turned to me.</p>
<p>“There’s one thing you’re good for, High-Muck-a-Muck,
if nothing else, and that is to
keep a fire going. If I wanted to find you,
and there was a chimney within a mile, I’d be
sure you were sitting in front of the hearth with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
the tongs in your hand”—here he kicked a big
log into place bringing to life a swarm of sparks
that blazed out a welcome and then went laughing
up the chimney. “By thunder!—isn’t this
glorious! Crowd up, all of you—this is the
best yet! Lemois, won’t you please shove just
a plain, little chair this way for me? No—come
to think of it, I’ll take half of Herbert’s
royal throne,” and he squeezed in beside the
sculptor, one leg dangling over the arm of the
Florentine.</p>
<p>Herbert packed himself the closer and the
talk ran on: the races at Cabourg and Trouville;
the big flight of wild geese which had
come a month earlier than usual, and last, the
season which had just closed with the rush of
fashion and folly, in which chatter Lemois had
joined.</p>
<p>“And the same old crowd, of course, Lemois?”
suggested Herbert; “and always doing
the same things—coffee at nine, breakfast at
twelve, tea at five, dinner at eight, and bridge
till midnight! Extraordinary, isn’t it! I’d
rather pound oakum in a country jail.”</p>
<p>“Some of them will,” remarked Louis with
a ruminating smile. “And it was a good season,
you say, Lemois?” he continued; “lots of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>
people shedding shekels and lots of tips for
dear old Leà? That’s the best part of it.
And did they really order good things—the
beggars?—or had you cleaned them out of
their last franc on their first visit? Come now—how
many Pêche-Flambées, for instance, have
you served, Lemois, to the mob since July—and
how many demoiselles de Cherbourg—those
lovely little girl lobsters without claws?”</p>
<p>“Do you mean the on-shore species—those
you find in the hotels at Trouville?” returned
Lemois, rubbing his hands together, his thoughtful
face alight with humor. “We have two varieties,
you know, Monsieur Louis—the on-shore—the
Trouville kind who always bring
their claws with them—you can feel them
under their kid gloves.”</p>
<p>“Oh, let up!—let up!” retorted Louis. “I
mean the kind we devour; not the kind who
devour us.”</p>
<p>“Same thing,” remarked Herbert in his low,
even tones from the depths of the chair, as he
stretched a benumbed hand toward the fire.
“It generally ends in a broil, whether it’s a
woman or a lobster.”</p>
<p>Louis twisted his body and caught the sculptor
by the lapel of his coat.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p>
<p>“None of your cheap wit, Herbert! Marc,
the lunatic, would have said that and thought
it funny—you can’t afford to. Move up, I tell
you, you bloated mud-dauber, and give me
more room; you’d spread yourself over two
chairs with four heads on their corners if you
could fill them.”</p>
<p>Whereupon there followed one of those good-natured
rough-and-tumble dog-plays which the
two had kept up through their whole friendship.
Indeed, a wrestling match started it.
Herbert, then known to the world as an explorer
and writer, was studying at Julien’s at
the time. Louis, who was also a pupil, was
off in Holland painting. Their fellow students,
noting Herbert’s compact physique, had bided
the hour until the two men should meet, and
it was when the room looked as if a cyclone
had struck it—with Herbert on top one moment
and Louis the next—that the friendship
began. The big-hearted Louis, too, was the
first to recognize his comrade’s genius as a
sculptor. Herbert had a wad of clay sent home
from which he modelled an elephant. This
was finally tossed into a corner. There it lay a
shapeless mass until his conscience smote him
and the whole was transformed into a Congo<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>
boy. Louis insisted it should be sent to the
Salon, and thus the explorer, writer, and painter
became the sculptor. And so the friendship
grew and strengthened with the years. Since
then both men had won their gold medals at
the Salon—Louis two and Herbert two.</p>
<p>The same old dog-play was now going on
before the cheery fire, Louis scrouging and pushing,
Herbert extending his muscles and standing
pat—either of them could have held the other
clear of the floor at arm’s length—Herbert, all
his sinews in place, ready for any move of his
antagonist; Louis, a Hercules in build, breathing
health and strength at every pore.</p>
<p>Suddenly the tussle in the chair ceased and
the young painter, wrenching himself loose,
sprang to his feet.</p>
<p>“By thunder!” he cried, “I forgot all about
it! Have you heard the news? Hats off and
dead silence while I tell it! Lemois, stop that
confounded racket with your dishes and listen!
Let me present you to His Royal Highness,
Monsieur Herbert, the Gold Medallist—his
second!” and he made a low salaam to the
sculptor stretched out in the Florentine. He
was never so happy as when extolling Herbert’s
achievements.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p>
<p>“Oh, I know all about it!” laughed back
Lemois. “Le Blanc was here before breakfast
the next morning with the <i>Figaro</i>. It was your
African—am I not right, Monsieur Herbert?—the
big black man with the dagger—the one I
saw in the clay? Fine!—no dryads, no satyrs
nor demons—just the ego of the savage. And
why should you not have won the medal?” he
added in serious tones that commanded instant
attention. “Who among our sculptors—men
who make the clay obey them—know the savage
as you do? And to think, too, of your being
here after your triumph, under the roof of my
Marmouset. Do you know that its patron
saint is another African explorer—the first man
who ever set foot on its western shores—none
other than the great Bethencourt himself? He
was either from Picardy or Normandy—the
record is not clear—and on one of his voyages—this,
remember, was in the fifteenth century, the
same period in which the stone chimney over
your heads was built—he captured and brought
home with him some little black dwarfs who became
very fashionable. You see them often
later on in the prints and paintings of the time,
following behind the balloon petticoats and high
headdresses of the great ladies. After a time<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
they became a regular article of trade, these
marmots, and there is still a street in Paris
called ‘The Marmouset.’ So popular were they
that Charles VI is said to have had a ministry
composed of five of these little rascals. So,
when you first showed me your clay sketch of
your African, I said—‘Ah! here is the spirit
of Bethencourt! This Monsieur Herbert is
Norman, not English; he has brought the savage
of old to light, the same savage that Bethencourt
saw—the savage that lived and fought and
died before our cultivated moderns vulgarized
him.’ That was a glorious thing to do, messieurs,
if you will think about it”—and he
looked around the circle, his eyes sparkling,
his small body alive with enthusiasm.</p>
<p>Herbert extended his palms in protest, muttering
something about parts of the statue not
satisfying him and its being pretty bad in
spots, if Lemois did but know it, thanking him
at the same time for comparing him to so great
a man as Bethencourt; but his undaunted admirer
kept on without a pause, his voice quivering
with pride: “The primitive man demanding
of civilization his right to live! Ah! that
is a new motive in art, my friends!”</p>
<p>“Hear him go on!” cried Louis, settling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
himself again on the arm of Herbert’s chair;
“talks like a critic. Gentlemen, the distinguished
Monsieur Lemois will now address you
on——”</p>
<p>Lemois turned and bowed profoundly.</p>
<p>“Better than a critic, Monsieur Louis. They
only see the outside of things. Pray don’t rob
Monsieur Herbert of his just rights or try to
lean on him; take a whole chair to yourself
and keep still a moment. You are like your
running water—you——”</p>
<p>“Not a bit like it,” broke in Herbert, glad to
turn the talk away from himself. “His water
sometimes reflects—he never does.”</p>
<p>“Ah!—but he does reflect,” protested Lemois
with a comical shrug; “but it is always upsidedown.
When you stand upsidedown your
money is apt to run out of your pockets; when
you think upsidedown your brains run out in
the same way.”</p>
<p>“But what would you have me do, Lemois?”
expostulated Louis, regaining his feet that he
might the better parry the thrust. “Get out
into your garden and mount a pedestal?”</p>
<p>“Not at this season, you dear Monsieur
Louis; it is too cold. Oh!—never would I be
willing to shock any of my beautiful statues in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>
that way. You would look very ugly on a pedestal;
your shoulders are too big and your
arms are like a blacksmith’s, and then you
would smash all my flowers getting up. No—I
would have you do nothing and be nothing
but your delightful and charming self. This
room of mine, the ‘Little Dwarf,’ is built for
laughter, and you have plenty of it. And now,
gentlemen”—he was the landlord once more—both
elbows uptilted in a shrug, his shoulders
level with his ears—“at what time shall we
serve dinner?”</p>
<p>“Not until Brierley comes,” I interposed
after we were through laughing at Louis’ discomfiture.
“He is due now—the Wigwag train
from Pont du Sable ought to be in any minute.”</p>
<p>“Is Marc coming with him?” asked Herbert,
pushing his chair back from the crackling blaze.</p>
<p>“No—Marc can’t get here until late. He’s
fallen in love for the hundredth time. Some
countess or duchess, I understand—he is staying
at her château, or was. Not far from here,
so he told Le Blanc.”</p>
<p>“Was walking past her garden gate,” broke
in Louis, “squinting at her flowers, no doubt,
when she asked him in to tea—or is it another
Fontainebleau affair?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>”</p>
<p>“That’s one love affair of Marc’s I never
heard of,” remarked Herbert, with one of his
meaning smiles, which always remind me of the
lambent light flashed by a glowworm, irradiating
but never creasing the surface as they
play over his features.</p>
<p>“Well, that wasn’t Marc’s fault—you <i>would</i>
have heard of it had he been around. He
talked of nothing else. The idiot left Paris one
morning, put ten francs in his pocket—about
all he had—and went over to Fontainebleau for
the day. Posted up at that railroad station
was a notice, signed by a woman, describing a
lost dog. Later on Marc came across a piece
of rope with the dog on one end and a boy on
the other. An hour later he presented himself
at madame’s villa, the dog at his heels. There
was a cry of joy as her arms clasped the prodigal.
Then came a deluge of thanks. The gratitude
of the poor lady so overcame Marc that he
spent every sou he had in his clothes for flowers,
sent them to her with his compliments and
walked back to Paris, and for a month after
every franc he scraped together went the same
way. He never called—never wrote her any
letters—just kept on sending flowers; never
getting any thanks either, for he never gave<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
her his address. Oh, he’s a Cap and Bells
when there’s a woman around!”</p>
<p>A shout outside sent every man to his feet; the
door was flung back and a setter dog bounded
in followed by the laughing face of a man who
looked twenty-five of his forty years. He was
clad in a leather shooting-jacket and leggings,
spattered to his hips with mud, and carried a
double-barrelled breech-loading gun. Howls of
derision welcomed him.</p>
<p>“Oh!—what a spectacle!” cried Louis.
“Don’t let Brierley sit down, High-Muck, until
he’s scrubbed! Go and scrape yourself, you
ruffian—you are the worst looking dog of the
two.”</p>
<p>The Man from the Latin Quarter, as he is
often called, clutched his gun like a club, made
a mock movement as if to brain the speaker,
then rested it tenderly and with the greatest
care against one corner of the fireplace.</p>
<p>“Sorry, High-Muck, but I couldn’t help it.
I’d have missed your dinner if I had gone
back to my bungalow for clothes. I’ve been
out on the marsh since sunup and got cut off
by the tide. Down with you, Peter! Let him
thaw out a little, Herbert; he’s worked like a
beaver all day, and all we got were three plover<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>
and a becassine. I left them with Pierre as I
came in. Didn’t see a duck—haven’t seen one
for a week. Wait until I get rid of this,” and
he stripped off his outer jacket and flung it
at Louis, who caught it with one hand and,
picking up the tongs, held the garment from
him until he had deposited it in the far corner
of the room.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 640px;">
<img src="images/i_alt_fp030.jpg" width="640" height="455" alt="Howls of derision welcomed him" title="" />
<span class="caption">Howls of derision welcomed him</span>
</div>
<p>“Haven’t had hold of you, Herbert, since the
gold medal,” the hunter resumed. “Shake!”
and the two pressed each other’s hands. “I
thought ‘The Savage’ would win—ripping stuff
up and down the back, and the muscles of the
legs, and he stands well. I think it’s your high-water
mark—thought so when I saw it in the
clay. By Jove!—I’m glad to get here! The
wind has hauled to the eastward and it’s getting
colder every minute.”</p>
<p>“Cold, are you, old man!” condoled Louis.
“Why don’t you look out for your fire, High-Muck?
Little Brierley’s half frozen, he says.
Hold on!—stay where you are; I’ll put on another
log. Of course, you’re half frozen!
When I went by your marsh a little while ago
the gulls were flying close inshore as if they
were hunting for a stove. Not a fisherman
fool enough to dig bait as far as I could see.”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p>
<p>Brierley nodded assent, loosened his under
coat of corduroy, searched in an inside pocket
for a pipe, and drew his chair nearer, his knees
to the blaze.</p>
<p>“I don’t blame them,” he shivered;
“mighty sensible bait-diggers. The only two
fools on the beach were Peter and I; we’ve
been on a sand spit for five hours in a hole I
dug at daylight, and it was all we could do to
keep each other warm—wasn’t it, old boy?”
(Peter, coiled up at his feet, cocked an ear in
confirmation.) “Where’s Marc, Le Blanc, and
the others—upstairs?”</p>
<p>“Not yet,” replied Herbert. “Marc expects
to turn up, so he wired High-Muck, but I’ll
believe it when he gets here. Another case of
Romeo and Juliet, so Louis says. Le Blanc
promises to turn up after dinner. Louis, you
are nearest—get a fresh glass and move that decanter
this way,—Brierley is as cold as a frog.”</p>
<p>“No—stay where you are, Louis,” cried the
hunter. “I’ll wait until I get something to eat—hot
soup is what I want, not cognac. I say,
High-Muck, when are we going to have dinner?
I’m concave from my chin to my waistband;
haven’t had a crumb since I tumbled out of bed
this morning in the pitch dark.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>”</p>
<p>“Expect it every minute. Here comes Leà
now with the soup and Mignon with hot
plates.”</p>
<p>Louis caught sight of the two women, backed
himself against the jamb of the fireplace, and
opened wide his arms.</p>
<p>“Make way, gentlemen!” he cried. “Behold
the lost saint—our Lady of the Sabots!—and
the adorable Mademoiselle Mignon! I kiss the
tips of your fingers, mademoiselle. And now
tell me where that fisher-boy is—that handsome
young fellow Gaston I heard about when
I was last here. What have you done with
him? Has he drowned himself because you
wouldn’t be called in church, or is he saving
up his sous to put a new straw thatch on his
mother’s house so there will be room for two
more?”</p>
<p>Pretty Mignon blushed scarlet and kept
straight on to the serving-table without daring
to answer—Gaston was a tender subject to
her, almost as tender as Mignon was to Gaston—but
Leà, after depositing the tureen at
the top of the table, made a little bob of a
curtsy, first to Herbert and then to Louis
and Brierley—thanking them for coming, and
adding, in her quaint Normandy French, that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>
she would have gone home a month since had
not the master told her of our coming.</p>
<p>“And have broken our hearts, you lovely old
gargoyle!” laughed Louis. “Don’t you dare
leave the Inn. They are getting on very well
at the church without you. Come, Herbert,
down with you in the old Florentine. I’ll sit
next so I can keep all three wooden heads in
order,” and he wheeled the chair into place.</p>
<p>“Now, Leà—the soup!”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III<br /><br />
WITH SPECIAL REFERENCE TO A
CERTAIN COLONY OF PENGUINS</h2>
<p>Lemois, as was his custom, came in with
the coffee. He serves it himself, and always
with the same little ceremony, which,
while apparently unimportant, marks that indefinable,
mysterious line which he and his ancestry—innkeepers
before him—have invariably
maintained between those who wait and those
who are waited upon. First, a small spider-legged
mahogany table is wheeled up between
the circle and the fire, on which Leà places a
silver coffee-pot of Mignon’s best; then some
tiny cups and saucers, and a sugar-dish of odd
design—they said it belonged to Marie Antoinette—is
laid beside them. Thereupon Lemois
gravely seats himself and the rite begins,
he talking all the time—one of us and yet aloof—much
as would a neighbor across a fence who
makes himself agreeable but who has not been
given the run of your house.</p>
<p>To the group’s delight, however, he was as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>
much a part of the coterie as if he had taken
the fifth chair, left vacant for the always late
Marc, who had not yet put in an appearance,
and a place we would have insisted upon his
occupying, despite his intended isolation, but
for a certain look in the calm eyes and a certain
dignity of manner which forbade any such encroachments
on his reserve.</p>
<p>To-night he was especially welcome. Thanks
to his watchful care we had dined well—Pierre
having outdone himself in a pigeon pie—and
that quiet, restful contentment which follows a
good dinner, beside a warm fire and under the
glow of slow-burning candles, had taken possession
of us.</p>
<p>“A wonderful pie, Lemois—a sublime, never-to-be-forgotten
pie!” exclaimed Louis, voicing
our sentiments. “Every one of those pigeons
went straight to heaven when they died.”</p>
<p>“Ah!—it pleased you then, Monsieur Louis?
I will tell Pierre—he will be so happy.”</p>
<p>“Pleased!” persisted the enthusiastic painter.
“Why, I can think of no better end—no higher
ambition—for a well-brought-up pigeon than
being served hot in one of Pierre’s pies. Tell
him so for me—I am speaking as a pigeon, of
course.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>”</p>
<p>“What do you think the pigeon himself would
have said to Pierre before his neck was wrung?”
asked Herbert, leaning back in his big chair.
“Thank you—only one lump, Lemois.”</p>
<p>“By Jove!—why didn’t I ask the bird?—it
might have been illuminating—and I speak a
little pigeon-English, you know. Doubtless he
would have told me he preferred being riddled
with shot at a match and crawling away under
a hedge to die, to being treated as a common
criminal—the neck-twisting part, I mean. Why
do you want to know, Herbert?”</p>
<p>“Oh, nothing; only I sometimes think—if
you will forgive me for being serious—that
there is another side to the whole question;
though I must also send my thanks to Pierre
for the pie.”</p>
<p>That one of their old good-natured passages
at arms was coming became instantly apparent—tilts
that every one enjoyed, for Herbert
talked as he modelled—never any fumbling
about for a word; never any uncertainty nor
vagueness—always a direct and convincing
sureness of either opinion or facts, and always
the exact and precise truth. He would no
sooner have exaggerated a statement than he
would have added a hair’s-breadth of clay to a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
muscle. Louis, on the other hand, talked as
he painted—with the same breeze and verve
and the same wholesome cheer and sanity which
have made both himself and his brush so beloved.
When Herbert, therefore, took up the
cudgels for the cooked pigeon, none of us were
surprised to hear the hilarious painter break
out with:</p>
<p>“Stop talking such infernal rot, Herbert, and
move the matches this way. How could there
be another side? What do you suppose beef
and mutton were put into the world for except
to feed the higher animal, man?”</p>
<p>“But <i>is</i> man higher?” returned Herbert
quietly, in his low, incisive voice, passing Louis
the box. “I know I’m the last fellow in the
world, with my record as a hunter—and I’m
sometimes ashamed of it—to advance any such
theory, but as I grow older I see things in a
different light, and the animal’s point of view
is one of them.”</p>
<p>“Pity you didn’t come to that conclusion
before you plastered your studio with the
skins of the poor devils you murdered,” he
chuckled, winking at Lemois.</p>
<p>“That was because I didn’t know any better—or,
rather, because I didn’t <i>think</i> any bet<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>ter,”
retorted Herbert. “When we are young,
we delude ourselves with all sorts of fallacies,
saying that things have always been as they are
since the day of Nimrod; but isn’t it about
time to let our sympathies have wider play, and
to look at the brute’s side of the question?
Take a captive polar bear, for instance. It
must seem to him to be the height of injustice
to be hunted down like a man-eating tiger, sold
into slavery, and condemned to live in a steel
cage and in a climate that murders by slow
suffocation. The poor fellow never injured
anybody; has always lived out of everybody’s
way; preyed on nothing that robbed any man
of a meal, and was as nearly harmless, unless
attacked, as any beast of his size the world
over. I know a case in point, and often go
to see him. He didn’t tell me his story—his
keeper did—though he might have done so had
I understood bear-talk as well as Louis understands
pigeon-English,” and a challenging
smile played over the speaker’s face.</p>
<p>“You ought to have stepped inside and passed
the time of day with him. They wouldn’t have
fed him on anything but raw sculptor for a
month.”</p>
<p>Herbert fanned his fingers toward Louis in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
good-humored protest, and kept on, his voice
becoming unusually grave.</p>
<p>“They wanted, it seems, a polar bear at the
Zoo, because all zoos have them, and this one
must keep up with the procession. It would
be inspiring and educating for the little children
on Sunday afternoons—and so the thirty
pieces of silver were raised. The chase began
among the icebergs in a steam-launch. The
father and mother in their soft white overcoats—the
two baby bears in powder-puff furs—were
having a frolic on a cake of floating ice
when the strange craft surprised them. The
mother bear tucked the babies behind her and
pulled herself together to defend them with
her life—and did—until she was bowled over
by a rifle ball which went crashing through her
skull. The father bear fought on as long as
he could, dodging the lasso, encouraging the
babies to hurry—sweeping them ahead of him
into the water, swimming behind, urging them
on, until the three reached the next cake. But
the churning devil of a steam launch kept after
them—two armed men in the bow, one behind
with the lariat. Another plunge—only
one baby now—a staggering lope along the
edge of the floe, the little tot tumbling, scuf<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>fling
to its feet; crying in terror at being left
behind—doing the best it could to keep up.
Then only the gaunt, panic-stricken, shambling
father bear—slower and slower—the breath
almost out of him. Another plunge—a shriek
of the siren—a twist of the rudder—the lasso
curls in the air, the launch backs water, the
line tautens, there is a great swirl of foam
broken by lumps of rocking ice, and the dull,
heavy crawl back to the ship begins, the bear
in tow, his head just above the water. Then
the tackle is strapped about his girth, the
‘Lively now, my lads!’ rings out in the Arctic
air, and he is hauled up the side and dumped
half dead on deck, his tongue out, his eyes
shot with blood.</p>
<p>“You can see him any day at the Zoo—the
little children’s noses pressed against the iron
bars of his cage. They call him ‘dear old
Teddy bear,’ and throw him cakes and candies,
which he sniffs at and turns over with his great
paw. As for me, I confess that whenever I
stand before his cage I always wonder what he
thinks of the two-legged beasts who are responsible
for it all—his conscience being clear
and neither crime, injustice, nor treachery being
charged against him. Yes, there are two sides<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
to this question, although, as Louis has said,
it might have been just as well to have thought
about it before. Speak up, Lemois, am I right
or wrong? You have something on your mind;
I see it in your eyes.”</p>
<p>“It’s more likely on his stomach,” interrupted
Louis; “the pigeon may have set too
heavy.”</p>
<p>“You are more than right, Monsieur Herbert,”
Lemois answered in measured tones, ignoring
the painter’s aside. He was stirring his
cup as he spoke, the light of the fire making a
silhouette of his body from where I sat. “For
your father bear, as you call him, I have every
sympathy; but I do not have to go to the
North Pole to express what we owe to animals.
I bring the matter to my very door, and I tell
you from my heart that if I had my way there
would never be anything served in my house
which suffered in the killing—not even a
pigeon.”</p>
<p>Everybody looked up in astonishment, wondering
where the joke came in, but our landlord
was gravity itself. “In fact,” he went on,
“I believe the day will come when nothing will
be killed for food—not even your dear demoiselle
de Cherbourg, Monsieur Louis. Adam and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
Eve got on very well without cutlets or broiled
squab, and yet we must admit they raised a
goodly race. I, myself, look forward to the
time when nothing but vegetables and fruit,
with cheese, milk, and eggs, will be eaten by
men and women of refinement. When that
time comes the butcher will go as entirely out
of fashion as has the witch-burner and, in many
parts of the world, the hangman.”</p>
<p>“But what are you going to do with Brierley,
who can’t enjoy his morning coffee until he
has bagged half a dozen ducks on his beloved
marsh?” cried Louis, tossing the stump of his
cigar into the fire.</p>
<p>“But Monsieur Brierley is half converted
already, my dear Monsieur Louis; he told me
the last time I was at his bungalow that he
would never kill another deer. He was before
his fireplace under the head of a doe at the
time—one he had shot and had stuffed. Am
I not right, Monsieur Brierley?” and Lemois
inclined his head toward the hunter.</p>
<p>Brierley nodded in assent.</p>
<p>“Same old game,” muttered Louis. “Had
his fun first.”</p>
<p>“I have been a cook all my life,” continued
the undaunted Lemois, “and half the time<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
train my own chefs in my kitchen, and yet I
say to you that I could feed my whole clientele
sumptuously without ever spilling a drop
of blood. I live in that way myself as far as
I can, and so would you if you had thought
about it.”</p>
<p>“Skimmed milk and hard-boiled eggs for
breakfast, I suppose!” roared Louis in derision,
“with a lettuce sandwich and a cold turnip for
luncheon.”</p>
<p>“No, you upsidedown man! Cheese souffles,
omelets in a dozen different ways, stuffed
peppers, tomatoes fried, stewed, and fricasseed,
oysters, clams——”</p>
<p>“And crabs and lobsters?” added Louis.</p>
<p>“Ah! but crabs and lobsters suffer like any
other thing which has the power to move; what
I am trying to do is to live so that nothing will
suffer because of my appetite.”</p>
<p>“And go round looking like a skeleton in a
doctor’s office! How could you get these up
on boiled cabbage?” and he patted Herbert’s
biceps.</p>
<p>“No, my dear Monsieur Louis,” persisted
Lemois gravely, still refusing to be side-tracked
by the young painter’s onslaughts. “If we
loved the things we kill for food as Monsieur<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
Brierley loves his dog Peter, there would never
be another Chateaubriand cooked in the world.
What would you say if I offered you one of that
dear fellow’s ribs for breakfast? It would be
quite easy—the butcher is only around the corner
and Pierre would broil it to a turn. But
that would not do for you gourmets. You
must have liver or sweetbreads cut from an
animal you never saw and of which, of course,
you know nothing. If the poor animal had
been a playmate of Mignon’s—and she once
had a pet lamb—you could no sooner cut its
throat than you could Peter’s.”</p>
<p>Before Louis could again explode, Brierley,
who, at mention of Peter’s name had leaned
over to stroke the dog’s ears, now broke in, a
dry smile on his face.</p>
<p>“There’s another side of this question which
you fellows don’t seem to see, and which interests
me a lot. You talk about cruelty to
animals, but I tell you that most of the cruelty
to-day is served out to the man with the gun.
The odds are really against him. The birds
down my way have got so almighty cunning
that they club together and laugh at us. I
hear them many a time when Peter and I are
dragging ourselves home empty-handed. They<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
know too when I start out and when I give up
and make for cover.”</p>
<p>“Go slow, Brierley; go slow!”</p>
<p>“Of course they know, Louis!” retorted
Brierley in mock dejection. “Doesn’t a crow
keep a watch out for the flock? Can you get
near one of them with a gun unless you are
lucky enough to shoot the sentry first? You
can call it instinct if you choose—I call it reason—the
same kind of mental process that compels
you to look out for an automobile before you
cross the street, with your eyes both ways at
once. When you talk of their helplessness and
want of common sense, and inability to look
out for themselves, you had better lie under a
hedge as I have done, the briars scraping your
neck, or scrunched down in a duckblind, with
your feet in ice water, and study these simple-minded
creatures. Explain this if you can.
Some years ago, in America, I spent the autumn
on the Housatonic River. The ducks come in
from Long Island Sound to feed on the shore
stuff, and I could sometimes get five—once I
got eleven—between dawn and sunrise. The
constant banging away soon made them so shy
that if I got five in a week I was lucky. On
the first of the month and for the first time in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>
the State a new law came into force making it
cost a month’s wages for any pot-hunter to kill
a duck or even have one in his possession. The
law, as is customary, was duly advertised. Not
only was it published in the papers but stuck
up in bar-rooms and county post-offices, and
at last became common gossip around the feeding-ground
of the ducks. At first they didn’t
believe it, for they still kept out of sight, flying
high—and few at that. But when they found
the law was obeyed and that all firing had
ceased, not a gun being heard on the river,
they tumbled to the game as quick as did the
pot-hunters. When the shooting season opened
the following year, hardly a duck showed up.
Those that came were evidently stragglers who
rested for a day on their long flight south; but
the Long Island Sound ducks—the well-posted
ducks—stayed away altogether until, with the
first of the month, the law for their protection
came into force again. Then, so the old
farmer, a very truthful man with whom I used
to put up, wrote me, they came back by thousands;
the shore was black with them.”</p>
<p>“And you really believe it, Brierley?” Louis’
head was shaking in a commiserating way.</p>
<p>“Of course I believe it, and I can show the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
farmer’s letter to back it,” he answered, with
a wink at me behind his hand; “and so would
you if you had been humbugged by them as
many times as I have. Ask Peter—he’ll tell
you the same thing. And I’ll tell you something
else. On the edge of that same village
was a jumble of shanties inhabited by a lot of
Italians who had come up from New York to
work a quarry near by. On Sundays and holidays
these fellows went gunning for the small
birds, especially cedar birds and flickers, hiding
in the big woods a mile away. After these birds
had stood it for a while they put their dear little
innocent heads together and thought it all out.
Women and children did not shoot, therefore
the safest place for nesting and skylarking was
among these very women and children. After
that the woods were empty; the birds just made
fools of the pot-hunters and swarmed to the gardens
and yards and village trees. No one had
ever seen them before in such quantities, and—would
you believe it?—they never went back
to the woods again until the Italians had left
for New York.”</p>
<p>Lemois, having also missed the humor in
Brierley’s tone, rose from his place beside the
coffee-table, leaned over the young writer, and,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
with a characteristic gesture, patted him on
the arm, exclaiming:</p>
<p>“How admirably you have put it, my dear
Monsieur Brierley; I have to thank you most
sincerely. Ah! you Americans are always clear
and to the point. May I add one more word?
That which made these birds so cunning
was the fact that you were out to <i>kill</i> them.”
Here he straightened up, his back to the fire,
and stood with the light of its blaze tingeing
his gray beard. “It’s a foolish fancy, I know,
but I would have liked to have lived, if only
for one day, with the man Adam, just to see
how he and Madame Eve and the Noah’s ark
family got on before they began quarrelling and
Cain made a hole in the head of the other monsieur.
I have an idea that the lion and the
lamb ate out of the same trough, with the birds
on their backs for company—all the world at
peace. My Coco rubs his beak against my
cheek, not because I feed him, but because he
trusts me; he would, I am sure, bite a piece
out of Monsieur Louis’ because he does not
trust him—and with reason,” and the old man
smiled good-naturedly. “But why don’t they
all trust us?”</p>
<p>Herbert, who had also for some reason en<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>tirely
missed Brierley’s humor, fumbled for an
instant with the end of a match he had picked
from the cloth, and then, tossing it quickly
from him as if he had at last framed the sentence
he was about to utter, said in a thoughtful
tone:</p>
<p>“I have often wondered what the world
would be like if all fear of every kind was
abolished—of punishment, of bodily hurt, and
of pain? Everything that swims, flies, or walks
is afraid of something else—women of men,
men of each other. The first thing an infant
does is to cry out—not from the pain, but from
fright—just as a small dog or the cub of a
bear hides under its mother’s coat before its
eyes are open. It is the ogre, Fear, that begins
with the milk and ends with the last
breath in terror over the unknown, and it is
our fault. Half the children in the world—perhaps
three-fourths of them—have been
brought up by fear and not by love.”</p>
<p>“How about the lambasting your father gave
you, Herbert, when you hooked it from school?
‘Spare the rod and spoil the—’ You know the
rest of it. Did you deserve it?”</p>
<p>“Probably I did,” laughed Herbert. “But,
all the same, Louis, that foolish line has done<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>
more harm in the world than any line ever
written. Many a brute of a father—not mine,
for he did what he thought was right—has
found excuse in those half-dozen words for his
temper when he beat his boy.”</p>
<p>“Oh, come, let us get back to dry ground,
gentlemen,” broke in Brierley. “We commenced
on birds and we’ve brought up on
moral suasion with the help of a birch-rod.
Nobody has yet answered my argument:
What about the birds and the way they play
it on Peter and me?” and again Brierley winked
at me.</p>
<p>“It’s because you tricked them first, Brierley,”
returned Herbert in all seriousness and in
all sincerity. “They got suspicious and outwitted
you, and they will every time. A beast
never forgets treachery. I know of a dozen instances
to prove it.”</p>
<p>“Now I think of it, I know of one case,
too,” remarked Louis gravely, in the voice of
a savant uncovering a matter of great weight;
“that is, if I may be allowed to tell it in the
presence of the big Nimrod of the Congo—he
of a hundred pairs of tusks, to say nothing of
skins galore.”</p>
<p>Herbert nodded assent and with an air of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
surprise leaned forward to listen. That the
jovial painter had ever met the savage beast
in any part of the world was news to him.</p>
<p>“A most extraordinary and remarkable instance,
gentlemen, showing both the acumen,
the mental equipment, and the pure cussedness,
if I may be permitted the expression, of
the brute beast of the field. The incident, as
told to me, made a profound impression on my
early life, and was largely instrumental in my
abandoning the pursuit and destruction of game
of that class. I refer to the well-known case of
the boy who gave the elephant a quid of tobacco
for a cake, and was buried the following year
by his relatives when the circus came again to
his town—he unfortunately having occupied a
front seat. Yes, you are right, the beast forgives
anything but treachery. But go on,
Professor Herbert; your treatment of this extremely
novel view of animal life is most exhilarating.
I shall, at the next meeting of the
Academy of Sciences, introduce a——”</p>
<p>Brierley’s hand set firmly on Louis’ mouth,
who sputtered out he would be good, would
have ended the discussion had not Lemois
moved into an empty chair beside Herbert, and,
resting his hand on the sculptor’s shoulder, ex<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>claimed
in so absorbed a tone as to command
every one’s attention:</p>
<p>“Please do not stop, Monsieur Herbert, and
please do not mind this wild man, who has two
mouths in his face—one with which he eats and
the other with which he interrupts. I am very
much interested. You were speaking of the
ogre, Fear. Please go on. One of the things
I want to know is whether it existed in the
Garden of Eden. Now if you gentlemen will
all keep still”—here he fixed his eyes on Louis—“we
may hear something worth listening to.”</p>
<p>Louis threw up both hands in submission,
begging Lemois not to shoot, and Herbert,
having made him swear by all that was holy
not to open either of his mouths until his story
was told to the end, emptied his glass of Burgundy
and faced the expectant group.</p>
<p>“We don’t need to go back to the Garden of
Eden to decide the question, Lemois. As to
who is responsible for the existence of this ogre,
Fear, I can answer best by telling you what
happened only four years ago on a German expedition
to the South Pole. It was told me by
the commander himself, who had been specially
selected by Emperor William as the best
man to take charge. When I met him he was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
captain of one of the great North Atlantic
liners—a calm, self-contained man of fifty,
with a smile that always gave way to a laugh,
and a sincerity, courage, and capacity that
made you turn over in your berth for another
nap no matter how hard it blew.</p>
<p>“We were in his cabin near the bridge at
the time, the walls of which were covered with
photographs of the Antarctic, most of which he
had taken himself, showing huge icebergs, vast
stretches of hummock ice, black, clear-etched
shore lines, and wastes of snow that swept up
to high mountains, their tops lost in the fog.
He was the first human being, so he told me,
to land on that coast. He had left the ship in
the outside pack and with his first mate and
one of the scientists had forced a way through
the floating floes, their object being to make
the ascent of a range of low rolling mountains
seen in one of the photographs. This was pure
white from base to summit except for a dark
shadow one-third the slope, which he knew
must be caused by an overhanging ledge with
possibly a cave beneath. If any explorers had
ever reached this part of the Antarctic, this
cave, he knew, would be the place of all others
in which to search for records and remains.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p>
<p>“He had hardly gone a dozen yards toward it
when his first mate touched his arm and pointed
straight ahead. Advancing over the crest of
the snow came the strangest procession he had
ever seen. Thirty or more penguins of enormous
size, half as high as a man, were marching
straight toward them in single file, the
leader ahead. When within a few feet of them
the penguins stopped, bunched themselves together,
looked the invaders over, bending their
heads in a curious way—walking round and
round as if to get a better view—and then waddled
back to a ridge a few rods off, where they
evidently discussed their strange guests.</p>
<p>“The captain and the first mate, leaving
the scientist, walked up among them, patted
their heads, caressed their necks—the captain
at last slipping his hand under one flipper of
the largest penguin, the mate taking the other—the
two conducting the bird slowly and with
great solemnity and dignity back to the boat,
its companions following as a matter of course.
None of them exhibited the slightest fear; did
not start or crane their heads in suspicion, but
were just as friendly as so many tame birds
waiting to be fed. The boat seemed to interest
them as much as the men had done. One<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>
by one, or by twos and threes, they came waddling
gravely down to where it lay, examined
it all over and as gravely waddled back, looking
up into the explorers’ faces as if for some
explanation of the meaning and purpose of the
strange craft. They had, too, a queer way of
extending their necks, rubbing their cheeks
softly against the men’s furs, as if it felt good
to them. The only thing they seemed disappointed
in were the ship’s rations—these they
would not touch.</p>
<p>“Leaving the whole flock grouped about the
boat, the party pushed on to the dark shadow
up the white slope. It was, as he had supposed,
an overhanging cliff, its abrupt edge and
slant forming a shallow cave protected from
the glaciers and endless snows. As he approached
nearer he could make out the whirling
flight of birds, and when he reached the
edge he found it inhabited by thousands upon
thousands of sea fowl—a gray and white species
common to these latitudes. But there was no
commotion nor excitement of any kind—no
screams of alarm or running to cover. On the
contrary, when the party came to a halt and
looked up at the strange sight, two birds stopped
in their flight to perch on the mate’s shoulder,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>
and one hopped toward the captain with a
movement as if politely asking his business.
He even lifted the young birds from under
their mother’s wings without protest of any
kind—not even a peck of their beaks—one of
the older birds really stepped into his hand
and settled herself as unconcerned as if his
warm palm was exactly the kind of nest she
had been waiting for. He could, he told me,
have carried the whole family away without
protest of any kind so long as he kept them
together.</p>
<p>“The following week he again visited the
shore. This time he found not only the
friendly penguins, who met him with even
more than their former welcome, but a huge
seal which had sprawled itself out on the rock
and whose only acknowledgment of their presence
was a lazy lift of the head followed by a
sleepy stare. So perfectly undisturbed was he
by their coming, that both the captain and the
first mate sat down on his back, the mate remaining
long enough to light his pipe. Even
then the seal moved only far enough to stretch
himself, as if saying, ‘Try that and you will
find it more comfortable.’</p>
<p>“On this visit, however, something occurred<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
which, he told me, he should never cease to regret
as long as he lives. That morning as they
pushed off from the ship, one of the dogs had
made a clear spring from the deck and had
landed in the boat. It was rather difficult to
send him back without loss of time, and so he
put him in charge of the mate, with orders not
to take his eyes off him and, as a further precaution,
to chain him to the seat when he went
ashore. So fascinated were the penguins by the
dog that for some minutes they kept walking
round and round him, taking in his every
movement. In some way, when the mate was
not looking, the dog slipped his chain and disappeared.
Whether he had gone back to the
vessel or was doing some exploring on his own
account nobody knew; anyhow, he must be
found.</p>
<p>“It then transpired that one of the penguins
had also taken a notion to go on a still
hunt of its own, and alone. Whether the dog
followed the penguin, or the penguin the dog,
he said he never knew; but as soon as both
were out of sight the dog pounced upon the
bird and strangled it. They found it flat on
its back, the black-webbed feet, palms up, as
in dumb protest, the plump white body glis<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>tening
in the snow. From its throat trickled
a stream of blood: they had come just in time
to save any further mutilation. To hide all
traces of the outrage, the captain and his men
not only carried the dead penguin and the live
dog to the boat, but carefully scraped up every
particle of the stained snow, which was also
carried to the boat and finally to the ship.
What he wanted, he told me, was to save his
face with the birds. He knew that not one of
them had seen the tragedy, and he was determined
that none of them should find it out.
So careful was he that no smell of blood would
be wafted toward them, that he had the boat
brought to windward before he embarked the
load; in this way, too, he could avoid bidding
both them and the seal good-by.</p>
<p>“The following spring he again landed on
the shore. He had completed the survey, and
the coast lay on their homeward track. There
were doubters in the crew, who had heard the
captain’s story of the penguins walking arm
and arm with him, so he landed some of the
ship’s company to convince them by ocular
demonstration of its truth. But no penguins
were in sight, nor did any other living thing put
in an appearance. One of his men—there were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
six this time—caught a glimpse of a row of
heads peering at them over a ridge of snow a
long way off, but that was all. When he
reached the cave the birds flew out in alarm,
screaming and circling as if to protect their
young.”</p>
<p>Herbert paused, moved his cup nearer the
arm of his chair, and for a moment stirred it
gently.</p>
<p>Lemois, whose grave eyes had never wandered
from Herbert, broke the silence.</p>
<p>“I should have learned their language and
have stayed on until they did understand,” he
murmured softly. “It wouldn’t have taken
very long.”</p>
<p>“The captain did try, Lemois,” returned
Herbert, “first by signs and gentle approaches,
and then by keeping perfectly still, to pacify
them; but it was of no use. They had lost
all confidence in human kind. The peace of
the everlasting ages had come to an end. Fear
had entered into their world!”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV
<br /><br />THE ARRIVAL OF A LADY OF QUALITY</h2>
<p>One of the delights of dressing by our
open windows at this season is to catch
the aroma of Mignon’s roasting coffee. This
morning it is particularly delicious. The dry
smell of the soil that gave it birth is fast
merging into that marvellous perfume which
makes it immortal. The psychological moment
is arriving; in common parlance it is
just on the “burn”—another turn and the
fire will have its revenge. But Mignon’s vigil
has never ceased—into the air it goes, the soft
breeze catching and cooling it, and then there
pours out, flooding the garden, the flowers, and
the roofs, its new aroma and with it its new
life.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 640px;">
<img src="images/i_alt_fp060.jpg" width="640" height="409" alt="Flooding the garden, the flowers, and the roofs" title="" />
<span class="caption">Flooding the garden, the flowers, and the roofs</span>
</div>
<p>And the memories it calls up—this pungent,
fragrant, spicy perfume: memories of the cup
I drank in that old posada outside the gate
of Valencia and the girl who served it, and
the matador who stood by the window and
scowled; memories of my own toy copper
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
coffee-pot, with its tiny blue cup and saucer
which Luigi, my gondolier, brings and pours
himself; memories of the thimblefuls in shallow
china cups hardly bigger than an acorn
shell, that Yusef, my dragoman, laid beside
my easel in the patio of the Pigeon Mosque
in Stamboul, when the priests forbade me to
paint.</p>
<p>Yes!—a wonderful aroma this which our
pretty, joyous Mignon is scattering broadcast
over the court-yard, hastening every man’s
toilette that he may get down the earlier where
Leà is waiting for him with the big cups, the
crescents, the pats of freshly churned butter,
and the pitcher of milk boiling-hot from
Pierre’s fire.</p>
<p>Another of the pleasures of the open window
is being able to hear what goes on in the court-yard.
To-day the ever-spontaneous and delightful
Louis, as usual, is monopolizing all the
talk, with Lemois and Mignon for audience,
he having insisted on the open garden for his
early cup, which the good Leà has brought,
her scuffling sabots marking a track across the
well-raked gravel. The conversation is at long
range—Louis sitting immediately under my
window and Lemois, within reach of the kitchen<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
door at the other side of the court, busying
himself with his larder spread out on a table.</p>
<p>“Monsieur Lemois! Oh, Monsieur Lemois!”
Louis called; “will you be good enough to pay
attention! What about eggs?—can I have a
couple of soft-boiled?”</p>
<p>“Why, of course you can have eggs! Leà,
tell Pierre to——”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know, but will it endanger the life
of the chickens inside? After your sermon last
night, and Herbert’s penguin yarn, I don’t
intend that any living thing shall suffer because
of my appetite—not if I can help it.”</p>
<p>Lemois shrugged his shoulders in laughter,
and kept on with his work, painting a still-life
picture on his table-top—a string of silver
onions for high lights and a brace of pheasants
with a background of green turnip-tops for
darks. To see Lemois spread his marketing
thus deliberately on his canvas of a kitchen
table is a lesson in color and composition.
You get, too, some idea as to why he was able
to reproduce in real paint the “Bayeux” tapestry
on the walls of the “Gallerie” and arrange
the Marmouset as he has done.</p>
<p>My ear next became aware of a certain
silence in the direction of the coffee-roaster<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>
which had ceased its rhythm—the coffee is
roasted fresh every morning. I glanced out
and discovered our Mignon standing erect
beside her roaster with flushed cheeks and
dancing eyes. Next I caught sight of young
Gaston, his bronze, weather-beaten face turned
toward the girl, his eyes roaming around the
court-yard. In his sunburned hand he clutched
a letter. He was evidently inquiring of Mignon
as to whom he should give it.</p>
<p>“Who’s it for?” shouted Louis, who, as
godfather to Mignon’s romance, had also been
watching the little comedy in delight. “All
private correspondence read by the cruel parent!
I am the cruel parent—bring it over
here! What!—not for me? Oh!—for the High-Muck-a-Muck.”
The shout now came over his
left shoulder. “Here’s a letter for you, High-Muck,
from Marc, so this piscatorial Romeo
announces. Shall I send it up?”</p>
<p>“No—open and read it,” I shouted back.</p>
<p>Louis slit the envelope with his thumb-nail
and absorbed its contents.</p>
<p>“Well!—I’ll be—No, I won’t, but Marc
ought. What do you think he’s been and
gone and done, the idiot!”</p>
<p>“Give it up!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>”</p>
<p>“Invited a friend of his—a young—the Marquise
de la Caux—to dine with us to-night.
Says she’s the real thing and the most wonderful
woman he knows. Doesn’t that make
your hair curl up backward! He’s coming
down with her in her motor—be here at seven
precisely. A marquise! Well!—if that doesn’t
take the cake! I’ll bet she’s Marc’s latest
mash!”</p>
<p>Herbert put his head out of an adjoining
window. “What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“Matter! Why that lunatic Marc is going
to bring a woman down to dinner—one of those
fine things from St. Germain. She’s got a château
above Buezval. Marc stayed there last
night instead of showing up here.”</p>
<p>“Very glad of it, why not?” called Herbert,
drawing in his head.</p>
<p>Lemois, who had heard the entire outbreak,
nodded to himself as if in assent, looked at
Gaston for a moment, and, without adding a
word of any kind, disappeared in the kitchen.
What he thought of it all nobody knew.</p>
<p>There was no doubt as to the seriousness of
the impending catastrophe. Marc, in his enthusiasm,
had lost all sense of propriety, and
was about to introduce among us an element<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>
we had hitherto avoided. Indeed, one of the
enticing comforts at the Inn was its entire freedom
from petticoat government of any kind.
A woman of quality, raised as she had been,
would mean dress-coats and white ties for dinner
and the restraint that comes with the mingling
of the sexes, and we disliked both—that is,
when on our outings.</p>
<p>By this time the news had penetrated to
the other rooms, producing various comments.
Herbert, with his head again out of the window,
advanced the opinion that the hospitality
of madame la marquise had been so overwhelming,
and her beauty and charm so compelling,
that Marc’s only way out was to
introduce her among us. Louis kept his nose
in the air. Brierley, from the opposite side of
the court, indulged in a running fire of good-natured
criticism in which Marc was described
as the prize imbecile who needed a keeper. As
for me, sitting on the window-sill watching the
by-plays going on below—especially Louis, who
demanded an immediate answer for Gaston—there
was nothing left, of course, but a—“Why
certainly, Louis, any friend of Marc’s will be
most welcome, and say that we dine at seven.”</p>
<p>And yet before the day was over—so subtly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>
does the feminine make its appeal—that despite
our assumed disgust, each and every man
of us had resolved to do his prettiest to make
the distinguished lady’s visit a happy one. As a
woman of the world she would, of course, overlook
the crudities of our toilettes. And then,
as we soon reasoned to ourselves, why shouldn’t
our bachelor reunions be enlivened, at least for
once, by a charming woman of twenty-five—Marc
never bothered himself with any older—who
would bring with her all the perfume, dash,
and chic of the upper world and whose toilette
in contrast with our own dull clothes would be
all the more entrancing? This, now that we
thought about it, was really the touch the
Marmouset needed.</p>
<p>It was funny to see how everybody set to
work without a word to his fellow. Herbert
made a special raid through the garden and
nipped off the choicest October roses—buds
mostly—as befitted our guest. Louis, succumbing
to the general expectancy, occupied
himself in painting the menus on which Watteau
cupids swinging from garlands were most
pronounced. Brierley, pretending it was for
himself, spent half the morning tuning up the
spinet with a bed-key, in case this rarest of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
women could sing, or should want any one
else to, while Lemois, with that same dry smile
which his face always wears when his mind is
occupied with something that amuses him, ordered
Pierre to begin at once the preparation
of his most famous dish, Poulet Vallée d’Auge,
spending the rest of the morning in putting a
final polish on his entire George III coffee service—something
he never did except for persons,
as he remarked, of “exceptional quality.”</p>
<p>Not to be outdone in courtesy I unhooked
the great iron key of the wine-cellar from its
nail in Pierre’s kitchen, and swinging back the
old door on its rusty hinges, drew from among
the cobwebs a bottle of Chablis, our heavier
Burgundies being, of course, too heating for so
dainty a creature. This I carried in my own
hands to the Marmouset, preserving its long-time
horizontal so as not to arouse a grain of
the sediment of years, tucking it at last into a
crib of a basket for a short nap, only to be
again awakened when my lady’s glass was ready.</p>
<p>When the glad hour arrived and we were
drawn up to receive her—every man in his best
outfit—best he had—with a rosebud in his button-hole—and
she emerged from the darkness
and stood in the light of the overhead can<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>dles—long,
lank Marc bowing and scraping
at her side, there escaped from each one of us,
all but Lemois, a half-smothered groan which
sounded like a faint wail.</p>
<p>What we saw was not a paragon of delicate
beauty, nor a vision of surpassing loveliness,
but a parallelogram stood up on end, fifty or
more years of age, one unbroken perpendicular
line from her shoulders to her feet—or rather
to a brown velvet, close-fitting skirt that reached
to her shoe-tops—which were stout as a man’s
and apparently as big. About her shoulders
was a reefing jacket, also of brown velvet, fastened
with big horn buttons; above this came
a loose cherry-red scarf of finest silk in perfect
harmony with the brown of the velvet; above
this again was a head surmounted by a mass
of fluffy, partly gray hair, parted on one side—as
Rosa Bonheur wore hers. Then came two
brilliant agate eyes, two ruddy cheeks, and a
sunny, happy mouth filled with pearl-white teeth.</p>
<p>One smile—and it came with the radiance
of a flashlight—and all misgivings vanished.
There was no question of her charm, of
her refinement, or of her birth. Neither was
there any question as to her thorough knowledge
of the world.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p>
<p>“I knew you were all down here for a good
time,” she began in soft, low, musical tones,
when the introductions were over, “and would
understand if I came just as I was. I have
been hunting all day—tramping the fields with
my dogs—and I would not even stop to rearrange
my hair. It was so good of you to let
me come; and I love this room—its atmosphere
is so well bred, and it is never so charming as
when the firelight dances about it. Ah, Monsieur
Lemois! I see some new things. Where
did you get that duck of a sauce-boat?—and
another Italian mirror! But then there is no
use trying to keep up with you. My agent
offered what I thought was three times its
value for that bit of Satsuma, and I nearly
broke my heart over it—and here it is! You
really <i>should</i> be locked up as a public nuisance!”</p>
<p>We turned instinctively toward Lemois, remembering
his queer, dry smile when he referred
to her coming, but his only reply to her
comment was a low bow to the woman of rank,
with the customary commonplace, that all of
his curios were at her disposal if she would
permit him to send them to her, and with this
left the room.</p>
<p>“And now where shall I sit?” she bubbled<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
on. “Next to you, I hope, my dear Monsieur
Herbert. You do not know me—never
heard of me, perhaps—but I know all about
you and the wonderful things you have accomplished.
And you too, Monsieur Louis. I
remember your first success as I do those of
most of the young men who have won their
medals for twenty years back. And you,
Monsieur Brierley—and—can I say it?—Monsieur
High-Muck”—and she nodded gayly at
me. “And now you will all please give your
imagination free rein. Try and remember that
I am not a hideous old woman in corduroys
and high boots, but a most delightful and bewitching
demoiselle; and please remember, too,
that I can wear a décolleté gown if I please,
only I don’t please, and haven’t pleased for
ten years or more.”</p>
<p>Her perfect poise and freedom from all conventionality
put us at once at our ease, making
us forget she had only been among us a few
minutes.</p>
<p>“And how clever you are to have chosen
this room for these delightful meetings, of which
Monsieur Marc has told me,” she continued,
her eyes wandering again over the several objects,
while her personality completely domi<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>nated
everything. “Nobody but Lemois would
have brought them all together. What a genius
he is! Think of his putting that wooden
angel where its golden crown can become an
aureole in the candle-light: he has done that
since my last visit. And that other one—really
the rarest thing he owns—in the dark
corner by the fireplace. May I tell you
about it before he comes back? It is of the
fifteenth century, and is called the ‘Bella
Nigra’—the Black Virgin. Look at it, all of
you, while I hold the candle. You see the
face is black, the legend running, ‘I am beautiful
though black because the sun has looked
at me so long.’ You notice, too, that she
has neither arms nor legs—a symbol of nobility,
showing she need neither work nor walk,
and the triple crown means that she is Queen
of Heaven, Earth, and Sea. Why he pokes
her in a dark corner I cannot imagine, except
that it is just like him to do the queerest
things—and say them too. And yet, he is
<i>such</i> a dear—and <i>so</i> funny! You cannot think
what funny things he does and says until you
watch him as I have. Why is it, Monsieur
Brierley, that you have never put him into one
of your books—you who write such charming<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
stories of our coast? Only this summer something
occurred which I laugh over every time
I think of it. The Cabourg races were on
and the court-yard outside was packed with
people who had come for luncheon before the
Prix Lagrange was run. They were making a
good deal of noise—a thing the old gentleman
hates, especially from loudly dressed women.
I was at the next table, sheltered from the
others, and was enjoying the curious spectacle—such
people always interest me—when I noticed
Monsieur Lemois rubbing his hands together,
talking to himself, his eyes fixed on
the group. I knew one of his storms was
brewing, and was wondering what would happen,
when I saw him start forward as another
uproarious laugh escaped one of the most
boisterous.</p>
<p>“‘Mademoiselle,’ he said in his softest and
most courteous tone, hat in hand, bowing first
to her and then to her male companions; ‘mademoiselle,
I love to hear you laugh; I built
this place for laughter, but when you laughed
so <i>very</i> loud a moment ago my flowers were so
ashamed they hung their heads,’ and then he
kept on bowing, his hat still in his hand, his
face calm, his manner scrupulously polite. No<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>body
was offended. They seemed to think it was
some kind of a compliment; the rebuked woman
even turned her head toward the big hydrangeas
as if trying to find out how they really felt
about it. Oh!—he is too delicious for words.”</p>
<p>And so it went on until before the dinner
was over she had captured every man in the
room—both by what she said and the way she
said it—her eyes flashing like a revolving
light, now dim, now brilliant with the thoughts
behind them, her white teeth gleaming as she
talked. Marc seemed beside himself with pride
and happiness. “Never was there such a
woman,” he was pouring into Herbert’s ear;
“and you should see her pictures and her stables
and her gun-room. Really the most extraordinary
creature I have ever known! Does
just as she pleases—a tramp one day and a
duchess the next. And you should watch her
at the head of her table in her château—then
you will know what a real ‘Grande Dame’ is.”</p>
<p>While the others were crowding about her,
Marc eager to anticipate her every wish in the
way of cushions, footstools, and the like, I went
to find Lemois, who was just outside, his hands
laden with a tray of cordials.</p>
<p>“You know her then?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>”</p>
<p>“Oh, for years,” he whispered back. “I
did not tell you, for I wanted to see your surprise
and surrender. It is always the same
story with her. She does not live here except
for a month or so in the autumn, when
the small villa on the bluff above Buezval—two
miles from here—is opened; a little box
of a place filled with costly bric-à-brac. Her
great château—the one in which she really
lives—is on an estate of some thousands of
acres near Rouen, and is stocked with big game—boar
and deer. The marquis—and a great
gentleman he was—died some twenty years
ago. Madame paints, carves ivories, binds
books, shoots, fishes, speaks five languages,
has lived all over the world and knows everybody
worth knowing. No one in her youth
was more beautiful, but the figure has gone,
as you see—and it is such a pity, for it was
superb; only the eyes and the teeth are left—and
the smile. That was always her greatest
charm, and still is—except her charities, which
never cease.”</p>
<p>Her musical voice was still vibrating through
the room as I re-entered.</p>
<p>“No, I don’t agree with you, Monsieur Herbert,”
she was saying. “It is shameful that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
we do not keep closer to the usages and requirements
of the old régime. In my time a
woman would have excited comment who did
not wear her finest gown and her choicest
jewels in so select a company as this; and
often very extraordinary things happened when
any one defied the mandate. I remember one
very queer instance which I wish I could tell
you about—and it resulted in all sorts of dreadful
complications. I became so adept a fibber
in consequence that I wasn’t able to speak the
truth for months afterward—and all because
this most charming girl wouldn’t wear a low
gown at one of our dinners.”</p>
<p>Herbert beat the air with his hand. “Keep
still, everybody—madame la marquise is going
to tell us a story.”</p>
<p>“Madame la marquise is going to do nothing
of the kind. She has enough sins of her
own to answer for without betraying those of
this poor girl.”</p>
<p>“Hold up your hands and swear secrecy,
every one of you!” cried Louis.</p>
<p>“But who will absolve me from breaking the
commandment? You will never have any respect
for me again—you remember the rule—all
liars shall have their portion—don’t you?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>”</p>
<p>“If madame will permit me,” said Lemois
with a low bow, “I will be her father-confessor,
for I alone of all this group know how good she
really is.”</p>
<p>“Very well, I take you at your word, Fra
Lemois, and to prove how good <i>you</i> are, you
shall send me the Satsuma with your compliments,
and pick from my collection anything
that pleases you. But you must first let me
have a cigarette. Wait”—she twisted back
her arm and drew a gold case from the side
pocket of her jacket—“yes, I have one of my
own—one I rolled myself, and I cure my own
tobacco too, if you please. No! no more Burgundy”
(she had declined my carefully selected
Chablis and had drank the heavier wine with
the rest of us). “That Romanée Conti I
know, and it generally gets into my head,
and I don’t like anything in my head except
what I put there myself. What did you want
me to do? Oh, yes, tell you that story of my
youth.</p>
<p>“Well, one day my dear husband received a
letter from an English officer, a dear friend
of his with whom he had had the closest relations
when they were both stationed in Borneo.
This letter told us that his daughter, whom,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
as we knew, had been captured by the Dyaks
when she was a child of eight, had been found
some three years before by a scouting party
and returned to the English agent at the
principal seaport, the name of which I forget.
Since that time she had been living with a
relative, who had sent her to school. She had
now completed her education, the letter went
on to say, and was on her way back to England
to join him, he being an invalided officer
on half-pay. Before reaching him he wanted
her to see something of the world, particularly
of French life, and knew of no one with whom
he would be more willing to trust her than
ourselves. She was just grown—in her eighteenth
year—and, although she had passed
seven years of her life among a wild tribe, was
still an English girl of prepossessing appearance.</p>
<p>“Well, she came—a beautifully formed,
graceful creature, with flashing black eyes, a
clear skin, and with a certain barbaric litheness
when she moved that always reminded me of a
panther, it was so measured, and had such
meaning in it. She brought some expensive
clothes, but no décolleté dresses of any kind,
which surprised me, and when I offered to lend
her my own—we were of about the same size<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>—she
refused politely but firmly, which surprised
me all the more, and went right on wearing her
high-necked gowns, which, while good in themselves—for
her people were not poor—were not
exactly the kind of toilettes my husband and
my guests had been accustomed to—certainly
not at dinners of twenty.</p>
<p>“At every other function she was superb,
and for each one had the proper outfit and of
the best make. She rode well, danced well,
sang like a bird, could shoot and hunt with
any of us, and, with the exception of this curious
whim—for her form was faultless—was
one of the most delightful creatures who ever
stayed with us—and we had had, as you
may suppose, a good many. The subjects she
avoided were her captivity and the personnel
of those with whom she had lived. When
pressed she would answer that she had told
the story so often she was tired of it; had
banished it from her mind and wished everybody
else would.</p>
<p>“Then the expected happened. Indeed I
had begun to wonder why it had not happened
before. A young Frenchman, the only son of
one of our oldest families, a man of birth and
fortune, fell madly in love with her. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
mother was up in arms, and so was the father.
She was without title, and, so far as they knew,
without fortune in her own right; was English,
and the match could not and should not take
place.</p>
<p>“How the girl felt about it we could not
find out. Sometimes she would see him alone,
generally in the dusk of the evening on the
lawn, but though she was English, and we had
given the full limit of her freedom, she always
kept within sight of the veranda. At other
times she refused to see him altogether, sending
word she was ill, or engaged, or had friends,
all of which I found extraordinary. This went
on until matters reached a crisis. She knew
she must either send him about his business or
succumb: this was <i>her</i> problem. <i>His</i> problem
was to win her whether or no; if not here,
then in England, where he would follow her;
and he took no pains to conceal it. His persistence
was met by a firm refusal, and finally by
a command to leave her alone. The dismissal
was given one night after dinner when they
were together for a few minutes in the library,
after which, so my maid told me, she went to
her room and threw herself on her bed in an
agony of tears.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p>
<p>“But there is nothing for sheer obstinacy
like a Frenchman in love. Indeed he was too
far gone to believe a word she said or take no
for an answer, and as my grounds were next to
his mother’s, and the two families most intimate,
he still kept up his visits to the house,
where, I must say, he was always welcome,
for my husband and I liked him extremely,
and he deserved it. His mother, objecting to
the marriage, wanted to keep him away. She
insisted—all this I heard afterward—that the
girl was half savage and looked and moved like
one; that she had doubtless been brought up
among a lawless tribe who robbed every one
around them; that there was no knowing what
such a girl had done and would not do, and
that she would rather see her son lying dead
at her feet—the usual motherly exaggeration—than
see him her victim. This brought him
at last to his senses, for he came to me one day
and wanted me to tell him what I knew of her
antecedents as well as the story of her captivity
and life with the savages. This was a difficult
situation to face, and I at first refused to discuss
her private affairs. Then I knew any
mystery would only make him the more crazy,
and so I told him what I knew, omitting the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
more intimate details. Strange to say, Frenchman-like,
it only maddened him the more—so
much so that he again waylaid her and asked
her some questions which made her blaze like
coals of fire, and again the poor girl went to
bed in a flood of tears.</p>
<p>“Then the most puzzling and inexplicable
thing happened. I had a very deep topaz of
which I was passionately fond—one given me
by my dear husband shortly after we were married.
I generally kept it in my small jewel
case, to which only my maid and I had the key.
This night when I opened it the jewel was gone.
My maid said she remembered distinctly my
putting it, together with the chain, in the box,
for my guest was with me at the time and had
begged me to wear it because of its rich color,
which she always said matched my eyes. At
first I said nothing to any one—not even my
husband—and waited; then I watched my
maid; then my butler, about whom I did not
know much, and who was in love with the
maid, and might have tempted her to steal it.
And, last of all—why I could not tell, and cannot
to this day, except for that peculiar pantherlike
movement about my guest—I watched
the girl herself. But nothing came of it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span></p>
<p>“Then I began to talk. I told my husband;
I told the young man’s mother, my intimate
friend, who told her son, she accusing the girl, of
course, without a scintilla of proof; I told my
butler, my maid—I told everybody who could
in any way help to advertise my loss and the
reward I was willing to pay for its recovery.
Still nothing resulted and the week passed without
a trace of the jewel or the thief.</p>
<p>“One morning just after luncheon, when I
was alone in my little boudoir and my husband
and the young man were having their coffee
and cigarettes on the veranda outside, the girl
walked in, made sure that no one was within
hearing, and held out her hand. In the palm
was my lost topaz.</p>
<p>“‘Here is your jewel,’ she said calmly; ‘I
stole it, and now I have brought it back.’</p>
<p>“‘You!’ I gasped. ‘Why?’</p>
<p>“‘To disgust him and make him hate me so
that he will never see me again. I love him
too much to give myself to him. In my madness
I thought of this.’</p>
<p>“‘And you want him to know it!’ I cried
out. I could hardly get my breath, the shock
was so great.</p>
<p>“‘Yes—<i>here!</i>—NOW!’ She stepped to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
door. ‘Monsieur,’ she called, ‘I have something
to tell you. I have just brought back
her jewel—I stole it! Now come, madame,
to my room and I will tell you the rest!’</p>
<p>“I followed her upstairs, leaving the horror-stricken
young man dazed and speechless. She
shut the door, locked it, and faced me.</p>
<p>“‘I have lied to both of you, madame. I
did not steal your jewel; nobody stole it. I
found it a few minutes ago under the edge of
the rug where it had rolled; you dropped it in
my room the night you wore it. In my agony
to find some way out I seized on this. It
came to me in a flash and I ran downstairs
clutching it in my hand, knowing I would be
lost if I hesitated a moment. It is over now.
He will never see me again!’</p>
<p>“I stood half paralyzed at the situation; she
erect before me, her eyes blazing, her figure
stretched to the utmost, like an animal in pain.</p>
<p>“‘And you deliberately told him you were
a thief!’ I at last managed to stammer out.
‘Why?’</p>
<p>“‘Because it was the only way to escape—it
was the only way out. I never want him
to think of me in any other light—I want to
be dead to him forever! Nothing else would<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
have done; I should have yielded, for I could
no longer master my love for him. Look!’</p>
<p>“She was fumbling at her dress, loosening
the top buttons close under her chin; then she
ripped it clear, exposing her neck and back.</p>
<p>“‘This is what was done to me when I was
a child!’</p>
<p>“I leaned forward to see the closer. The
poor child was one mass of hideous tattoo
from her throat to her stays!</p>
<p>“‘Now you know the whole story,’ she
sobbed, her eyes streaming tears; ‘my heart
is broken but I am satisfied. I could have
stood anything but his loathing.’</p>
<p>“With this she fastened her dress and walked
slowly out of the room, her head down, her
whole figure one of abject misery.”</p>
<p>Madame leaned forward, picked up her goblet
of water, and remarking that walking in the
wind always made her thirsty, drained its
contents. Then she turned her head to hide
her tears.</p>
<p>“A most extraordinary story, madame. Did
the young fellow ever speak of the theft?”
asked Herbert, the first of her listeners to
speak.</p>
<p>“No,” she answered slowly, in the effort to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
regain her composure, “he loved her too much
to hear anything against her. He knew she
had stolen it, for he had heard it from her own
lips.”</p>
<p>“And you never tried to clear her character?”</p>
<p>“How could I? It was her secret, not mine.
To divulge it would have led to her other and
more terrible secret, and that I was pledged to
keep. She is dead, poor girl, or I would not
have told you now.”</p>
<p>“And what did you do, may I ask?” inquired
Brierley.</p>
<p>“Nothing, except tell fibs. After she had
gone the following morning I excused her to
him, of course, on every ground that I could
think of. I argued that she had a peculiar
nature; that owing to her captivity she had perhaps
lost that fine sense of what was her own
and what was another’s; that she had many
splendid qualities; that she had only yielded to
an impulse, just as a Bedouin does who steals
an Arab horse and who, on second thought,
returns it. That I had forgiven her, and had
told her so, and as proof of it had tried, without
avail, to make her keep the topaz. Only
my husband knew the truth. ‘Let it stay as
it is, my dear,’ he said to me; ‘that girl has<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
more knowledge of human nature than I credited
her with. Once that young lover of hers
had learned the cruel truth he wouldn’t have
lived with her another hour.’”</p>
<p>“I think I should have told him,” remarked
Louis slowly; the story seemed to have strangely
moved him. “If he really loved her he’d have
worn green spectacles and taken her as she was—I
would. Bad business, this separating lovers.”</p>
<p>“No, you wouldn’t, Louis,” remarked Herbert,
“if you’d ever seen her neck. I know
something of that tattoo, although mine was
voluntary, and only covered a part of my arm.
Madame did just right. There are times when
one must tell anything but the truth.”</p>
<p>Everybody looked at the speaker in astonishment.
Of all men in the world he kept closest
to the exact hair-line; indeed, one of Herbert’s
peculiarities, as I have said, was his always
understating rather than overstating a fact.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he continued, “the only way out is
to ‘lie like a gentleman,’ as the saying is, and
be done with it. I’ve been through it myself
and know. Your story, madame, has brought
it all back to me.”</p>
<p>“It’s about a girl, of course,” remarked Louis,
flashing a smile around the circle, “and your<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
best girl, of course. Have a drop of cognac,
old man,” and he filled Herbert’s tiny glass.
“It may help you tell the <i>whole</i> truth before
you get through.”</p>
<p>“No,” returned Herbert calmly, pushing the
cognac from him, a peculiar tenderness in his
voice; “not my best girl, Louis, but a gray-haired
woman of sixty—one I shall never
forget.”</p>
<p>Madame laid her hand quickly on Herbert’s
arm; she had caught the note in his voice.</p>
<p>“Oh! I’m so glad!” she said. “I love stories
of old women; I always have. Please go
on.”</p>
<p>“If I could have made her young again,
madame, you would perhaps have liked my
story better.”</p>
<p>“Why? Is it very sad?”</p>
<p>“Yes and no. It is not, I must say, exactly
an after-dinner story, and but that it
illustrates precisely how difficult it is sometimes
to speak the truth, I would not tell it
at all. Shall I go on?”</p>
<p>“Yes, please do,” she pleaded, a tremor now
in her own voice. It was astonishing how simple
and girlish she could be when her sympathies
were aroused.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span></p>
<p>“My gray-haired woman had an only son,
a man but a few years younger than myself,
a member of my own party, who had died
some miles from our camp at Bangala, and
it accordingly devolved upon me not only to
notify his people of his death, but to forward
to them the few trinkets and things he had
left behind. As I was so soon to return to
London I wrote his people that I would bring
them with me.</p>
<p>“He was a fine young fellow, cool-headed,
afraid of nothing, and was a great help to me
and very popular with every one in the camp.
Having been sent out by the company to
which I belonged, as were many others during
the first years of our stay on the Congo,
he had already mastered both the language
and the ways of the natives. When a powwow
was to be held I always sent him to conduct
it if I could not go myself. I did so, too,
when he had to teach the natives a lesson—lessons
they needed and never forgot, for he
was as plucky as he was politic.</p>
<p>“I knew nothing of his people except that
he was a Belgian whose mother, Madame
Brion, occupied a villa outside of Brussels,
where she lived with a married daughter.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p>
<p>“On presenting my card I was shown into
a small library where the young woman received
me with tender cordiality, and, after
closing the door so that we might not be overheard,
she gave me an outline of the ordeal
I was about to go through. With her eyes
brimming tears she told me how her mother
had only allowed her son to leave home because
of the pressure brought to bear upon
her by his uncle, who was interested in the
company; how she daily, almost hourly,
blamed herself for his death; how, during the
years of his absence, she had lived on his letters,
and when mine came, telling her of his
end, she had sat dazed and paralyzed for
hours, the open page in her lap—no word escaping
her—no tears—only the dull pain of a
grief which seemed to freeze the blood in her
veins. Since that time she had counted the
days to my coming, that she might hear the
details of his last illness and suffering.</p>
<p>“You can imagine how I felt. I have never
been able to face a woman when she is broken
down with grief, and but that she was expecting
me every minute, and had set her heart on
my coming, I think I should have been cowardly
enough to have left the house.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p>
<p>“When the servant returned, I was conducted
up the broad staircase and into a small
room hung with wonderful embroideries and
pictures and filled with flowers. In one corner
on an easel was Brion’s portrait in the
uniform of an officer, while all about were
other portraits—some taken when he was a
child, others as a boy—a kind of sanctuary,
really, in which the mother worshipped this
one idol of her life.”</p>
<p>Herbert stopped, drew the tiny glass of
cognac toward him, sipped its contents slowly,
the tenderness of tone increasing as he went on:</p>
<p>“She greeted me simply and kindly, and led
me to a seat on the sofa beside her, where she
thanked me for the trouble I had taken, her
soft blue eyes fixed on mine, her gentle, high-bred
features illumined with her gratitude, her
silver-gray hair forming an aureole in the light
of the window behind her, as she poured out
her heart. Then followed question after question;
she wanting every incident, every word
he had uttered; what his nursing had been—all
the things a mother would want to know.
Altogether it was the severest ordeal I had been
through since I left home—and I have had some
trying ones.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p>
<p>“For three hours I sat there, giving her minute
accounts of his illness, his partial recovery,
his relapse; what remedies I had used; how he
failed after the fourth day; how his delirium
had set in, and how at the last he had passed
peacefully away. Next I described the funeral,
giving a succinct account of the preparations;
how we buried him on a little hill near a spring,
putting a fence around the grave to keep any
one from walking over it. Then came up the
question of a small head-stone. This she insisted
she would order cut at once and sent out
to me—or perhaps one could be made ready
so that I might take it with me. All this I
promised, of course, even to taking it with me
were there time, which, after all, I was able
to do, for my steamer was delayed. And so I
left her, her hands on my shoulders, her eyes
fixed on mine in gratitude for all I had done for
her dead son.”</p>
<p>“Oh!—the poor, dear lady!” cried madame
la marquise, greatly moved, her hands tight
clasped together. “Yes, I believe you—nothing
in all your experience could have been as
painful!”</p>
<p>Brierley raised his head and looked at Herbert:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p>
<p>“Rather a tight place, old man, awful tight
place,” and his voice trembled. “But where
does the lie come in? You told her the truth,
after all.”</p>
<p>“Told her the truth! I thought you understood.
Why I lied straight through! There
<i>was</i> no grave—there never had been! Her son
and his three black carriers had been trapped
by cannibals and eaten.”</p>
<p>Madame started from her chair and clutched
Herbert’s hand.</p>
<p>“Oh!—how terrible! No! you could not
have told her!—I would never have liked you
again if you had told her. Oh! I am so glad
you didn’t!”</p>
<p>“There was nothing else to do, madame,”
said Herbert thoughtfully, his eyes gazing into
space as if the recital had again brought the
scene before him.</p>
<p>“Pray God she never found out!” said the
marquise under her breath.</p>
<p>“That has always been my consolation, madame.
So far as I know she never did find
out. She is dead now.”</p>
<p>“And I wish we had never found out either!”
groaned Louis. “Why in the world do you
want to make goose-flesh crawl all over a fel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>low!
An awful, frightful story. I say, Herbert,
if you’ve got any more horrors keep ’em
for another night. I move we have a rest.
Drag out that spinet, Brierley, and give us
some music.”</p>
<p>“No, please don’t!” cried the marquise.
“Tell us another. I wish this one of Monsieur
Herbert’s was in print, so that I could
read it over and over. Think how banal is
our fiction; how we are forever digging in the
same dry ground, turning up the same trivialities—affairs
of the heart, domestic difficulties—thin,
tawdry romances of olden times, all the
characters masquerading in modern thought—all
false and stupid. Oh! how sick I am of it
all! But this epic of Monsieur Herbert means
the clash of races, the meeting of two civilizations,
the world turning back, as it were, to
measure swords with that from which it sprung.
And think, too, how rare it is to meet a man
who in his own life has lived them both—the
savage and the civilized. So please, Monsieur
Herbert, tell us another—something about the
savage himself. You know so many things and
you <i>are so human</i>.”</p>
<p>“He doesn’t open his lips, madame, until
I get some fresh air!” cried Louis. “Throw<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
back that door, Lemois, and let these hobgoblins
out! No more African horrors of any
kind! Ladies and gentlemen, you will now
hear the distinguished spinetist, Herr Brierley,
of Pont du Sable, play one of his soul-stirring
melodies! Up with you, Brierley, and
take the taste out of our mouths!”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V
<br /><br />IN WHICH THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN
A CANNIBAL AND A FREE-BOOTER
IS CLEARLY SET FORTH</h2>
<p>To-night the circle around the table welcomed
the belated Le Blanc, bringing with
him his friend, The Architect, who had designed
some of the best villas on the coast, and whose
fad when he was not bending over his drawing-board
was writing plays. Marc, to every one’s
regret, did not come. After returning with
madame to her villa the night of her visit, he
had, according to Le Blanc, been lost to the
world.</p>
<p>Dinner over and the cigarettes lighted, the
men pushed back their chairs; Louis spreading
himself on the sofa or great lounge; Brierley in
a chair by the fire, with Peter cuddled up in
his arms, and the others where they would be
the most comfortable; Lemois, as usual, at the
coffee-table.</p>
<p>The talk, as was to be expected, still revolved
around the extraordinary woman who had so<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
charmed us the night before; Le Blanc expressing
his profound regret at not having been
present, adding that he would rather listen to
her talk than to that of any other woman in
Europe, and I had just finished giving him a
résumé of her story about the tattooed girl and
her sufferings, when Brierley, who is peculiarly
sympathetic, let the dog slip to the floor, and
rising to his feet broke out in a tirade against
all savage tribes from Dyaks to cannibals, closing
his outburst with the hope that the next
fifty years would see them all exterminated.
Soon the table had taken sides, The Architect,
who had lived in Nevada and the far West, defending
the noble red man so cruelly debauched
by the earlier settlers; Le Blanc siding with
Brierley, while Lemois and I watched the discussion,
Louis, from his sofa, putting in his oar
whenever he thought he could jostle the boat,
grewsome discussions not being to his liking.</p>
<p>Herbert, who, dinner over, had been leaning
back in his chair, the glow of the firelight touching
both his own and the two carved heads
above him, and who, up to this time, had taken
no part in the talk—Herbert, not the heads,
suddenly straightened up, threw away his cigarette,
and rested his hands on the table.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p>
<p>“I have not been among the savage tribes
in lower Borneo,” he said, addressing The
Architect; “neither do I know the red Indian
as the Americans or their grandfathers may
have known him. But I do know the cannibal”—here
he looked straight at Le Blanc—“and
he is not as black as he is painted. In
fact, the white man is often ten times blacker
in the same surroundings.”</p>
<p>“Not when they roasted your Belgian
friend?” cried Louis, with some anger.</p>
<p>“Not even then. There were two sides to
that question.”</p>
<p>“The brown and the underdone, I suppose,”
remarked Louis <i>sotto voce</i>.</p>
<p>“No, the human.”</p>
<p>“But you don’t excuse the devils, do you?”
broke in Le Blanc. “Their cruelties are incredible.
A friend of mine once met a man in
Zanzibar who told him he had seen a group of
slaves, mostly young girls, who, after being
fattened up, were tied together and marched
from one of the villages to the other that the
buyers might select and mark upon their bodies
the particular cuts they wanted.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t a doubt of it. It’s all true,” replied
Herbert. “I once saw the same thing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>
myself when I was helpless to prevent it, as I
was in hiding at the time and dared not expose
myself. Yet I recognized even then that the
savage was only following out the traditions of
centuries, with no one to teach him any better.
We ourselves have savage tastes that are
never criticised; to do so would be considered
mawkish and sentimental. We feel, for instance,
no regret when we wring the neck of
a pigeon—that is, we didn’t,” Herbert added
with a dry smile, “until Lemois advanced his
theories of ‘mercy’ the other night. We still
feed our chickens in coops, stuff our geese to
enlarge their livers, fatten our hogs until they
can barely stagger, and, after parading them
around the market-places, kill and eat them
just as the African does his human product.
Even Lemois, with equal nonchalance, hacks
up his lobsters while they are alive or plunges
them into boiling water—he wouldn’t dare
serve them to us in any other way. The only
difference is that we persuade ourselves that our
pigs and poultry are ignorant of what is going
to happen to them, while the captured African
begins to suffer the moment he is pounced upon
by his captors.”</p>
<p>“And you mean to tell me you don’t blame<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
these wretches!” burst out Le Blanc. “I’d
burn ’em alive!”</p>
<p>“Yes, I am quite sure you would—that
is the usual civilized, twentieth-century way, a
continuation of the eye-for-an-eye dogma, but
it isn’t always efficacious, and it is seldom just.
The savage has his good side; he can really
teach some of us morals and manners, though
you may not believe it. Please don’t explode
again—not now; wait until I get through.
And I go even farther, for my experience teaches
me that the savage never does anything which
he himself thinks to be wrong. I say this because
I have been among them for a good many
years, speak their dialects, and have had, perhaps,
a better opportunity of studying them
than most travellers. And these evidences of a
better nature can be found, let me tell you, not
only among the tribes in what is known as
‘White Man’s Africa,’ opened up by the explorers,
but in the more distant parts—out of
the beaten track—often where no white man
has ever stepped—none at least before me.
Even among the cannibal tribes I have often
been staggered at discovering traits which were
as mysterious as they were amazing—deep human
notes of the heart which put the white<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
man to shame. These traits are all the more
extraordinary because they are found in a race
who for centuries have been steeped in superstition
with its attendant cruelty, and who
are considered incapable even of love because
they sell their women.</p>
<p>“You, Le Blanc, naturally break out and
want to burn them alive. Lemois, more humane,
as he always is, would exercise more
patience if he could see anything to build upon.
You are both wrong. Indeed, between the
educated white man freed from all restraint
and turned loose in a savage wilderness, and
the uneducated savage I would have more
hope of the cannibal than the freebooter, and I
say this because the older I grow the more I am
convinced that with a great majority of men,
public opinion, and public opinion only, keeps
them straight, and that when they are far from
these restraints they often stoop to a lower
level than the savage, unless some form of religion
controls their actions. To make this
clear I will tell you two stories.</p>
<p>“My first is about a young fellow, a graduate
of one of the first universities of Europe. I
am not going to preach, nor throw any blame.
Some of us in our twenties might have done<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
what that white man did. I am only trying
to prove my statement that the cannibal in
his cruelties is only following out the instincts
and traditions of his race, which have existed
for centuries, while the white man goes back
on every one of his. I wish to prove to you
if I can that there is more in the heart of a
savage than most of us realize—more to build
upon, as Lemois puts it.</p>
<p>“Some years ago I met, on the Upper Congo,
a young fellow named Goringe, of about twenty-four
or five, who had a contract with the company
for providing carriers to be sent to the
coast for the supplies to be brought back and
delivered to the several camps, mine among the
others. He, like many an adventurer drawn to
that Eldorado of adventure, was a man of more
than ordinary culture, a brilliant talker, and
of very great executive ability. It was his
business to visit the different villages, buy,
barter, or steal able-bodied men for so much a
month, and rush them in gangs to the coast
under charge of an escort. On their return
the company paid them and him so much a head.
There were others besides Goringe, of course,
engaged in the same business, but none of them
attained his results, as I had learned from time<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
to time from those who had come across his
caravans in their marches through the jungle.</p>
<p>“One morning a runner came into my camp
with a message from Goringe, telling me that
he intended passing within a mile or so of
where I was; that he was pressed for time or
would do himself the honor of calling upon
me, and that he would deem it a great favor
if I would meet him at a certain crossing where
he meant to rest during the heat of the day. I,
of course, sent him word that I should be on
hand. I hadn’t seen him for some years—few
other white men, for that matter—and I wanted
to learn for myself the secret of his marvellous
success. When in London he had worn correct
evening clothes, a decoration in his button-hole,
and was a frequenter of the best and most
exclusive clubs—rather a poor training, one
would suppose, for the successful life he had
of late been leading in the jungle—and it <i>was</i>
successful so far as the profits of the home
company were concerned. While their other
agents would hire ten men—or twenty—in a
long march of months, gathering up former
carriers out of work, some of whom had served
Stanley in his time, Goringe would get a hundred
or more of fresh recruits, all able-bodied<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
savages capable of carrying a load of sixty-five
pounds no matter what the heat or how
rough the going.</p>
<p>“I arrived at the crossing first and waited—waited
an hour, perhaps two—before his vanguard
put in an appearance. Then, to use one
of Louis’ expressions, I ‘sat up and began to
take notice.’ I had seen a good many barbaric
turnouts in my time—one in India when
I was the guest of a maharaja, who received
me at the foot of a steep hill flanked on either
side by a double row of elephants in gorgeous
trappings, with armed men in still more gorgeous
costumes filling the howdahs; another in
Ceylon, and another in southern Spain at
Easter time—but Goringe’s march was the
most unique and the most startling spectacle
I had ever laid my eyes on, so much so that I
hid myself in a mass of underbrush and let the
last man pass me before I made myself known.</p>
<p>“The vanguard was composed of some
twenty naked men, black as tar, of course,
and armed with spears and rawhide shields.
These were the fighters, clearing the way for
my lord, the white man. These were followed
by a dozen others carrying light articles: the
great man’s india-rubber bath-tub, his guns,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
ammunition, medicine-chest, tobacco, matches,
and toilette articles—with such portions of his
wardrobe as he might choose to enjoy. Separated
from the contaminating touch of those in
front by a space of some twenty feet and by
an equal distance from those behind, came Goringe,
walking alone, like a potentate of old.
As he passed within a few yards of where I lay
concealed I had ample opportunity to study
every detail of his personality and make-up.
I was not quite sure that it was he; then I got
his smile and the peculiar debonair lift of his
head. Except that he was fifty pounds heavier,
he was the man with whom I had dined so
often in London.</p>
<p>“On his head was a pith helmet that had
once been white, round which was wound a
yard or more of bright-red calico. A dozen
strings of gaudy beads bound his throat and
half covered his bare chest. After that there
was nothing but his naked skin—back and
front, as far down as his waist, from which
hung a frock of blue denim falling to his knees—then
more bare skin, and then his feet wrapped
in goat-skins. In his hand he carried a staff
which he swung from side to side as he walked
with lordly stride.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p>
<p>“His harem followed: thirty girls in single
file, dressed in the prevailing fashion of the
day—a petticoat of plantain leaves and a string
of beads. Each of them carried a gaudy paper
umbrella like those sold at home for sixpence.
Some of the girls were slim and tall, some fat;
but all were young and all bore themselves with
an air of calm distinction, as if conscious of
their alliance with a superior race. Bringing
up the rear was a long line of carriers loaded
down with tents, provisions, and other camp
equipage.</p>
<p>“When it had all passed I stepped quickly
through the forest, got abreast of my lord the
white man, and shouted:</p>
<p>“‘Goringe!’</p>
<p>“He turned suddenly, lifted the edge of his
helmet, threw his staff to one of his men, and
came quickly toward me.</p>
<p>“‘By the Eternal, but I’m glad to see you!
I was afraid you were going back on me! It
was awfully decent in you to come. You
didn’t mind my sending for you, did you?
I’ve got to make the next village by sundown,
and then I’m going up into the Hill Country,
and may not be this way again for months—perhaps
never. How well you look! What do
you think of my turnout?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>’</p>
<p>“I told him in reply, that it was rather remarkable—about
as uncivilized as anything I
had ever seen—and was on the point of asking
some uncomfortable questions when, noting my
disapproval, he switched off by explaining that
it was the only way he could make a penny,
and again turned the conversation by exclaiming
abruptly:</p>
<p>“‘Saw my wives, didn’t you?-every one of
them the daughter of a chief. You see, I buy
the girl, and so get even with her father, am
made High Pan-Jam with the red button and
feather, or next of kin to the chief by blood-letting—anything
they want. I’m scarred all
up now mixing my precious ancestral fluid with
that of these blacklegs, and am first cousin to
half the cutthroats on the river. Next I start
on the carriers, pick ’em out myself, and send
’em down to the agent. The home company
is getting ugly, so I hear, and wonder why they
owe me so much for the carriers I’ve sent
them—pretty near six hundred pounds sterling,
now. They think there is something
crooked about it, but I’m keeping it up. I’m
going down when the row is over and present
my bill, and they’ve got to pay it or I’ll know
the reason why. Now we’ll have tiffin.’</p>
<p>“I watched his women crowd about him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>
One spread a blanket for his royal highness
to sit on; two or more busied themselves getting
the food together; one, parasol in hand,
planted herself behind him to shield his precious
head from the few sunbeams that filtered
through the overhanging leaves, fanning
him vigorously all the while.</p>
<p>“With the serving of the meal and the uncorking
of a bottle in which he kept what he
called his ‘private stock,’ he gave me further
details of his methods with the natives. When
a chief was at war with another tribe, for instance,
he would move into the first village he
came to, spread his own tent and those of his
wives, post his retainers, and then despatch one
of his men to the other combatant, commanding
a powwow the next morning. Everybody
would come—everybody would talk, including
himself, for he spoke Kinkongo and Bangala
perfectly. Then when he had patched up their
difficulties, he would distribute presents, get
everybody drunk on palm wine, and would
move on next day with a contribution of carriers
from both tribes, adding with a wink,
‘And the trick works every time.’”</p>
<p>Herbert paused for a moment and his lips
curled.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span></p>
<p>“Now there’s a specimen white man for you!
To have expressed my disgust of his methods
in the way I would have liked to do—and I
can be pretty ugly at times—would, under the
circumstances, have been impossible, although
there was no question in my mind of his cruelty
nor of his sublime selfishness. The world was
his oyster and he opened it at his leisure. He
knew as well as I did what would become of the
women when he was through with them—that
they would either be sold into slavery or eaten—and
he knew, too, how many of those poor
devils of carriers would go to their death, for
the mortality among them is fearful—and yet
none of it ever made the slightest impression
on him. Now I could excuse that sort of thing
in Tippoo Tib, whom I knew very well. He
was a slave-trader and the most cruel ruffian
that was ever let loose on the natives; but
this man was an Anglo-Saxon, a graduate of a
university, speaking French and German fluently,
with a good mother, and sisters, and
friends; a man whom you could no doubt find
to-night perfectly dressed and heartily welcomed
in a London club, or in the foyer of
some theatre in Paris, for his father has since
died and he has come into his property. And<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
yet the environment and the absence of public
opinion had reduced him to something worse
than a savage, and so I say again, one can excuse
a cannibal whose traditions and customs
have known no change for centuries, but you
cannot excuse a freebooter who goes back on
every drop of decent blood in his veins.”</p>
<p>Before any one could reply The Architect
was on his feet waving his napkin. “By Jove!”
he cried, “what a personality! Wouldn’t he
be a hit in comic opera! And think what
could be done with the scenery; and that procession
of parasols, with snakes hanging down
from the branches, and monkeys skipping
around among the leaves! Robinson Crusoe
wouldn’t be in it—why, it would take the town
by storm! Girls in black stockinette and
bangles, savages, spears, palms, elephant tusks,
Goringe in a helmet and goat-skin shoes! I’ll
tell Michel Carré about it the first time I see
him.”</p>
<p>“And every one of Goringe’s girls a beautiful
seductive houri,” chimed in Louis with a
wink at Le Blanc. “You seem to have slurred
over all the details of this part of the panorama,
Herbert.”</p>
<p>“Oh, ravishingly beautiful, Louis! Half of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
them were greased from head to foot with palm-oil,
and smeared with powdered camwood that
changed them to a deep mahogany; all had
their wool twisted into knobs and pigtails, and
most of them wore pieces of wood, big as the
handle of a table knife, skewered through their
upper lips. Oh!—a most adorable lot of
houris.”</p>
<p>“All the better,” vociferated The Architect.
“Be stunning under the spotlights. Tell me
more about him. I may write the libretto
myself and get Livadi to do the music. It’s a
wonderful find! Did you ever see Goringe
again?”</p>
<p>“No, but I kept track of him. The Belgian
home company went back on their contract,
and refused to pay him just as he feared they
would; they claimed he didn’t and couldn’t
have supplied that number of carriers—the
sort of defence a corporation always makes
when they want to get out of a bad bargain.
This decided him. He made a bee-line for the
coast, sailed by the first steamer, brought suit,
tried it himself, won his case, got his money
and a new contract; took the first train for
Monte Carlo, lost every penny he had in a
night; went back to Brussels, got a second con<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>tract,
sailed the same week for the Congo, and
when I left Bangala for home had another
caravan touring the country—bigger than the
first—fitted out with the best that money could
buy——”</p>
<p>“Including his wives, of course,” suggested
Louis.</p>
<p>“Yes, but not the lot he had left behind,”
added Herbert slowly, a frown settling on his
brow. “They had long since been wiped out
of existence.”</p>
<p>The Architect pounded the table until the
glasses rattled. “Superb! Magnificent! That
finishes the libretto! Carré shan’t have it;
I’ll write it myself! But tell me please, if——”</p>
<p>Lemois opened his fingers deprecatingly, his
gaze fixed good-naturedly on the speaker.</p>
<p>“You will pardon me, my dear friend, but
Monsieur Herbert is only half through. He is
not writing a play; he is introducing us to a
higher standard of morals and perhaps of manners.
Besides, if you listen you may get a
fourth act and a climax which will be better
than what you have. He has promised to convince
Monsieur Le Blanc, who has not yet said
a word, that the savage should not be burnt
alive, and to convince me that there is some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>thing
in that terrible blackamoor worthy of my
admiration, even if he does dine on his fellow
men. We have yet to hear Monsieur Herbert’s
second story.”</p>
<p>“All right, Lemois, but I doubt if it will help
our distinguished guest here to complete his
scenario; but here goes:</p>
<p>“When I was chief of Bangala Station, circumstances
made it necessary for me to make
an expedition into the Aruwimi District, inhabited
by a tribe now known as the Waluheli—cannibals
and typical savages so far as morals
and habits were concerned. These people, as I
afterward learned, are possessed of great physical
strength and are constantly on the war-path,
trading among each other between times
in slaves, ivory, and native iron ore. They
live in huts made of grass stalks and plaited
palm-leaves. Manioc is about the only food.
This, of course, the women till. In fact, that
which protects her from being sold as food is
often her value as a worker, for one of their
beliefs is that women have no souls and no
future state.</p>
<p>“I took with me five carriers and some fifteen
fighting men and struck due east. It was
the customary outfit, each man carrying sixty<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>-five
pounds of baggage, including tent, guns,
ammunition, etc. The Aruwimi District, we
had heard, was rich in plantains, as well as
game, and we needed both, and the fighting
men served for protection in case we were attacked,
and as food carriers if we were not.</p>
<p>“The first day’s march brought us to a small
river, a branch of the larger tributaries of the
Upper Congo, which we crossed. Then followed
a three days’ march which led us to a
hilly country where the villages were few and
far between, and although the natives we met
on the trail were most friendly—indeed some
of their men had helped make up my gangs,
two of them joining my escort—no food was
to be had, and so I was obliged to push on
until I struck a stretch that looked as if the
plantains and manioc could be raised. Still
further on I discovered traces of antelope and
zebra and some elephants’ tracks. Although
the villages we passed were deserted, the character
of the country proved that at some time
in the past both plantains and a sort of yam
had been raised in abundance, which led me
to believe we could get what we wanted.</p>
<p>“In this new country, too, we met a new
kind of native, different from those to whom I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
had been accustomed, who, on discovering us,
crouched behind trees and bunches of tangled
vines, brandishing their spears and shields, but
making no direct assault. Coming suddenly
upon eight or ten warriors in fording a small
brook, I walked boldly in among them, shouting
that we were friendly and not enemies.
They listened without moving and in a moment
more my men had cut off their retreat
and had surrounded them. Then I discovered
that they spoke one of the dialects I knew—the
Mabunga—and after that we had no
trouble. Indeed, they directed us to their village,
where that night my bed was spread in
their largest hut. Next day I started bartering
and soon had all the provisions we could
carry, the currency, as usual, being glass beads
and a few feet of brass and copper wire, with
some yards of calico for the women and the
chief. I should then have turned in another
direction, but early the next morning, as I was
getting ready to leave, one of my men brought
news of an elephant who the night before had
been seen destroying their crops. The temptation
was too strong—no, don’t laugh, Louis,
I have reformed of late—and I dropped everything
and started for the game. Meat for our<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>
camp, and especially for the friendly village,
would be a godsend, and, taking five men, I
was soon on his track. They are strong-legged
and quick movers, these elephants, and a few
hours’ start makes it difficult for a white man
to catch up with them. All that day I followed
him, never getting near him, although
the spoor, stripped saplings, and vines showed
that he was but a few miles ahead. At nightfall
I gave him up, sent my men back, and, to
avoid fording a deep stream, made a short détour
to the right. The sun had set and darkness
had begun to fall. And it comes all at
once and almost without warning in these parts.</p>
<p>“My men being out of reach, I pushed ahead
until I struck a narrow path twisting in and
out of the heavier trees and less tangled underbrush.
Here I came upon an open place
with signs of cultivation and caught sight of
another unexpected village, the first I had run
across in that day’s march. This one, on
nearer approach, proved to be a collection of
small huts straggling along the edge of what
at last became a road or street. Squatting in
front of these rude dwellings sat the inhabitants
staring at me in wonder—the first white
man they had ever seen.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span></p>
<p>“It was a curious sight and an uncanny
one—these silent black savages watching my
advance. One man had thrown his arm around
his wife, as if to protect her; she crouching
close to him—both naked as the day they
were born. I used the pair in a group I exhibited
two or three years ago which bore the
title, ‘They Have Eyes and See Not’—you may
perhaps remember it. I wanted to express the
instinctive recognition of the savage for what
he feels dimly is to conquer him, and I tried as
well to give something of the pathos of the surrender.</p>
<p>“There was no movement as I approached—no
greeting—no placing of yams, coarse corn,
and pieces of dried game and dried meat on
the ground at their feet, especially the flesh of
animals, in preparing which they are experts, a
whole carcass being sometimes so dried. They
only stared wonderstruck—absorbed in my appearance.
Now and then, as I passed rapidly
along so as to again reach my men before absolute
darkness set in, I would stop and make
the sign of peace. This they returned, showing
me that their customs, and I hoped their language,
was not unlike what I understood.</p>
<p>“When I was abreast of the middle of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>
village a sudden desire for a pipe—that solace
of the lone man—took possession of me and I
began fumbling about my clothes for my matchbox.
Then I remembered that I had given it
to one of my carriers to start our morning
blaze. I now began to scan the dwellings I
passed for some signs of a fire. My eye finally
caught between the supports of the last hut on
the line the glow of a heap of embers, and huddled
beside it the dim outline of two figures—that
of a man and a woman.</p>
<p>“For a moment I hesitated. I was alone,
out of the hearing of my followers, and darkness
was rapidly falling. As long as I kept on
a straight course I was doubtless safe; if I
halted or, worse yet, if I entered his hut without
invitation, the result might be different.
Then the picture began to take hold of me:
the rude primeval home; the warmth and
cheer of the fire; the cuddling of man and wife
close to the embers, the same the world over
whether cannibal or Christian. Involuntarily
my thoughts went back to my own fireside,
thousands of miles away: those I loved were
sitting beside the glowing coals that gave it
life, a curl of smoke drifting toward the near
hills.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p>
<p>“I turned sharply, walked straight into the
hut, and, making the sign of peace, asked in
Mabunga for a light for my pipe.</p>
<p>“The man started—I had completely surprised
him—sprang to his feet, and, looking at
me in amazement, returned my greeting in the
same tongue, touching his forehead in peaceful
submission as he spoke. The woman made
neither salutation nor gesture. I leaned over
to pick up a coal, and, to steady myself, laid
my hand on the woman’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“It was cold and hard as wood!</p>
<p>“I bent closer and scanned her face.</p>
<p>“She was a dried mummy!</p>
<p>“The man’s gaze never wavered.</p>
<p>“Then, he said slowly: ‘She was my
woman—I loved her, and I could not bury
her!’”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Herbert’s dénouement had come as an astounding
surprise. He looked round at the
circle of faces, his eyes resting on Le Blanc’s
and Lemois’ as if expecting some reply.</p>
<p>The older man roused himself first.</p>
<p>“Your story, Monsieur Herbert,” he said
with a certain quaver in his voice, “has opened
up such a wide field that I no longer think<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
of the moral, although I see clearly what you
intended to prove. When your climax came”—and
his eyes kindled—“I felt as if I were
standing on some newly discovered cliff of
modern thought, below which rolled a thick
cloud of superstition rent suddenly by a flash
of human sympathy and love. Below and beyond
stretched immeasurable distances fading
into the mists of the ages. You will excuse
the way I put it—I do not mean to be fanciful
nor pedantic—but it does not seem that I can
express my meaning in any other way. <i>Mon
Dieu</i>, what a lot of cheap dancing jacks
we are! We dig and sell our product; we
plead to save a criminal; we toil with our
hands and scheme with our heads, and when
it is all done it is to get a higher place in the
little world we ourselves make. Once in a
while there comes a flash of lightning like this
from on high and the cloud is rent in twain
and we look through and are ashamed. Thank
you again, Monsieur Herbert. You have widened
my skull—cracked it open an inch at
least, and my heart not a little. Your savage
should be canonized!”</p>
<p>And he left the room.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI
<br /><br />PROVING THAT THE COURSE OF TRUE
LOVE NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH</h2>
<p>Mignon’s coffee-roaster was silent this
morning. By listening intently a faint
rhythm could be heard coming from beyond the
kitchen door, telling that she was alive and
about her work, but the garden was not the
scene of her operations. Rain had fallen steadily
all night and was still at it, driving every
one within doors. Furthermore, somewhere off
in the North Sea the wind had suddenly tumbled
out of bed and was raising the very Old
Harry up and down the coast. Reports had
come in of a bad wreck along shore, and much
anxiety was felt for the fishing fleet.</p>
<p>To brave such a downpour seemed absurd,
and so we passed the morning as best we could.
I made a sketch in color of the Marmouset;
Herbert and Brierley disposed themselves about
the room reading, smoking, or criticising my
work; Louis upstairs was stretching a canvas—nothing
appealed to him like a storm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>—and
he had determined, as soon as the deluge
let up—no moderate downpour ever bothers
him—to paint the surf dashing against the
earth cliffs that frowned above the angry sea.
Lemois did not appear until near noon, his excuse
being that he had lain awake half the
night thinking of Herbert’s story of the African’s
dried wife, and had only dropped off to
sleep when the fury of the storm awoke him.</p>
<p>As luncheon was about to be served, Le Blanc
arrived in his car one mass of mud, the glass
window in the rear of the cover smashed by
the wind. He brought news of a serious state
of things along the coast. The sea in its rage,
so his story ran, was biting huge mouthfuls
out of the bluffs, the yellow blood of the dissolving
clay staining the water for half a mile
out. One of the card-board, jig-saw, gimcrack
villas edging the cliff had already slid into the
boiling surf, and the rest of them would follow
if the wind held for another hour.</p>
<p>We drew him to the fire, helped him off
with his drenched coat, each of us becoming
more and more thoughtful as we listened to
his description. Leà and Mignon, unheeded,
came in bearing the advance dishes—some
oysters and crisp celery. They were soon fol<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>lowed
by Lemois, who, instead of helping, as
was his invariable custom, in the arrangement
of the table, walked to the hearth and stood
gazing into the coals. He, too, was thoughtful,
and after a moment asked if we would permit
Mignon to replace him at the coffee-table that
evening, as he must be off for a few hours, and
possibly all night, explaining in answer to our
questions that the storm had already reached
the danger line, and he felt that as ex-mayor
of the village he should be within reach if any
calamity overtook the people and fishermen in
and around Buezval. We all, of course, offered
to go with him—Louis being especially eager—but
Lemois insisted that we had better finish
our meal, promising to send for us if we were
really needed.</p>
<p>His departure only intensified our apprehensions
as to the gravity of the situation. What
had seemed to us at first picturesque, then
threatening, assumed alarming proportions.
The gale too, during luncheon, had gone on increasing.
Great puffs of smoke belched from
the throat of the chimney into the room, and
we heard the thrash of the rain and shrill wails
of the burglarious wind rising and falling as
it fingered the cracks and crevices of the old<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>
building. Now and then an earthen tile would
be ripped from the roof and sent crashing into
the court. “By Jove!—just hear that wind!”
followed by an expectant silence, interrupted
almost every remark.</p>
<p>As the fury of the storm increased we noticed
that a certain nervous anxiety had taken
possession of our pretty Mignon, who, at one
crash louder than the others, so far forgot herself
as to go to the window, trying to peer out
between the bowed shutters, her baffled eyes
seeking Leà’s for some comforting assurance,
the older woman, without ceasing her ministrations
to our needs, patting the girl’s shoulder
in passing.</p>
<p>Suddenly the great outside door of the court,
which had been closed to break the force of the
wind, gave way with a bang; then came the
muffled cry of a man in distress, and Gaston
burst in, clad in oilskins, his south-wester tied
under his chin, rivers of rain pouring from his
hat and overalls. Mignon gave a half-smothered
sob of relief and would have sunk to the
floor at his feet had not Leà caught her.</p>
<p>The young fisherman staggered back against
the edge of the fire-jamb, his hand on his chest.</p>
<p>“It’s madame la marquise!” he gasped. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
had run the two miles from Buezval and had
barely breath enough to reach the Inn. “I
came for Monsieur Lemois! There isn’t a moment
to lose—the sea is now up to the porch.
She is lost if you wait!”</p>
<p>“Madame lost!” we cried in unison.</p>
<p>“No,” he panted, “the house. She is not
there. Find Monsieur Lemois!—all of you
must come!”</p>
<p>Le Blanc was out of his chair before Gaston
had completed his sentence.</p>
<p>“Get your coats and meet me at the garage!”
he shouted. “I’ll run the motor out;
we’ll be there in ten minutes! My coat too,
Leà!” and he slammed the door behind him.</p>
<p>The old woman clattered upstairs into the
several rooms for our ulsters and water-proofs,
but Mignon sat still, too overjoyed to move or
speak. Gaston, she knew, was going out into
the rain again, but he was safe on the land
now and not on a fishing craft, fighting his
way into the harbor, as she had feared all day.
The young fellow looked at her from under the
brim of his dripping south-wester, but there
was no word of recognition, though he had
come as much to tell her he was safe as to
summon us to madame’s villa. I caught her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>
lifted eyes and the furtive glance of gratitude
she gave him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was a wild dash up the coast; Le Blanc
driving, Herbert handling the siren, the others
packed in, crouching close, Gaston holding to
the foot-board, where he roared in our ears the
details of the impending calamity, his breath
having now come back to him. The cliff, he
explained, that supported the tennis court of
an adjoining villa had given way, taking with
it a slice of madame’s lawn, leaving only the
gravel walk under her library windows. The
surf, goaded by the thrash of the wind, was,
when he left, cutting great gashes in the toe
of the newly exposed slope. Another hour’s
work like the last—and it was not high water
until four o’clock—would send the cottage heels
over head into the sea. Madame was in Paris,
and the caretakers—an old fisherman and his
wife—too old to work—were panic-stricken,
calling piteously for Monsieur Lemois, whom
their mistress trusted most of all the people
in and about the village.</p>
<p>The end of the shore road had now been
reached, our siren blowing continuously. With
a twist of the wheel we swerved from the main<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
highway, climbed a short hill, and chugged
along an overhanging road flanked by a row
of little black lumps of cottages in silhouette
against the white fury of the smashing surf.
The third of these, so Gaston said, was madame’s.
Thank God it was still square-sided
and the chimneys still upright. We were in
time anyhow!</p>
<p>More than once have I helped in a fire or
lent a welcoming hand to a shipwrecked crew
breasting an ugly sea in a water-logged boat;
but to hold on to a cottage sliding into the sea—as
one would to the heels of a would-be
suicide determined to dash himself to pieces
on the sidewalk below—was a new experience
to me.</p>
<p>Not so to Herbert—that is, you would never
have supposed it from the way he took hold of
things. In less time than I tell it, he had
swung wide the rear door of madame’s villa, stationed
Brierley, Le Blanc, and myself at the side
entrances to keep out poachers, formed a line
of fishermen (whom Gaston knew) to pass out
bric-à-brac, pictures, and rare furniture to the
garage at the end of the lawn—the only safe
place under cover—and, with Louis to help,
was packing it with household goods.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p>
<p>While this was going on, although we did not
know it, Lemois was half-way down the slope
watching the encroaching sea; calculating the
number of minutes which the villa had to live;
watching, too, the slow crumbling of the cliff.
He knew something of these earth slides—or
thought he did—and, catching sight of our
rescue party, struggled up to warn us.</p>
<p>But Herbert had not furled a mainsail off
Cape Horn for nothing. He also knew the sea
and what its savage force could do. He, too,
had swept his eyes over the crumbling slopes,
noted the wind, looked at his watch, and,
bounding back, had given orders to go ahead.
There was possibly an hour—certainly thirty
minutes—before the house, caught by the tide
at high water, would sag, tilt, and pitch headlong,
like a bird-cage dropped from a window-sill,
and no power on earth could save it. Until
then the work of rescuing madame’s belongings
must go on.</p>
<p>Louis’ enormous strength now came into
play: first it was an inlaid cabinet, mounted
in bronze, with heavy glass doors. This,
stripped of its curios, which he crammed into
his pockets, was picked up bodily and carried
without a break to the garage, a hundred yards<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>
in the rear; then followed bronzes that had
taken two men to place on their pedestals;
pictures in heavy frames; a harp muffled in a
water-proof cover, which became a toy in his
hands; even the piano went out on the run
and was slid along the porch and down the
steps, and, with the aid of Gaston and another
fisherman, whirled under cover.</p>
<p>The fight now was against time, Lemois indicating
the most valuable articles. Soon the
first floor was entirely cleared except for some
heavy pieces of furniture, and a dash was
made upstairs for madame’s bedroom and
boudoir, filled with choice miniatures, larger
portraits, and the little things she loved and
lived with. The pillows were now torn from
the beds, emptied, and every conceivable kind
of small precious thing—silver-topped toilet
articles, an ivory crucifix, bits of Dresden
china—all the odds and ends a woman of quality,
taste, and refinement uses and must have—were
dumped one after another into the
pillow-sacks and carried carefully to shelter.
Then followed the books and rare manuscripts.</p>
<p>Herbert, who, between every trip to the
garage or to the crowd of willing workers out<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>side,
had paused to watch the sea, now bawled
up the staircase ordering every man out. The
last moment of safety had arrived. Lemois,
intent on rescuing a particular portfolio of
etchings, either would not or did not hear.
Gaston, more alert, and who had been helping
him to carry down an armful of the more
precious books, sprang past Herbert, despite his
cry, and dashed back up the steps, shouting
as he raced on that Lemois was still upstairs.
Herbert made a plunge to follow when Louis
threw his arms around him.</p>
<p>“No, for God’s sake! She’s going! Out of
this!—quick! Jump, Herbert, or you’ll be
killed!”</p>
<p>As the two men cleared the doorway there
came a racking, splitting, tearing noise; a
doubling under of the posts of the front porch;
a hail of broken glass and clouds of blinding
dust from squares of plaster as the ceilings collapsed;
then the whole structure canted—slid
ten feet and stopped, the brick chimneys
smashing their full length into the crumbling
mass. When the dust and flying splinters settled,
Herbert and Louis were standing on firm
ground within a foot only of the upheaved
edge of raw earth. Staring them in the face,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
like the upturned feet of a prostrate man, were
the bottom timbers of the cottage.</p>
<p>Somewhere inside the chaotic mass lay Lemois
and Gaston!</p>
<p>A cry of horror went up from the crowd,
made more intense by the shriek of a fisher-woman—Gaston’s
mother—who just before the
crash came had seen her son’s head at the
library window, and who was now fighting her
way to where Herbert was keeping back the
mob until he could make up his mind what
was best to do. Her breathless news decided
him.</p>
<p>“Louis!” he shouted, his voice ringing above
the roar of the sea, “pick out two men—good
ones—and follow me!”</p>
<p>The four worked their way to a careened
window now flattened within a foot of the
ground, crawled over the sill, and Herbert
calling out to Lemois and Gaston all the while,
crept under a tangle of twisted beams, flooring,
and furniture, until they reached what was
once the farther wall of the library.</p>
<p>Under an overturned sofa, pinned down but
unhurt, white with dust and broken plaster and
almost unrecognizable, they found our landlord.
Gaston lay a few feet away, the breath<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
knocked out of him, an ugly wound in his head.
Lemois had answered their call, but Gaston
had given no sign.</p>
<p>Herbert braced himself and in the dim light
looked about him. The saving of lives was now
a question of judgment, requiring that same
instantaneous making up of his mind always
necessary when his own life had depended upon
the exact placing of a rifle-ball in the skull of a
charging elephant. There was not a second to
lose. Another slash of the sea and the whole
mass might go headlong down the slope, and
yet to lift the wrong timber in an effort to
free Lemois might topple the entire heap, as
picking out the wrong match-stick topples a
pile of jackstraws.</p>
<p>He ran his eye over the shattered room; ordered
the two fishermen to leave the wrecked
building; selected, after a moment’s pause, a
heavy joist lying across the sofa; stood by
while Louis put his shoulder under its edge, his
enormous strength bearing the full brunt of
the weight; waited until it swayed loose, and
then, grabbing Lemois firmly by the coat-collar,
dragged him clear and set him on his
feet.</p>
<p>Gaston came next, limp and apparently
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
dead—the blood trickling from his head and
spattering his rescuers.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 640px;">
<img src="images/i_alt_fp132.jpg" width="640" height="447" alt="As her boy’s sagging, insensible body was brought clear of the wreck" title="" />
<span class="caption">As her boy’s sagging, insensible body was brought clear of the wreck</span>
</div>
<p>The crowd shouted in unison as they caught
sight of Lemois’ gray head, all the whiter from
the grime of powdered plaster. Then came another
and louder shout, followed by another
piercing shriek from Gaston’s mother as her
boy’s sagging, insensible body was brought
clear of the wreck. None of his bones were
broken, none that Lemois could find; something
had struck the boy—some falling weight—perhaps
a bust from one of the bookcases over
his head. That was the last the lad had known
until he found his mother kneeling beside him
in the rain and mud, where the cold wind and
rain revived him.</p>
<p>But our work was not yet over. The miscellaneous
assortment of precious things housed
in the garage must be rearranged before nightfall
and protected against breakage and leakage.
Watchmen must be selected and made
comfortable in the garage, a telegram despatched
to madame at her apartment in
Paris, with details of the catastrophe and salvage,
and another to her estate at Rouen,
and, more important still, Gaston must be carried
home, put to bed, and a doctor sent for. This
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
done, Herbert and the rest of us could go
back to the inn in Le Blanc’s motor.</p>
<p>The first load brought Herbert, Brierley,
and myself, Le Blanc driving: Lemois had
remained with Gaston. Mignon, with staring,
inquiring eyes, her apron over her head to
protect her from the wet, met us at the outer
gate, but not a word was said by any of us
about Gaston, a crack on a fisherman’s head
not being a serious affair—and then again, this
one was as tough as a rudder-post and as full
of spring as an oar—and then, more important
still, the poor child with her hungry, tear-stained
eyes had had trouble enough for one
day, as we all knew. Later when Leà and I
were alone, I told her the story, describing
Gaston’s pluck and bravery and his risking his
life to save Lemois—the dear old woman clasping
her fingers together as if in church when I
added that “he’d be all right in the morning
after a good night’s rest.”</p>
<p>“Pray God nothing happens to him!” she
said at last, crossing herself. “Mignon is only
a child and it would break her heart. Monsieur
Lemois does not wish it, and there is trouble—much
trouble—ahead for her, but while there
is life there is hope. He is a good Gaston<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>—his
mother and I were girls together; she had
only this one left—the boat upset and the
father was drowned off <i>Les Dents Terribles</i> two
years ago.”</p>
<p>Louis, whose heart is as big as his body, was
less cautious. He must have a word with the
girl herself. And so, when we had all gathered
before the fire to dry out—for most of us were
still wet and all ravenous—he called out to her
in his cheery, hearty way:</p>
<p>“That is a plucky garçon of yours, mademoiselle.
Monsieur Lemois would have been
flattened into a pancake but for him. When
the house fell it was Monsieur Gaston who
jerked him away from the window and rolled
a sofa on top of him. Ah!—a brave garçon,
and one who does you credit.”</p>
<p>The girl—she was busying herself with her
dishes at the time—blushed and said: “Merci,
monsieur,” her eyes dancing over the praise
of her lover, but she was too modest and too
well trained to say more.</p>
<p>Again Le Blanc’s siren came shrieking down
the road. This time it would bring Lemois.
I threw on another log to warm them both,
and Louis began collecting a small assortment
of glasses, Mignon following with a decanter.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p>
<p>Several minutes passed, during which we
waited for the heavy tread of fat Le Blanc.
Then the door opened and Leà appeared; she
was trembling from head to foot and white as
a ghost.</p>
<p>“Monsieur wants you—all of you—something
has happened! Not you, Mignon—you
stay here.”</p>
<p>Inside the court-yard, close to the door of the
Marmouset, stood Le Blanc’s motor. Lemois
was on the foot-board leaning over the body
of a man stretched out on the two seats.</p>
<p>“Easy now,” Lemois whispered to Louis, who
had pushed his way alongside of the others
crowding about the car. “He collapsed again
as soon as you all left. There is something
serious I am afraid—that is why I brought
him here. His mother wanted to take him
home, but that’s no place for him now. He
must stay here to-night. We stopped and left
word for the doctor and he will be here in a
minute. Be careful, Monsieur Louis—not in
there—upstairs.”</p>
<p>Louis was careful—careful as if he were lifting
a baby; but he did not delay, nor did he
take him upstairs. Picking up the unconscious
fisherman bodily in his arms, he bore him clear<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
of the machine, carried him through the open
door of the Marmouset, and stretched him full
length on the lounge, tucking a cushion under
his head as the lad sank down into the soft
mattress.</p>
<p>As the flare of the table candles stirred by
the night wind lighted up his face, Mignon,
who had been pushing aside the chairs from
out the wounded man’s way, believing it to
be Le Blanc, sprang forward, and with a half-stifled
cry sank on her knees beside the boy.
Lemois lunged forward, stooped quickly, and
grasping her firmly by the arm, dragged her to
her feet.</p>
<p>“Leave the room!—you are in the way,” he
said in low, angry tones. “There are plenty
here to take care of him.”</p>
<p>Louis, who had moved closer to the girl,
and who had already begun to quiet her fears,
wheeled suddenly and would have broken out
in instantaneous protest had not Leà, her lean,
tall body stretched to its utmost, her flat,
sunken chest heaving with indignation, stepped
in front of Lemois.</p>
<p>“You are not kind, monsieur,” she said
coldly, with calm, unflinching eyes.</p>
<p>“Hold your tongue! I do not want your<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
advice. Take her out!—this is no place for
her!”</p>
<p>Louis’ eyes blazed. Unkindness to a woman
was the one thing that always enraged him.
Then his better judgment worked.</p>
<p>“Give her to me, Leà,” he said. “Come,
Mignon! Don’t cry, child; he’s not hurt so
bad; he’ll be all right in the morning. Move
away there, all of you!” and he led the sobbing
girl from the room.</p>
<p>A dull, paralyzing silence fell upon us all.
Those of us who knew only the gentle, kind-hearted,
always courteous Lemois were dumb
with astonishment. Had he, too, received a
crack on his head which had unsettled his
judgment, or was this, after all, the real Lemois?</p>
<p>The opening of the door and the hurried re-entrance
of Louis, followed by the doctor, a
short, thick-set man with a bald head, for a
time relieved the tension.</p>
<p>“I was on my way near here when your
messenger met me,” called out the doctor with
a nod of salutation to the room at large as he
dropped into a chair beside the sufferer, thus
supplanting Brierley, who during Lemois’ outburst
had been wiping the blood-stained face<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
and lips with a napkin and finger-bowl he had
caught up from the table.</p>
<p>There was an anxious hush; the men standing
in a half-circle awaiting the decision; the
doctor feeling for broken limbs, listening to his
breathing, his hand on the boy’s heart. Then
there came a convulsive movement and the
wounded man lifted his head and gazed about
him.</p>
<p>The doctor bent closer, studied Gaston’s
eyes for a moment, rose to his feet, tucked his
spectacles into a black leather case which he
took from his pocket, and said calmly:</p>
<p>“I think there’s no fracture of the skull. I’ll
know definitely later on. He is, as I at first
supposed, suffering from shock and has swallowed
a lot of dust. He must have complete
rest; get him to bed somewhere and send for
a woman in the village to take care of him. I’ll
come to-morrow. Who carried him in here?”</p>
<p>Louis nodded his head.</p>
<p>“Then pick him up again and, if Monsieur
Lemois is willing, put him in the room on the
ground floor at the end of the court. I can
get at him then from the outside without disturbing
anybody. You, gentlemen, so I hear,
are down here for your pleasure and not to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>
run a hospital, and so I will see you are not
disturbed.”</p>
<p>Louis leaned down, picked the young fisherman
up in his arms with no more effort than if
he had been handling a bag of flour, and carried
him out of the room, across the court, Leà
following, and into the basement chamber,
where he laid him on the bed, leaving him with
the remark:</p>
<p>“Now stay here and take care of him, Leà,
no matter what Monsieur Lemois says.”</p>
<p>Meanwhile Lemois had poured out a glass
of wine for the doctor, waited until he had
drank it, thanked him in his most courteous
tones for his promptness, bidden him good-night
on the threshold, closed the door behind
him, and without a word to any of us had resumed
his place by the fire.</p>
<p>Another embarrassing silence ensued. Every
one felt that the incident, if aggravated by any
untimely remarks, might lead up to an outbreak
which would bring our visit to a premature
close. And yet both Leà and Mignon
were so beloved by all of us, and the brutality
of the attack upon the little maid was so uncalled
for, that we felt something was due to
our own self-respect.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span></p>
<p>Herbert, catching our suggestive glances, essayed
the task. He was the man held in most
esteem by Lemois, and might perhaps be allowed
to say things which the old gentleman
would not take from the rest; and then again,
whatever the outcome, Herbert could be depended
upon to keep his temper no matter
what Lemois might answer in return.</p>
<p>“Mignon did nothing, monsieur, except show
her love for her sweetheart—why break out on
her?” Herbert’s voice was low, but there was
meaning behind it.</p>
<p>“I won’t have this thing!” came the indignant
retort, all his poise gone. “That’s why
I broke out on her. Mignon is not for fishermen,
nor ditch-diggers, nor road-makers. She
is like my child—I have other things in store
for her. I tell you I will not have it go on—she
knows why and Leà knows why! I have
said so, and it is finished!”</p>
<p>“He about saved your life a little while ago.
Does that count for anything?” The words
edged their way through tightly closed lips.</p>
<p>“Yes—for me; that is why I brought him
home—but he has not saved Mignon’s life.
He would wreck it. She will marry somebody
else and he will marry somebody else. There<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>
are too many thick-heads along the coast now.
I decide to steer clear of them.”</p>
<p>Louis, who now that his human-ambulance
trip was over, had returned to the Marmouset,
stood wondering. What had taken place in
his absence was a mystery. He had, after depositing
his burden, taken Mignon to Pierre
and sat her down by the kitchen fire, where
he had left her crying softly to herself.</p>
<p>Lemois waited until Louis had found a seat
and went on:</p>
<p>“You, gentlemen, are my friends, and so I
will explain to you what I would not explain
to others. You wonder at what I have just
said and done. I try to do my duty—that is
my religion, and my only religion. I have tried
to do it to-night. With your help I have done
what I could to save my friend’s property,
because she was away and helpless. She has
now left to her some of the things she loved.
So it is with this girl. Ten years ago I found
her, a child of eight, crying in the street. For
months she had gotten up at daylight, had
washed and dressed her two baby brothers,
cooked their breakfast, cleaned house, and
tucked in her bedridden mother; but, try as
she would, she was late for school—not once,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
but several times. This was against the rules,
and when the prizes and diplomas were given
out, all she got was a scolding. Later on she
was dismissed. Because she had no other
place to go, and because I had no child of my
own, I took her home with me. As I assumed
all responsibility for her, and she has no one
but me, I shall carry it out to the end, exactly
as if she were my daughter. My own daughter
should not and would not marry a fisherman,
neither shall Mignon. Madame la Marquise
de la Caux is in Paris, and I do what I can to
look after her belongings. Madame, Mignon’s
mother, is in heaven, and the remnant of her
people God knows where, and so I do what I
can to look after their child.”</p>
<p>“But has the girl no say in the matter?”
broke out Louis angrily. “You are not to live
with him—she is.”</p>
<p>“That may make some difference in your
country, Monsieur Louis, but it makes no difference
in mine. In France we parents and
guardians are the best judges of what is and
what is not good for our children. Now, gentlemen,
let us brush it all away. It is very creditable
to your hearts to be so interested in the
child; I do not blame you. She is very lovely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
and very amusing, and when she leaves us—even
with the man I shall choose for her—it will
be a great grief for me, for you see I am quite
alone in the world. So, Monsieur Herbert,
there is my hand. Not to have you understand
me would be harder than all the rest,
for I esteem you as I do no other man. And you
too, Monsieur Louis, with your big arms and
your big heart. Let us be friends once more.
And now I am tired out with the day’s work,
and if you do not mind I will say ‘Good-night!’”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII<br /><br />
IN WHICH OUR LANDLORD BECOMES
BOTH ENTERTAINING AND INSTRUCTIVE</h2>
<p>The experiences of the previous day had
left their mark in stiffened joints and blistered
hands. Herbert was nursing a wrenched
finger, Lemois had discovered a bruised back,
and Louis a strained wrist—slight accidents all
of them, unheeded in the excitement of the
rescue, and only definitely located when the
several victims got out of bed the next morning.</p>
<p>The real sufferer was Gaston. Two stitches
had been taken in his shapely head and, although
he was quite himself and restless as a
goat, the doctor had given positive orders to
Leà to keep him where he was until his wound
should heal. To this Lemois had added another
and far more cruel mandate, forbidding
Mignon either outside or inside his bedroom
door under pain of death, or words to that
effect.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p>
<p>It was not to be wondered at, therefore, that
the day was passed quietly, the men keeping
indoors, although the storm had whirled down
the coast, leaving behind it only laughing blue
skies and a light wind.</p>
<p>The one exciting incident was a telegram
from madame la marquise, thanking Lemois
and his “brave body of men” for their heroic
services and adding that she would come as
soon as possible to inspect what she called her
“ruin,” and would then give herself the pleasure
of thanking each and every one in person.
This was followed some hours later by a second
despatch inquiring after the wounded fisherman
and charging Lemois to spare no expense in
bringing him back to health; and a third one
from Marc saying he had gone to Paris and
would not be back for several days.</p>
<p>The absorbing topic, of course, had been
Lemois’ outbreak on Mignon and subsequent
justification of his conduct. Louis was the
most outspoken of all, and, despite Lemois’ defence,
valiantly espoused the girl’s cause, the
rest of us with one accord pledging ourselves
to fight her battles and Gaston’s, no matter
at what cost. Brierley even went so far as to
offer to relieve Leà, during which blissful in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>terim
he would smuggle Mignon in for a brief
word of sympathy, but this was frowned upon
and abandoned when Herbert reminded us that
we were in a sense Lemois’ guests and could
not, therefore, breed treachery among his servants.
To this was added his positive conviction
that the girl’s sufferings would so tell upon
the old man that before many days he would
not only regret his attitude, but would abandon
his ambitious plans and give her to the
man she loved.</p>
<p>If Lemois had any such misgivings there was
no evidence of it in his manner. But for an
occasional wry face when he moved, due to the
blow of the overturned sofa, he was in an exceptionally
happy frame of mind. Nor did he
show the slightest resentment toward any one
of us for not agreeing with him. Even when
the twilight hour arrived—a restful hour when
the fellowship of the group came out strongest,
and men voiced the thoughts that lay
closest to their hearts—no word escaped him.
Music, church architecture, the influence of
Rodin and Rostand on the art and literature
of our time, French politics—all were touched
upon in turn, but not a word of the condition
of Gaston’s broken head nor the state of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
Mignon’s bleeding heart—nothing so harrowing.
Indeed, so gay was he, so full of quaint sayings
and odd views of life and things, that
when Brierley sat down at the spinet and ran
his fingers over the keys, giving us snatches of
melodies from the current music of the day, he
begged for some mediæval anthems “as a slight
apology to my suffering ears,” and when Brierley
complied with what he claimed was an
old Italian chant, having found the original in
Padua, Lemois branched off into a homily on
church music which evinced such a mastery of
the subject that even Brierley, who is something
of a musician himself, was filled with
amazement. Indeed, the discussion was in danger
of becoming so heated that the old man,
with a twinkle in his eye, relieved the tension
with:</p>
<p>“No, you are quite wrong, Monsieur Brierley,
if you will forgive me for saying so. Your
chant is not Italian; it is Spanish. I have a
better way of knowing than by searching among
musty libraries and sacristies. When your fingers
were touching the keys I looked around
my Marmouset to see who was listening beside
you gentlemen. I soon discovered that
the two heads on Monsieur Herbert’s chair<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>
were glum and solemn; they might have been
asleep so dull were they. My old Virgin in the
corner, which I found in Rouen, and which is
unquestionably French, never raised her eyes;
but the two carved saints over your head, the
ones I got in Salamanca when I was last there,
were overjoyed. One smiled so sweetly that
I could not take my eyes from her, and the
other kept such perfect time with his head
that I was sorry when you stopped. So you
see, your chant is unquestionably Spanish, and
I am glad.”</p>
<p>Nor did his spirits flag when dinner was over
and he took his place by the coffee-table, handing
Mignon the tiny cups without even a look
of reproach at the demure, sad-eyed girl who
was keeping up so brave a heart.</p>
<p>The change was a delightful one to the coterie.
As long as the embarrassing situation
continued there was no telling what might happen.
A question of cuisine could be settled
by more or less cayenne, but the question of a
marriage settlement was another affair. Press
him too far and the old gentleman might have
bundled us all into the street and thrown our
trunks after us.</p>
<p>The wisest thing, therefore, was to meet his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
cordiality more than half way, an easy solution,
really, since his <i>amende honorable</i> of the
night before had put us all on our mettle. He
should be made to realize and at once that all
traces of ill feeling of every kind had been
wiped out of our hearts.</p>
<p>Herbert, who, as usual when any patching
up was to be done, was chief pacificator, opened
the programme by becoming suddenly interested
in the several rare specimens of furniture
that enriched the room in which we sat, complimenting
Lemois on his good taste in banishing
from his collection the severe, uncomfortable
chairs and sofas of Louis XIV and XV,
and calling special attention to the noble Spanish
and Italian specimens about us, with wide
seats, backs, and arms, where, even in the old
days, tired mortals could have lounged without
splitting their stockings or disarranging
their wigs, had the dons and contessas worn
any such absurdities.</p>
<p>“Quite true, Monsieur Herbert, but you
must remember that the aristocrats of that
day never sat down—their mirrors were hung
too high for them to see themselves should
they recline. It was an era of high heels and
polished floors, much low bowing, and overmuch<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
ceremony. And yet it was a delightful period,
and a most instructive one, for the antiquary,
even if it did end with the guillotine. I have
always thought that nothing so clearly defines
the taste and intelligence of a nation as their
furniture and house decoration. The frivolities
of the Monarchs of the period is to be found in
every twist and curve of their several styles, just
as the virility and out-door life of the Greeks
and Romans are expressed in their solid-marble
benches and carved-stone sofas. Since I have
no place in my gardens for ruins of this kind,
I do not collect them—nor would I if I had.
There should be, I think, a certain sane appropriateness
in every collection, even in so slight
a one as my own, and a Greek garden with a
line of motor cars on one side and a Normandy
church on the other would, I am afraid, be a
little out of keeping,” and he laughed softly.</p>
<p>“But you haven’t kept close to that rule in
this room,” said Herbert, gazing about him.
“We have everything here from Philip the
Second to Napoleon the Third.”</p>
<p>“I have kept much closer than you think,
Monsieur Herbert. The panels, ceiling, furniture,
and stained glass, as well as the fireplace,
are more or less of one period. The fixtures,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>
such as the andirons, candelabra, and curtains,
might have been obtained in one of the
antiquary shops of the day—if any such existed;
and so could the china, silver, and glass.
What I had in mind was, not a museum, but a
room that would take you into its arms—a
restful, warm, enticing room—one full of surprises,
too”—and he pointed to his rarest possession,
the Black Virgin, half hidden in the
recess of the chimney breast. “You see, a very
rare thing is always more effective when you
come upon it suddenly than when you confront
it in the blaze of a window or under a
fixed light. Your curiosity is then aroused, and
you must stoop to study it. I arrange these
surprises for all my most precious things.</p>
<p>“Here, for instance”—and he crossed the
room, opened a cabinet, and brought from its
hiding-place a crystal chalice with a legend in
Latin engraved in gold letters around the rim,
placing it on the table so that the light from
the candelabra could fall upon it—“here is
something now you would not look at twice,
perhaps, if it were put in the window and filled
with flowers. It must be hidden away before
you appreciate it. I found it in a convent outside
of Salamanca some years ago. It is evi<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>dently
the work of some old monk who spent
his life in doing this sort of thing, and is a very
rare example of that kind of craftsmanship. Be
very careful, Monsieur Louis, you will break
the monk’s heart, as well as my own, if you
smash it.”</p>
<p>“Brierley is the man you want to look out
for,” answered the painter, bending closer over
the precious object. “He’ll be borrowing it to
mix high-balls in unless you keep the cabinet
locked.”</p>
<p>“Monsieur Brierley is too good for any such
sacrilege. And now please stand aside, and
you, Monsieur High-Muck, will you kindly
move your arm?” and he lifted the vase from
the cloth and replaced it in the cabinet, adding
with a shrewd glance, “You see, it is always
wise to keep the most precious things hidden
away, with, perhaps, only an edge peeping out
to arouse your curiosity—and I have many
such.”</p>
<p>“Like a grisette’s slipper below a petticoat,”
remarked Louis <i>sotto voce</i>.</p>
<p>“Quite like a grisette’s slipper, my dear
Monsieur Louis. What a nimble wit is yours!
Only, take an old man’s advice and don’t be
too curious.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>”</p>
<p>Every one roared, Louis louder than any
one, and when quiet reigned once more Herbert,
who was determined to keep the talk
along the lines which would most interest our
landlord, and who had examined the chalice
with the greatest interest, said, pointing to the
cabinet:</p>
<p>“And now show us something else. Here I
have lived with these things for weeks at a
time and yet am only beginning to find them
out. What else have you that is especially
rare?”</p>
<p>Lemois, who had just closed the door of the
cabinet, turned and began searching the room
before replying.</p>
<p>“Well, there is my bas-relief, my Madonna.
It is just behind you—very beautiful and
very rare. I do not lock it up; I keep it in a
dark corner where the cross-lights from the
window can bring out the face in strong relief.
Please do me the favor, gentlemen, to leave
your seats. I never take it from its place,” and
he crossed the room and stood beneath it.
“This is the only one in existence, so far as
I know—that is, the only replica. The original
is in the Sistine Chapel, near Ravenna.
Bring a candle, please, Monsieur Brierley, so<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
we can all enjoy it. See how beautiful is the
Madonna’s face—it is very seldom that so
lovely a smile has lived in marble—and the
tenderness of the mother suggested in the poise
of the head as it bends over the Child. I never
look at it without a twinge of my conscience,
for it is the only thing in this room which I
made off with without letting any one know I
had it, but I was young then and a freebooter
like Monsieur Herbert’s man Goringe. I did
penance for years afterward by putting a few
lira in the poor-box whenever I was in Italy,
and I often come in here and say my prayers,
standing reverently before her, begging her forgiveness;
and she always gives it—that is, she
<i>must</i>—for the smile has never, during all these
years, faded from her face.”</p>
<p>“But this is plaster,” remarked Herbert,
reaching up and passing his skilled fingers over
the caste. “Very well done, too.”</p>
<p>“Yes—of course. I helped make the mould
myself from the original marble built into the
altar—and in the night too, when I had to feel
my way about. I am glad you think it is so
good.”</p>
<p>“Couldn’t do it better myself. But why in
the night?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>”</p>
<p>“Ah—that is a long story.”</p>
<p>Herbert clapped his hands to command attention.</p>
<p>“Everybody take their seats. Monsieur Lemois
is going to tell us of how he burglarized a
church and made off with a Madonna.”</p>
<p>Louis walked solemnly toward the door, his
hand over his heart.</p>
<p>“You must excuse me, Herbert, if I leave
the room before Lemois begins,” he said, turning
and facing the group, “for I should certainly
interrupt his recital. This whole discussion
is so repulsive to me, and so far below
my own high standard of what is right and
wrong, that my morals are in danger of being
undermined. And I——”</p>
<p>“Dry up, Louis!” growled Brierley. “Go
on, Lemois.”</p>
<p>“No, I mean what I say,” protested Louis.
“Only a few nights ago, and at this very table,
a most worthy woman, descendant of one of the
oldest families in France, and our guest, confessed
to wilful perjury, and now a former
mayor of this village admits that he robbed a
church. I have not been brought up this way,
and if——”</p>
<p>“Tie him to a chair, High-Muck!” cried<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
Herbert. “No, his hands are up! All right,
go on, Lemois.”</p>
<p>“Our landlord drew nearer to the table, sat
down, and, with a humorous nod toward Louis,
began:</p>
<p>“You must all remember I was an impressionable
young fellow at the time, full of daredevil,
romantic ideas, and, like most young fellows,
saw only the end in view without caring
a sou about the means by which I reached it.</p>
<p>“I found the bas-relief, as I have told you,
in a small chapel outside of Ravenna—one
of those deep-toned interiors lighted by dust-begrimed
windows, the roof supported by rows
of marble columns. The altar, which was low
and of simple design, was placed at the top
of a wide flight of three rose-marble steps over
which swung a huge brass lamp burning a ruby
light. With the exception of an old woman
asleep on her knees before a figure of the Virgin,
I was the only person in the building. I
had already seen dozens of such interiors, all
more or less alike, and after walking around it
once or twice was about to leave by a side door
protected by a heavy clay-soiled red curtain
when my eye fell on the original of the caste
above you, the figures and surrounding panel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
being built into the masonry of the altar, a
position it had occupied, no doubt, since the
days of Michael Angelo.</p>
<p>“For half an hour I stood before it—worshipping
it, really. The longer I looked the
more I wanted something to take away with
me that would keep it alive in my memory.
I drew a little, of course, and had my sketch-book
filled, student-like, with bits of architecture,
peasants, horses, and things I came across
every day; but I knew I could never reproduce
the angelic smile on the Madonna’s face,
and that was the one thing that made it greater
than all the bas-reliefs I had seen in all my
wanderings. Then it suddenly occurred to me—there
being no photographs in those days:
none you could buy of a thing like this—that
perhaps I could get some one in the village to
make a caste, the Italians being experts at
this work. While I was leaning over the rose-marble
rail drinking it in, a door opened somewhere
behind the altar and an old priest came
slowly toward me.</p>
<p>“‘It is very lovely, holy father,’ I said, in an
effort to open up a conversation which might
lead somewhere.</p>
<p>“‘Yes!’ he replied curtly; ‘but love it on
your knees.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>’</p>
<p>“So down I got, and there I stayed until he
had finished his prayer at one of the side
chapels and had left the church by the main
door.</p>
<p>“All this time I was measuring it with my
eye—its width, thickness, the depth of the cutting,
how much plaster it would take, how
large a bag it would require in which to carry
it away. This done I went back to Ravenna
and started to look up some one of the image
vendors who haunt the door of the great church.</p>
<p>“But none of them would listen. It would
take at least an hour before the plaster would
be dry enough to come away from the marble.
The priests—poor as some of them were—would
never consent to such a sacrilege. Without
their permission detection was almost certain;
so please go to the devil, illustrious signore,
and do not tempt a poor man who does
not wish to go to prison for twenty lira.</p>
<p>“This talk, let me tell you, took place in a
shop up a back street, kept by a young Italian
image-vendor who made casts and moulds with
the assistance of his father, who was a hunch-back,
and an old man all rags whom I could
see was listening to every word of the talk.</p>
<p>“That same night, about the time the lamps
began to be lighted, and I had started out in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
search of another mouldmaker, the old man in
rags stepped out of the shadow of a wall and
touched my arm.</p>
<p>“‘I know the place, signore, and I know the
Madonna. I have everything here in this
bucket—at night the church is closed, but
there is a side door. I will take your twenty
lira. Come with me.’</p>
<p>“When you are twenty, you are like a hawk
after its quarry—your blood boiling, your nerves
keyed up, and you swoop down and get your
talons in your prey without caring what happens
afterward. Being also a romantic hawk,
I liked immensely the idea of doing my prowling
at night; there was a touch of danger in
that kind of villany which daylight dispels. So
off we started, the ragged man carrying the
bucket holding a small bottle of olive-oil, dry
plaster, and a thick sheet of modelling wax besides
some tools: I with two good-sized candles
and a box of matches.</p>
<p>“When you rob a bank at night you must,
so I am told, be sure you have a duplicate
key or something with which to pick the lock.
When you rob an Italian church, there is no
such bother—you simply push wide the door
and begin feeling your way about. And it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
not, to my surprise, very dark once we got in.
The ruby light in the big altar lamp helped,
and so did what was left of a single candle
placed on a side altar by some poor soul as
part penance for unforgiven sins.</p>
<p>“And it did not take long once we got to
work. First a coat of oil to keep the wax from
sticking to the marble; then a patting and forcing
of the soft stuff with thumbs, fingers, and a
wooden tool into the crevices and grooves of the
stone, and then a gentle pull.</p>
<p>“Just here my courage failed and my conscience
gave a little jump like the toothache.
It might have been the quick flare of the lone
candle on the side altar—I had not used my
own, there being light enough to see to work—or
it might have been my heated imagination,
but I distinctly saw on the oil-smeared
face of the blessed mother an expression of
such intense humiliation that I pulled out my
handkerchief, and although the ragged man
was calling me to hurry, and I myself heard
the noise of approaching footsteps, I kept on
wiping off the oil until I saw her smile once
more.</p>
<p>“The time lost caused our undoing—or rather
mine. The ragged man with the precious mould<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>
ran out the side door which was never locked—the
one he knew—I landed in the arms of a
priest.</p>
<p>“He was bald-headed, wore sandals, and carried
a lantern.</p>
<p>“‘What are you doing here?’ he asked
gruffly.</p>
<p>“I pulled out the two candles and held them
up so he could see them.</p>
<p>“‘I came to burn these before the Madonna—the
door was open and I walked in.’</p>
<p>“He lifted the lantern and scanned my face.</p>
<p>“‘You are the man who was here this morning.
Did you get down on your knees as I
told you?’</p>
<p>“‘Yes, holy father.’</p>
<p>“‘Get down again while I close the church.
You can light your candles by the lantern,’
and he laid it on the stone pavement beside
me and moved off into the gloom.</p>
<p>“I did everything he bade me—never was
there a more devout worshipper—handed him
back his lantern, and made my way out.</p>
<p>“At the end of the town the ragged man
thrust his head over a low wall. He seemed
greatly relieved, and picking up the bucket, we
two started on a run for my lodgings. Before<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
I went to bed that night he had mixed up the
dry plaster in his bucket and taken the cast.
He wanted to keep the matrix, but I wouldn’t
have it. I did not want his dirty fingers feeling
around her lovely face, and so I paid him
his blood money and pounded the mould out
of shape. The next morning I left Ravenna
for Paris.</p>
<p>“You see now, messieurs, what a disreputable
person I am.” Here he rose from his
seat and walked back to the bas-relief. “And
yet, most blessed of women”—and he raised
his eyes as if in prayer—“I think I would do it
all over again to have you where you could
always listen to my sins.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII
<br /><br />
CONTAINING SEVERAL EXPERIENCES
AND ADVENTURES SHOWING THE
WIDE CONTRASTS IN LIFE</h2>
<p>How it began I do not remember, for nothing
had led up to it except, perhaps,
Le Blanc’s arrival for dinner half an hour late,
due, so he explained, to a break in the running
gear of his machine, most of which time he
had spent flat on his back in the cold mud,
monkey-wrench in hand, instead of in one of
our warm, comfortable chairs.</p>
<p>No sooner was he seated at my side and his
story told than we fell naturally to discussing
similar moments in life when such sudden contrasts
often caused us to look upon ourselves
as two distinct persons having nothing in common
each with the other. Lemois, whose story
of the stolen Madonna the previous night had
made us eager for more, described, in defence
of the newly launched theory, a visit to a
Swiss chalet, and the sense of comfort he felt
in the warmth and coseyness of it all, as he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
settled himself in bed, when just as he was
dozing off a fire broke out and in less than five
minutes he, with the whole family, was shivering
in a snow-bank while the house burned
to the ground.</p>
<p>“And a most uncomfortable and demoralizing
change it was, messieurs—one minute in
warm white sheets and the next in a blanket of
cold snow. What has always remained in my
mind was the rapidity with which I passed
from one personality to another.”</p>
<p>Brierley, taking up the thread, described his
own sensations when, during a visit to a friend’s
luxurious camp in the Adirondacks, he lost his
way in the forest and for three days and nights
kept himself alive on moose-buds and huckleberries.</p>
<p>“Poor grub when you have been living on
porter-house steak and lobsters from Fulton
Market and peaches from South Africa. Time,
however, didn’t appeal to me as it did to Lemois,
but hunger did, and I have never looked
a huckleberry in the face since without the same
queer feeling around my waistband.”</p>
<p>Appealed to by Herbert for some experiences
of my own, I told how this same realization of
intense and sudden contrasts always took pos<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>session
of me, when, after having lived for a
week on hardtack, boiled pork, and plum duff,
begrimed with dust and cement, I would
leave the inside of a coffer-dam and in a few
hours find myself in the customary swallow-tail
and white tie at a dinner of twelve, sitting
among ladies in costly gowns and jewels.</p>
<p>“What, however, stuck out clearest in my
mind,” I continued, “was neither time nor
what I had had to eat, but the enormous contrasts
in the color scheme of my two experiences:
at noon a gray sky and leaden sea, relieved
by men in overalls, rusty derricks, and
clouds of white steam rising from the concrete
mixers; at night filmy gowns and bare shoulders
rose pink in the softened light against a
strong relief of the reds and greens of deep-toned
tapestries and portraits in rich frames.
I remember only the color.”</p>
<p>At this Herbert lighted a fresh cigar and,
with the flaming match still in hand, said
quietly:</p>
<p>“While you men have been talking I have
been going over some of my own experiences”—here
he blew out the match—“and I have a
great mind to tell you of one that I had years
ago which made an indelible impression on me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>”</p>
<p>“Leave out your ‘great mind,’ Herbert,”
cried Louis—“we’ll believe anything but that—and
give us the story—that is, Le Blanc, if
you will be so very good as to move your very
handsome but slightly opaque head, so that I
can watch the distinguished mud-dauber’s face
while he talks. Fire away, Herbert!”</p>
<p>“I was a lad of twenty at the time,” resumed
Herbert, pausing for a moment until the unembarrassed
Le Blanc had pushed back his
chair, “and for reasons which then seemed
good to me ran away from home, and for two
years served as common sailor aboard an English
merchantman, bunking in the forecastle,
eating hardtack, and doing work aloft like any
of the others. I had the world before me, was
strong and sturdily built, and, being a happy-hearted
young fellow, was on good terms with
every one of the crew except a dark, murderous-looking
young Portuguese of about my own
age, active as a cat, and continually quarrelling
with every one. When you get a low-down
Portuguese with negro blood in his veins you
have reached the bottom of cunning and cruelty.
I’ve come across several of them since—some in
dress suits—and know.</p>
<p>“For some reason this fellow hated me as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
only sailors who are forced to live together on
long voyages know how to hate. My bunk was
immediately over his, and when I slid out in
the morning my feet had to dangle in front of
his venomous face. When I crawled up at
night the same thing happened. We worked
side by side, got the same pay, and ate the
same grub, yet I never was with him without
feeling his animosity toward me.</p>
<p>“It was only by the merest accident that I
found out why he hated me. He blurted it
out in the forecastle one night after I had gone
on deck, and the men told me when I dropped
down the companion-way again. He hated me
because I brushed my teeth! Oh!—you needn’t
laugh! Men have murdered each other for less.
I once knew a man who picked a quarrel at
the club with a diplomat because he dared to
twist his mustache at the same angle as his
own; and another—an Austrian colonel—who
challenged a brother officer to a mortal duel
for serving a certain Johannesburg when it was
a well-known fact that he claimed to own every
bottle of that year’s vintage.</p>
<p>“I continued brushing my teeth, of course,
and at the same time kept an eye on the Portuguese
whose slurs and general ugliness at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
every turn became so marked that I was convinced
he was only waiting for a chance to put
a knife into me. The captain, who studied his
crew, was of the same opinion and instructed
the first mate to look after us both and prevent
any quarrel reaching a crisis.</p>
<p>“One night, off Cape Horn, a gale came up,
and half a dozen of us were ordered aloft to
furl a topsail. That’s no easy job for a greenhorn;
sometimes it’s a pretty tough job for an
old hand. The yard is generally wet and slippery,
the reefers stiff as marlin-spikes, and the
sail hard as a board, particularly when the
wind drives it against your face. But orders
were orders and up I went. Then again, I
had been a fairly good gymnast when I was
at school, and could throw wheels on the horizontal
bars with the best of them.</p>
<p>“The orders had come just as we were finishing
supper. As usual the Portuguese had
opened on me again; this time it was my table
manners, my way of treating my plate after
finishing meals being to leave some of the fragments
still sticking to the bottom and edge,
while he wiped his clean with a crust of bread
as a compliment to the cook.</p>
<p>“The mate had heard the last of his out<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>break,
and in detailing the men sent me up
the port ratlines and the Portuguese up the
starboard. The sail was thrashing and flopping
in the wind, the vessel rolling her rails
under as the squall struck her. I was so occupied
with tying the reefers over the canvas
and holding on at the same time to the
slippery yard, that I had not noticed the Portuguese,
who, with every flop of the sail, was
crawling nearer to where I clung.</p>
<p>“He was almost on top of me when I caught
sight of him sliding along the foot-stay, his
eyes boring into mine with a look that made
me stop short and pull myself together. One
hand was around the yard, the other clutched
his sheath knife. Another lunge of the ship
and he would let drive and over I’d go.</p>
<p>“For an instant I quavered before the fellow’s
hungry glare, his tiger eyes fixed on
mine, the knife in his hand, the sail smothering
me as it flapped in my face, while below were
the black sea and half-lighted deck. Were he
to strike, no trace would be left of me. I was
a greenhorn, and it would be supposed I had
missed my hold and fallen clear of the ship.</p>
<p>“Bracing myself, I twisted a reefer around
my wrist for better hold, determined, if he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>
moved an inch nearer, to kick him square in
the face. But at that instant a sea broke over
the starboard bow, wrenching the ship fore and
aft and jerking the yards as if they had been
so many tent-poles. Then came a horrible
shriek, and looking down I saw the Portuguese
clutching wildly at the ratlines, clear the ship’s
side, and strike the water head-foremost. ‘Man
overboard!’ I yelled at the top of my lungs,
slid to the deck, and ran into the arms of the
first mate, who had been watching us and who
had seen the whole thing.</p>
<p>“Some of the crew made a spring for the
davits, I among them. But the mate shook
his head.</p>
<p>“‘Ain’t no use lowerin’,’ he said. ‘Besides,
he ain’t worth savin’.’</p>
<p>“That night I had to crawl over the dead
man’s empty berth; his pillow and quilt were
just as he had left them, all tumbled and
mussed, and his tin tobacco-box where he had
laid it. Try as I would as I lay awake in my
warm bunk and thought of him out in the sea,
and my own close shave for life, I could not get
rid of a certain uncanny feeling—something
akin to the sensation as that of which Lemois
was speaking. Only an instant’s time had saved<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
me from the same awful plunge—his last in
life. I never got over the feeling until we
reached port, for his berth was left untouched
and his tin tobacco-box still lay beside his
pillow. Even now when a sailor or fisherman
pulls out an old tin box—they are all pretty
much alike—or cuts a plug with a sheath knife,
it gives me a shudder.”</p>
<p>“Served the brute right!” cried Louis.
“Very good story, Herbert—a little exaggerated
in parts, particularly where you were so
absent-minded as to select the face of the gentleman
for your murderous kick, but it’s all
right: very good story. I could freeze you all
solid by an experience I had with an Apache
who followed me on my way to Montmartre
last week, but I won’t.”</p>
<p>“Give it to us, Louis!” cried everybody in
unison.</p>
<p>“No!”</p>
<p>“Well, why not?” I demanded.</p>
<p>“Because he turned down the next street. I
said I <i>could</i>, and I would if he’d kept on after
me. Your turn, Brierley. We haven’t heard
from you since you kept school for crows and
wild ducks and taught them how to dodge bird
shot. Unhook your ear-flaps, gentlemen; the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>
distinguished naturalist is about to relate
another one of his soul-stirring adventures—pure
fiction, of course, but none the less entertaining.”</p>
<p>Before I could reply, Lemois, who had followed
the course of the discussion with the
keenest interest, interrupted with a deprecating
shrug of his shoulders, his fingers widened out.</p>
<p>“But not another bird story, if you please,
Monsieur Brierley. We want something deeper
and stronger. We have touched upon a great
subject to-night, and have only scraped the
surface.”</p>
<p>Herbert leaned forward until he caught Lemois’
eye.</p>
<p>“Say the rest, Lemois. You have something
to tell us.”</p>
<p>“I! No—I have nothing to tell you. My
life has been too stupid. I am always either
bowing to my guests or making sauces for them
over Pierre’s fire. I could only tell you about
things of which I have <i>heard</i>. You, Monsieur
Herbert, can tell us of things with which you
have <i>lived</i>. I want to listen now to something
we will remember, like your story of the cannibal’s
wife. Almost every night since you
have been here I go to bed with a great song<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
ringing in my ears. You, Monsieur Herbert,
must yourself have seen such tragedies in men’s
lives, when in the space of a lightning’s flash
their souls were stripped clean and they left
naked.”</p>
<p>Herbert played with his fork for a moment,
threw it back upon the cloth, and then said in
a decided tone:</p>
<p>“No—it is not my turn; I’ve talked enough
to-night. Open up, Le Blanc, and give us something
out of the old Latin Quartier—there were
tragedies enough there.”</p>
<p>“Only what absinthe and starvation brought—and
a ring now and then on the wrong girl’s
finger—or none at all, as the case might have
been. But you’ve got a story, Herbert, if you
will tell it, which will send Lemois to bed with
a whole orchestra sounding in his ears.”</p>
<p>Herbert looked up.</p>
<p>“Which one?”</p>
<p>“The fever camp at Bangala.”</p>
<p>Herbert’s face became instantly grave and
an expression of intense thought settled upon
it. We waited, our eyes fixed upon him.</p>
<p>“No—I’d rather not, Le Blanc,” he said
slowly. “That belongs to the dead past, and it
is best to leave it so.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>”</p>
<p>“Tell it, Herbert,” I coaxed.</p>
<p>“Both you and Le Blanc have heard it.”</p>
<p>“But Lemois and the others haven’t.”</p>
<p>“Got any cannibals or barbecues in it, Herbert?”
inquired Louis.</p>
<p>“No, just plain white man all the way
through, Louis. Two of them are still alive—I
and another fellow. And you really want
it again, Le Blanc? Well, all right. But
before I begin I must ask you to pardon
my referring so often to my African experiences”—and
he glanced in apology around the
table—“but I was there at a most impressionable
age, and they still stand out in my mind—this
one in particular. You may have read
of the horrors that took place at Bangala in
what at the time was known as the fever camp,
where some of the bravest fellows who ever
entered the jungles met their deaths. Both natives
and white men had succumbed, one after
another, in a way that wiped out all hope.</p>
<p>“The remedies we had, had been used without
effect, and quinine had lost its power to
pull down the temperature, and each fellow
knew that if he were not among those carried
out feet foremost to-day, and buried so deep
that the hyenas could not dig him up, it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
only a question if on the morrow his own
turn did not come. A strange kind of fear
had taken possession of us, sick or well, and
a cold, deadening despair had crept into our
hearts, so great was the mortality, and so
quickly when once a man was stricken did the
end come. We were hundreds of miles from
civilization of any kind, unable to move our
quarters unless we deserted our sick, and even
then there was no healthier place within reach.
And so, not knowing who would go next, we
awaited the end.</p>
<p>“The only other white man in the country
besides ourselves was a young English missionary
who had taken up his quarters in a
native village some two miles away, in the low,
marshy lands, and who from the very day of
his arrival had set to work to teach and care
for the swarms of native children who literally
infested the settlement. Many of these had
been abandoned by their parents and would
have perished but for his untiring watchfulness.
When the fever broke out he, with the assistance
of those of the natives whom he could
bribe to help, had constructed a rude hospital
into which the little people were placed. These
he nursed with his own hands, and as children<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>
under ten years of age were less liable to the
disease than those who were older, and, when
stricken, easier to coax back to life, his mortality
list was very much less than our own.</p>
<p>“With our first deaths we would send for
him to come up the hill and perform the last
rites over the poor fellows, but, as our lists
grew, we abandoned even this. Why I escaped
at the time I do not know, unless it was
by sheer force of will. I have always believed
that the mind has such positive influence over
the body that if you can keep it working you
can arrest the progress of any disease—certainly
long enough for the other forces of the
body to come to its aid. So when I was at
last bowled over and so ill that I could not
stand on my feet, or even turn on my bed, I
would have some one raise me to a sitting posture
and then I would deliberately shave myself.
The mental effort to get the beard off
without cutting the skin; the determination to
leave no spot untouched; the making of the
lather, balancing of the razor, and propping
up of the small bit of looking-glass so as to reflect
my face properly, was what I have always
thought really saved my life.</p>
<p>“What I started to tell you, however, hap<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>pened
before I was finally stricken and will
make you think of the tales often heard of
shipwrecked men who, having given up all hope
at the pumps, turn in despair and break open
the captain’s lockers, drinking themselves into
a state of bestiality. It is the coward’s way
of meeting death, or perhaps it means the great
final protest of the physical against the spiritual—a
mad defiance of the inevitable—and
confirms what some of our physiologists have
always maintained—that only a thin stratum
of self-control divides us from something lower
than the beast.</p>
<p>“We had buried one of our bravest and best
comrades, one whose name is still held in reverence
by all who knew him, and after we had
laid him in the ground an orgy began, which
I am ashamed to say—for I was no better
than the rest—was as cowardly as it was bestial.
My portable india-rubber bath-tub, being
the largest vessel in the camp, was the punch-bowl,
and into it was dumped every liquor we
had in the place: Portuguese wine, Scotch
whiskey, Bass’s ale, brown stout, cognac—nothing
escaped. You can imagine what followed.
Those of our natives who helped themselves,
after a wild outburst of savagery, soon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
relapsed into a state of unconsciousness. The
exhilaration of the white man lasted longer, and
was followed by a fighting frenzy which filled
the night with horror. Men tore their clothes
from their backs and, half-naked, danced in a
circle, the flickering light of the camp-fire distorting
their bodies into demons. It was hell
let loose!</p>
<p>“I have got rather a strong head, but one
cup of that mixture sent my brain reeling.
My fear was that my will would give way and
I be tempted to drink a second dipperful and
so knocked completely out. With this idea
firmly in my mind, I watched my chance and
escaped outside the raging circle, where I found
a pool into which I plunged my head. This
sobered me a little and I kept on in the darkness
until I reached the edge of the hill overlooking
the missionary’s settlement, the shouts
of the frenzied men growing fainter and fainter.</p>
<p>“As I sat there my brain began to clear. I
noticed the dull light of the moon shrouded in
a deadly fog that rose from the valley below.
In its mysterious dimness the wraiths of mist
and fog became processions of ghosts stealing
slowly up the hill—spirits of the dead on their
way to judgment. The swollen moon swim<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>ming
in the drowsy vapor was an evil eye from
which there was no escape—searching the souls
of men—mine among them—I, who had been
spared death and in return had defied all the
laws of decency. The cries of the forest rang
in my ears, loud and insistent. The howl of a
pariah dog, the hoot of an owl, became so
many questions—all directed toward me—all
demanding an answer for my sins. Even the
hum of myriads of insects seemed concerned
with me, disputing in low tones and deciding
on my punishment.</p>
<p>“Gradually these sounds grew less insistent,
and soft as a breath of air—hardly perceptible
at first—there rose from the valley below, like
a curl of smoke mounting into the stillness, a
strain of low, sweet music, and as suddenly
ceased. I bent my head, wondering whether
I was dreaming. I had heard that same music,
when I was a boy at home, wafted toward me
from the open window of the village church.
How came it here? Why sing it? Why torture
me with it—who would never see home
again?</p>
<p>“I struggled to my feet, steadied myself
against a cotton-tree, and fixed my eyes on the
valley below; my ears strained to catch the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
first recurrent note. Again it rose on the night
air, this time strong and clear, as if a company
of angels were singing.</p>
<p>“I knew now!</p>
<p>“It was the hymn my friend the missionary
had taught the children.</p>
<p>“I plunged down the hill, stumbling, falling,
only to drag myself to my feet again, groping
my way through the dense night fog and the
tangle of undergrowth, until I reached the small
stockade at the foot of the incline which circled
the missionary station. Crossing this ground,
I followed the path and entered a small gate.
Beyond it lay a flat piece of land cleared of all
underbrush, and at its extreme end the rude
bamboo hut of a hospital filled with sick and
dying children.</p>
<p>“Once more on the deadly night air rose the
hymn, a note of exaltation now, calling me on—to
what I knew not, nor did I care, so it
would ease the grinding fear under which I had
lived for weeks.</p>
<p>“Suddenly I came to a halt. In the faint
moonlight, within a dozen yards of me, knelt
the figure of a man. He was praying—his
hands upraised, his face lifted—the words falling
from his lips distinctly audible. I moved<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
nearer. Before him was a new-made grave—one
he had dug himself—to cover the body of
a child who had died at sunset.</p>
<p>“It was a moment I have never forgotten,
and never want to forget.</p>
<p>“On the hill above me were the men I had
left—a frenzied body of bestial cowards who
had dishonored themselves, their race, and
their God; here beside me, huddled together,
a group of forest children—spawn of cannibal
and savage—racked with fever, half-starved,
many of them delirious, their souls rising to
heaven on the wings of a song.</p>
<p>“And then the kneeling man himself!—his
courage facing death every hour of the day—alone—no
one to help—only his Maker as witness.
I tell you, gentlemen, that when I stood
beside him and looked into his eyes, caught the
tones of his voice, and watched the movement
of his fingers patting the last handfuls of earth
over the poor little nameless body, and realized
that his only recompense lay in that old line I
used to hear so often when I was a boy—‘If ye
have done it unto the least of these, ye have
done it unto me’—I could have gone down on
my knees beside him and thanked my Creator
that He had sent me to him.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX
<br /><br />IN WHICH MADAME LA MARQUISE
BINDS UP BROKEN HEADS AND
BLEEDING HEARTS</h2>
<p>The morning brought us two most welcome
pieces of news, one being that Gaston,
his head swathed in bandages, had, with
the doctor’s approval, gone home an hour before
breakfast, and the other that our now
adorable Madame la Marquise de la Caux, with
Marc as gentleman-in-waiting, would arrive at
the Inn some time during the day or evening,
the exact hour being dependent upon her duties
at the site of her “ruin.” These pieces of news,
being positive and without question, were received
with the greatest satisfaction, Gaston’s
recovery meaning fresh roses in Mignon’s
cheeks and madame’s visit giving us another
glimpse of her charming personality.</p>
<p>That which was less positive, because immediately
smothered and sent around in whispers,
were rumors of certain happenings that had
taken place shortly after daybreak. Mignon,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>
so the word ran, before seeking her little cot
the night before, had caught a nod, or the
lift of Leà’s brow, arched over a meaning eye,
or a significant smile—some sort of wireless,
anyway, with Leà as chief operator, and a private
wire to Louis’ room, immediately over
Gaston’s. What she had learned had kept the
girl awake half the night and sent her skipping
on her toes at the break of dawn to the little
passageway at the far end of the court-yard,
where she had cried over Gaston and kissed
him good-by, Leà being deaf and dumb and
blind. All this occurred before the horrible
old bogie (Lemois was the bogie), who had
given strict orders that everything should be
done for the comfort of the boy before he left
the Inn, was fairly awake; certainly before he
was out of bed.</p>
<p>“By thunder!—I could hardly keep the tears
out of my eyes I was so sorry for her,” Louis
had said when he burst into my room an hour
before getting-up time. “I heard the noise
and thought he was suffering again and needed
help, and so I hustled out and came bump
up against them as they stood at the foot of
the stairs. I wasn’t dressed for company and
dared not go back lest they should see me, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
so I flattened myself against the wall and was
obliged to hear it all. I’m not going to give
them away; but if any girl will love me as she
does that young fellow she can have my bank
account. And he was so manly and square
about it all—no snivelling, no making a poor
face. ‘It is nothing, Mignon—I am all right.
Don’t cry,’ he kept saying. ‘Everything will
come out our way in the end.’ By Jove!—I
wish some girl loved me like that!”</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 465px;">
<img src="images/i_alt_fp184.jpg" width="465" height="640" alt="Herbert caught up his sketch-book and ... transferred her dear old
head ... to paper" title="" />
<span class="caption">Herbert caught up his sketch-book and ... transferred her dear old
head ... to paper</span>
</div>
<p>Such an expression of happiness had settled,
too, on Leà’s face as she brought our coffee,
that Herbert caught up his sketch-book and
made her stand still until he had transferred
her dear old head in its white cap to paper.
Then, the portrait finished—and it was exactly
like her—what a flash of joy suffused
Mignon’s face when he called to her and whispered
in her ear the wonderful tale of why he
had drawn it and who was to be its proud possessor;
and when it was all to take place, a
bit of information that sent her out of the
room and skipping across the court, her tiny
black kitten at her heels.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was, indeed, a joyous day, with every one
in high good humor, culminating in the wildest
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>
enthusiasm when the sound of a siren, followed
by the quick “chug-chug” of the stop
brake of madame’s motor, announced the arrival
of that distinguished woman an hour
ahead of time.</p>
<p>“Ah!—gentlemen!” she shouted out, rising
from her seat, both hands extended before any
of us could reach her car, “I have come over to
crown you with laurel! Oh, what a magnificent
lot of heroes!—and to think you saved
my poor, miserable little mouse-trap of a villa
that has been trying all its life to slide down
hill into the sea and get washed and scrubbed.
No, I don’t want your help—I’m going to
jump!” and out she came, man’s ulster, black-velvet
jockey cap, short skirt, high boots, and
all, Marc following.</p>
<p>“And now, Monsieur Marc, give me a little
help—no, not here—down below the seat.
Careful, now! And the teakwood stand is
there too—I steadied them both with my
feet. There, you dear men!”—here she lifted
the priceless treasure above her head, her eyes
dancing—“what do you think of your punch-bowl?
This is for your choicest mixtures whenever
you meet, and not one of you shall have
a drop out of it unless you promise to make<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
me honorary member of your coterie, with full
permission to stay away or come just as I
please. Isn’t it a beauty?—and not a crack
or scar on it—Old Ming, they tell me, of the
first dynasty. There, dear Lemois, put it
among your things, but never out of reach.”</p>
<p>She had shaken every one’s hand now and
was stamping her little feet in their big men’s
boots to keep up her circulation, talking to us
all the while.</p>
<p>“Ah, Monsieur Louis, it was you who carried
out my beloved piano—Liszt played on it, and
so did Paderewski and Livadi, and a whole lot
of others, until it gave out and I sent it down
here, more for its associations than anything
else. And you too, Monsieur Herbert”—and
she gave him a low curtsy, as befitted his rank—“you-were-a-<i>real-major-general</i>,
and saved
the life of that poor young fisherman; and you,
Lemois, rescued my darling miniatures and my
books. Yes—I have heard all about it. Oh!—it
was so kind of you all—and you were so
good—nothing I really loved is missing. I
have been all the morning feasting my eyes on
them. And now let us all go in and stir up
the fire—and, please, one of you bring me a
thimbleful of brandy. I have rummaged over<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>
my precious things until I have worked myself
into a perspiration, and then I must drive
like Jehu until I get chilled to the bone. Catch
cold!—my dear Monsieur Brierley—I never
catch cold! I should be quite ashamed of myself
if I did.”</p>
<p>We were inside the Marmouset now, Marc
unbuttoning her outer garments, revealing her
plump, penguin-shaped body clothed in a
blouse of mouse-colored corduroy with a short
skirt to match, her customary red silk scarf
about her throat; the silver watch with its
leather strap, which hung from the pocket of
her blouse, her only ornament.</p>
<p>“Take my cap, please,” and she handed it to
the ever-obsequious Marc, who always seemed
to have lost his wits and identity in her presence.
This done, she ran her fingers through
her fluff of gray hair, caught it in a twist with
her hand, skewered it with a tortoise-shell pin,
and, with a “So! that’s all over,” drew up a
chair to the blaze and settled herself in it, talking
all the time, the men crowding about her
to catch her every word.</p>
<p>“And now how about that young fisherman?
Thank you, Monsieur Herbert. No, that is
quite enough; a thimbleful of cognac is just<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
what I need—more than that I have given up
these many years. Come!—the young fisherman,
Lemois. Is he badly hurt? Has he a
doctor? How long before he gets well? Can
I go to see him as soon as I get warm? Such
a brave lad—and all to save my miserable jim-cracks.”</p>
<p>Both of Lemois’ hands were outstretched in
a low bow. “We could do no less than rescue
your curios, madame. Our only fear is that
we may have left behind something more precious
than anything we saved.”</p>
<p>“No, I have not missed a single thing; and
it wouldn’t make any difference if I had; we
love too many things, anyway, for our good.
As to the house—it is too funny to see it. I
laughed until I quite lost my breath. Everything
is sticking out like the quills on a mad
hedgehog, and the porch steps are smashed flat
up against the ceiling. Oh!—it is too ridiculous!
Just fancy, only the shelf in my boudoir
is left where it used to be, and the plants are
still blooming away up in the air as if nothing
had happened. But not a word more of all
this!” and she rose from her seat. “Take me
to see the poor fellow at once!”</p>
<p>Again Lemois bowed, this time with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
greatest deference. The exalted rank of his
guest was a fact he never lost sight of.</p>
<p>“He is not here, madame,” he said in an
apologetic tone; “I have sent him home to his
mother.”</p>
<p>“Home!—to his mother?—and after my despatch.
Oh!—but I could take so much better
care of him here! Why did you do it?”</p>
<p>“For the best of reasons—first, because the
doctor said he might go, and then because
I”—and he lowered his voice and glanced
around to see if Mignon had by any chance
slipped into the room—“because,” he added
with a knowing smile, “it is sometimes dangerous
to have so good-looking a fellow about.”</p>
<p>“So good of you, Lemois,” she flashed back;
“so thoughtful and considerate. Twenty years
ago I might have lost my heart, but——”</p>
<p>“Oh, but, madame—I never for an instant—”
He was really frightened.</p>
<p>“Oh, it was not <i>me</i>, then!” and one of her
ringing, silvery laughs gladdened the room.
“Who, then, pray?—certainly not that dear
old woman with the white cap who—Oh!—I
see!—it is that pretty little Norman maid.
Such a winning creature, and so modest. Yes,
I remember her distinctly. But why should not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
these two people love each other? He is brave,
and you say he is handsome—what better can
the girl have?”</p>
<p>Lemois shrugged his shoulders in a helpless
way, but with an expression on his obstinate
face that showed his entire satisfaction with
his own course.</p>
<p>Madame read his thoughts and turned upon
him, a dominating ring in her voice. “And you
really mean, Lemois, that you are playing
jailer, and shutting up two hearts in different
cells?”</p>
<p>Lemois, suddenly nonplussed, hesitated and
looked away. We held our breaths for his
answer.</p>
<p>“Ah, madame,” he replied at last slowly, all
the fight knocked out of him, “it is not best
that we discuss it. Better let me know what
madame la marquise will have for dinner—we
have waited all day until your wishes were
known.”</p>
<p>“Nothing—not a crumb of anything until I
find out about these lovers. Did you ever
know anything like it, gentlemen? Here on
one side are broken heads and broken hearts—on
the other, a charming old gentleman
whom I have known for years, and whom I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
love dearly, playing bear and ready to eat up
both of these young turtle doves. When I remonstrate
he wants to know whether I will
have my chicken roasted on a spit or <i>en casserole</i>!
Oh, you are too silly, Lemois!”</p>
<p>“But she is like my daughter, madame,” replied
Lemois humbly, and yet with a certain
dignity.</p>
<p>“And, therefore, she mustn’t marry an honest
young fisherman. Is that what you mean?”</p>
<p>Lemois merely inclined his head.</p>
<p>“And pray what would you make of her—a
countess?”</p>
<p>A grim baffled smile ruffled the edges of the
old man’s lips as he tried again to turn the
conversation, but she would not listen.</p>
<p>“No, I see it all! You want some flat-chested
apothecary, or some fat clerk, or a
notary, or a grocer, or—Oh, I know all about
it! Now do you go and get your dinner ready—anything
will suit me—and when it is over
and Monsieur Herbert is firmly settled in his
big chair, with the funny heads listening to
everything we say, I am going to tell you a
story about one of your mismated marriages,
and I want you to listen, Monsieur Bear, with
your terrible growl and your great claws and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
your ugly teeth. No, I won’t take any apologies,”
and another laugh—a whole chime of
silver bells this time—rang through the room.</p>
<p>“What a pity it is,” she continued after her
opponent had left the room, “that people who
get old forget so soon what their own youth
has meant to them. He takes this child, puts
a soul into her by his kindness, and then, when
she becomes a woman, builds a fence around
her—not for her protection but for his own
pride. It will be so much more <i>honorable</i>, he
says to himself, for the great house of Lemois
to have one of his distinguished waifs <i>honorably</i>
settled in an <i>honorable</i> home,” and she
lifted her shoulders ever so slightly. “Not a
word, you will please note, about the girl or
what <i>she</i> wants—nothing whatever of that kind.
And he is such a dear too. But I won’t have
it, and I’m going to tell him so!” she added,
her brown eyes blazing as her heart went out
once more to the girl.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>All through the dinner the marquise made
no further reference to the love affair, although
I could see that it was still on her mind, for
when Mignon entered and began moving about
the room in her demure, gentle way, her lids<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>
lowered, her pretty head and throat aglow in
the softened light, I saw that she was following
her every gesture. Once, when the girl replenished
her plate, the woman of birth, as if
by accident, laid her fingers on the serving-woman’s
wrist, and then there flashed out of
her eyes one of those sympathetic glances which
only a tender-hearted woman can give, and
which only another woman, no matter how
humble her station, can fully understand. It
was all done so quickly and so deftly that I
alone noticed it, as well as the answering look in
Mignon’s eyes: full of such gratitude and reverence
that I started lest she should betray herself
and thus spoil it all.</p>
<p>With the coffee and cigarettes—madame refusing
any brand but her own—“I dry every
bit of my tobacco myself,” she offered in explanation,
“and roll every cigarette I smoke”—we
settled ourselves in pleased expectation,
Herbert, as usual, in the Florentine; our guest
of honor beside a small table which Lemois
had moved up for her comfort, and on which
he had placed a box of matches and an ashtray;
Brierley stretched out on the sofa with
a cushion at his back; Lemois on a low stool
by the fire; Louis and I with chairs drawn<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>
close. Even the big back log, which had been
crooning a song of the woods all the evening,
ceased its hum as if to listen, while overhead
long wraiths of tobacco smoke drifted silently,
dimming the glint and sparkle of copper, brass,
and silver that looked down at us from the walls.</p>
<p>“And now, madame,” said Herbert with a
smile, when both Leà and Mignon had at last
left the room, “you were good enough to say
you had a story for us.”</p>
<p>“No,” she answered gayly. “It is not for
you. It is for our dear Lemois here,” and she
shook her head at him in mock reproval. “You
are all too fine and splendid, every one of you.
You keep houses from tumbling to pieces and
rescue lovers and do no end of beauteous things.
He goes about cutting and slashing heads and
hearts, and never cares whom he hurts.”</p>
<p>Lemois rose from his seat, put his hand
on his shirt-front—a favorite gesture of his—bowed
humbly, and sat down again.</p>
<p>“Yes, I mean it,” she cried with a toss of her
head, “and I have just been telling these gentlemen
that I am going to put a stop to it just
as soon as I can find out whether this young
hero with the broken head is worth the saving,
and that I shall decide the moment I get my<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>
eyes on him. Pass me my coffee, Lemois, and
give me my full share of sugar—three lumps if
you please—and put four into your own to
sweeten your temper, for you will need them
all before I get through.</p>
<p>“The story I promised you is one of sheer
stupidity, and always enrages me when I think
of it. I have all my life set my face against
this idiotic custom of my country of choosing
wives and husbands for other people. In any
walk of life it is a mistake; in some walks of
life it is a crime. This particular instance occurred
some twenty years ago in a little village
near Beaumont, where I lived as a girl.
Outside our far gate, leading to the best fields,
was the house of a peasant who had made some
thousands of francs by buying calves when they
were very small, fattening them, and driving
them to the great markets. He was big and
coarse, with a red face, small, shrewd eyes, and
a bull neck that showed puffy above his collar.
He was loud, too, in his talk and could be
heard above every one else in the crowd when
the auction sales were being held in the market.
But for his blue blouse, which reached
to his feet, he might have been taken for one
of his own steers.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span></p>
<p>“The wife was different. Although she was
of the same peasant stock, a strain of gentleness
and refinement had somehow crept in. In
everything she was his opposite—a short
woman with narrow shoulders and small waist;
a low, soft voice, and a temper so kindly and
even that her neighbors loved her as much as
they hated her husband. And then there was
a daughter—no sons—just one daughter. With
her my acquaintance with the family began,
and but for this girl I should have known nothing
of what I am going to tell you.</p>
<p>“It all came about through a little fête my
father gave to which the neighbors and some
of the land-owners were invited. You know
all about these festivities, of course. Something
of the kind must be done every year,
and my dear father never forgot what he owed
his people, and always did his best to make
them happy. On this occasion the idea came
into my head that it would be something of a
novelty if I arranged a dance of the young
people with a May-pole and garlands, after one
of the Watteau paintings in our home; something
that had never been done before, but
which, if done at all, must be carried out properly.
So I sent to Paris to get the costumes,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
the wide hats, petticoats, and all—with the
small clothes for the men—and started out to
find my characters. One of my maids had
told me of this girl and, as she lived nearest,
I stopped at her house first. Well, the father
came in and blustered out a welcome; then
the mother, with a curtsy and a smile, wiped
out the man’s odious impression, thanking me
for coming, and then the girl appeared—the
living counterpart of her mother except that
the fine strain of gentle blood had so softened
and strengthened the daughter’s personality
that she had blossomed into a lovely young
person without a trace of the peasant about
her—just as any new grafting improves both
flower and fruit. I could not take my eyes
from her, she was so gentle and modest—her
glance reaching mine timidly, the lids trembling
like a butterfly afraid to alight; oh, a
very charming and lovely creature—an astonishing
creature, really, to be the daughter of
such a man. Before the visit was over I had
determined to make her my prima donna: she
should lead the procession, and open the dance
with some gallant of her choice—a promise received
with delight by the family; the girl
being particularly pleased, especially with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>
last part of it, and so I left them, and kept on
my rounds through the village and outlying
district.</p>
<p>“It was a lovely summer day—in June, if
I remember—too late for May-poles, but I
didn’t care—and long before the hour arrived
our lawn was thronged with peasants and their
sons and daughters, and our stables and paddocks
crowded with their carts and vehicles.
My father had provided a tent where the young
people should change their clothes, but I took
my little maid up into my own room, and my
femme de chambre and I dressed her at our
leisure.</p>
<p>“It is astonishing what you find underneath
the rough garments worn by some of our peasants.
I have often heard one of my friends—a
figure painter—express the same surprise over
his models. What appears in coarse cloth to
be an ill-shaped arm turns out to be beautifully
modelled when bared to the overhead
light of a studio. So it was with this girl.
She had the dearest, trimmest little figure, her
shoulders temptingly dimpled, her throat and
neck with that exquisite modelling only seen
in a beautifully formed girl just bursting into
womanhood. And then, too, her hair—what a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>
lot of it there was when it was all combed out,
and of so rich a brown, with a thread of gold
here and there where the light struck it; and,
more than all, her deep sapphire-blue eyes.
Oh!—you cannot think how lovely they were;
eyes that drank you all in until you were lost
in their depths—like a well holding and refreshing
you.</p>
<p>“So we dressed her up—leghorn hat, petticoats,
tiny slippers on her tiny feet—and they
were tiny—even to her shepherdess crook—until
she looked as if she had just stepped out
of one of Watteau’s canvases.</p>
<p>“And you may be sure she had her innings!
The young fellows went wild over her, as well
as the older ones—and even some of our own
gentry tried to make love to her—so I heard
next day. When all was ready she picked out
her own partner, as I had promised she should,
a straight, well-built, honest-faced young peasant
whom she called ‘Henri’—a year or two
her senior, and whom I learned was the son of
a poor farmer whose land adjoined her father’s,
but whose flocks and herds consisted of but one
cow and a few pigs. In his pearl-gray short
clothes and jacket, slashed sleeves, and low-cut
shoes he looked amazingly well, and I did<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
not blame her for her choice. Indeed she could
not have done better, perfectly matched as they
were in their borrowed plumes.</p>
<p>“And now comes a curious thing: so puffed
up was that big animal of a father over the
impression the girl had made, and so proud
was he over the offers he received shortly after
for her hand—among them a fellow herdsman
twenty years her senior—that he immediately
began to put on airs of distinction. A man
with such a daughter, he said to himself, was
also a man of weight and prominence in the
community; he, therefore, had certain duties
to perform. This was his only child; moreover,
was he not rich, being the owner of more
than a hundred head of cattle, and did he not
have money in the banks? Loyette—have I
told you her name was Loyette?—Loyette
should marry no one of the young fellows about
her—he had other and higher views for her.
What these views were nobody knew, but one
thing was certain, and that was that Henri,
whom she loved with all her heart, and who
had danced with her around the May-pole, was
forbidden the house. The excuse was that his
people were not of her class; that they were
poor, his father being.... Oh, the same<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
stupid story which has been told thousands of
times and will continue to be told as long as
there are big, thick-necked fathers who lay
down the law with their sledge-hammer fists,
and ambitious old gentlemen”—here she cut
her eye at Lemois—“who try to wheedle you
with their flimsy arguments—arguments which
they would have thrown in your face had you
tried it on them when they themselves were
young. The father forgot, of course—just as
they all forget—that she was precisely the
same young girl with precisely the same heart
before the fête as she was after it; that every
rag on her back I had given her; that her
triumph was purely a matter of chance—my
going first to his house and thus finding her—and
that on the very next day she had milked the
cows and polished the tins just as she had done
since she was old enough to help her mother.</p>
<p>“Again that old story was repeated: the
mother begged and pleaded; the girl drowned
herself in tears, but the father stormed on.
Poor Henri continued to peep over the fence
at Loyette when she went milking, or met her
clandestinely on the path behind the cow sheds,
and everybody was wretched for months trying
to make water run uphill.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></p>
<p>“Then Loyette confided in me. I had started
to walk to the village and she had seen me
cross the broad road and had followed. Poor
child!—I can see her now, the tears streaming
down her cheeks as she poured out her heart:
how she and Henri had always loved each
other; how fine and brave and truthful he was,
and how kind and noble: she emptying her
heart of her most precious secret—the story of
her first love—a story, gentlemen”—here the
marquise’s voice dropped into tones of infinite
sweetness—“which the angels bend their ears
to catch, for there is nothing more holy nor
more sublime.</p>
<p>“I listened, her hand in mine—we were
about the same age and I could, therefore, the
better understand—her pretty blue eyes like
wet violets searching for my own—and when
her story was all told, I comforted her as best
I could, telling her what I firmly believed—that
no father with a spark of tenderness in
his heart could be obdurate for long and not to
worry—true love like hers always winning its
way—whereupon she dried her eyes, kissed my
hand, and I left her.</p>
<p>“What happened I do not know, for I went
to Paris shortly after and was married myself,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>
and did not return to my old home for some
years. Then one day, in the effort to pick up
once more the threads of my old life, there suddenly
popped into my mind Loyette’s love story.
I sent at once for one of the old servants who
had lived with us since before I was born.</p>
<p>“‘And Loyette—the girl with the big ugly
father—did he relent and did she marry the
young fellow she was in love with?’</p>
<p>“‘No, madame,’ she answered sadly, with a
shake of the head; ‘she married the cattleman,
Marceaux, and a sad mess they made of it, for
he was old enough then to be her father, and
he is now half paralyzed, and goes around in a
chair on wheels, and there are no children—and
Loyette, who was so pretty and so happy,
must follow him about like a dog tied to a blind
man, and she never laughs the whole livelong
day. That was her father’s work—he made
her do it, and now she must pay the price.’</p>
<p>“‘And what became of the pig of a father?’
I had hated him before; I loathed him now.</p>
<p>“‘Dead; so is her mother.’</p>
<p>“‘And the young fellow?’</p>
<p>“‘He had to do his service, and was gone
three years, and when he came back it was too
late.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>’</p>
<p>“‘Well, but why did she give in?’</p>
<p>“‘Don’t they all have to give in at last?
Did the husband not settle the farm on her,
and fifty head of cattle, and the pasturage
and barns? Is not that better for an only
daughter than digging in the fields bending
over washing-boards all day and breaking your
back hanging out the clothes? How did she
know he would be only a sick child in a chair
on wheels—and this a year after marriage?’</p>
<p>“‘And what did the young fellow do?’</p>
<p>“‘What could he do? It was all over when
he came back. And now he never laughs any
more, and will look at none of the women—and
it is a pity, for he is prosperous and can
well take care of a wife.’</p>
<p>“I had it all now, just as plain as day; they
had tricked the girl into a marriage; had maligned
the young fellow in the same cowardly
way, and had embittered them both for life.
It was the same old game; I had seen it played
a hundred times in different parts of the world.
Often the cards are stacked. Sometimes it is
a jewel—or a handful of them—or lands—or
rank—or some other such make-believe. This
trick is to be expected in the great world where
success in life is a game, and where each gam<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>bler
must look to the cards—but not here
among our peasantry”—and again she shot her
glance at Lemois—“where a girl grows up as
innocent as a heifer, her nature expanding, her
only ambition being to find a true mate who
will help her bear the burdens her station lays
upon her.</p>
<p>“I resolved to see her for myself. If I had
been wrong in my surmises—and it were true
that so sweet and innocent a creature had of
her own free will married a man twenty years
her senior when her heart was wholly another’s—I
should lose faith in girl nature: and I have
looked into many young hearts in my time.
That her father—big brute as he was—would
have dared force her into such an alliance without
her consent I did not believe, for the
mother would then have risen up. These Norman
peasants fight for their children as a bear
fights for her cubs—women of the right kind—and
she was one.</p>
<p>“My own father shrugged his shoulders
when I sought his counsel, and uttered the
customary man-like remark: ‘Better for her,
I expect, than hoeing beets. All she has to
do now is to see him comfortably fixed in his
chair—a great blessing, come to think of it,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
for she can always find him when she wants
him.’</p>
<p>“This view of the case brought me no relief,
and so the next day I mounted my horse,
took my groom, and learning that her cripple
of a husband had bought another and a larger
farm a few kilometres away, rode over to see
her.</p>
<p>“I shall never forget what I found. Life
presents some curious spectacles, and the ironies
of fate work out the unexpected. In front of
the low door of a Norman farm-house of the
better class sat a gray-haired, shrivelled man
with a blanket across his knees—his face of
that dirty, ash-colored hue which denotes disease
and constant pain. My coming made
some stir, for he had seen me making my way
through the orchard and had recognized my
groom, and at his call the wife ran out to welcome
me. My young beauty was now a thin,
utterly disheartened, and worn-out woman who
looked twice her age, and on whose face was
stamped the hall-mark of suffering and sorrow.
The brown-gold hair, the white teeth, and deep-blue
eyes were there, but everything else was a
wreck.</p>
<p>“When the horses were led away, and I had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
expressed my sympathy for the cripple, I drew
her inside the house, shut the door, and took
a chair beside her.</p>
<p>“‘Now tell me the whole story—not your
suffering, nor his—I see that in your faces—but
how it could all happen. The last time
you talked to me we were girls together—we
are girls now.’</p>
<p>“‘Madame la marquise,’ she began, ‘I——’</p>
<p>“‘No, not madame la marquise,’ I interrupted,
taking her hand in mine; ‘just one
woman talking to another. Whose fault was
it—yours or Henri’s?’</p>
<p>“‘Neither. They lied about him; they said
he would never come back; then, when he did
not write and no news came of him and I
was wild and crazy with grief, they told me
more things of which I won’t speak; and one
of the old women in the village, who wanted
him for her granddaughter, laughed and said
the things were true and that she didn’t mind,
and nobody else should; and then all the time
my father was saying I must marry the other’—and
she pointed in the direction of the cripple—‘and
he kept coming every day, and was
kind and sympathetic, and good to me I must
say, and is now, and at last my heart was worn<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>
out—and they took me to the church, and it
was all over. And then the next month Henri
came back from Algiers, where he had been ill
in the hospital, and came straight here and sat
down in that chair over there, and looked about
him, and then he said: “I would not have come
home if I had known how things were; I
would rather have been shot. I cannot give
you all this”—and he pointed to the furniture—“and
you did not want them when we first
loved each other.”</p>
<p>“‘And then he told me how many times he
had written, and we hunted through my father’s
chest which I had brought here with me—he
had died that year, and so had my dear mother—and
there we found all Henri’s letters tied
together with a string, and not one of them
opened.’</p>
<p>“‘What did you do?’ I asked.</p>
<p>“‘I went at once to my husband and told
him everything. He burst into a great rage;
and the two had hard words, and then the
next day he was out in the field and the sun
was very hot, and he was brought home, and
has been as you see him ever since.’</p>
<p>“‘And where is Henri?’</p>
<p>“‘He is here on the farm. When the doc<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>tor
gave my husband no hope of ever being
well again, my husband sent for him and begged
Henri’s pardon for what he had said, saying he
wanted no one to hate him now that he could
not live; that all Henri had done was to love
me as a man should love a woman, and that, if
I would be willing, Henri should take care of
the farm and keep it for me. This was four
years ago, and Henri is still here and my husband
has never changed. When the weather
is good, Henri puts him in his chair, the one we
bought in Rouen, and wheels him about under
the apple-trees, and every night he comes
in and sits beside him and goes over the accounts
and tells him of the day’s work. Then
he goes back home, six kilometres away, to his
mother’s, where he lives.’”</p>
<p>Madame la marquise paused and shook the
ashes from her cigarette, her head on one side,
her eyes half-closed, a thoughtful, wholly absorbed
expression on her face. Lemois, who
had listened to every word of the strange narrative,
his gaze fastened upon her, made no
sound, nor did he move.</p>
<p>“And now listen to the rest: Two years
later the poor cripple passed away and the
next spring the two were married. The last<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>
time she came to me she brought her child
with her—a baby in arms—but the dazzling
light of young motherhood did not shine in her
eyes—the baby had come, and she was glad,
but that was all. They are both alive to-day,
sitting in the twilight—their youth gone; robbed
of the joy of making the first nest, together—meeting
life second-hand, as it were—content
to be alive and to be left alone.</p>
<p>“As for me, knowing the whole story, I had
only a deep, bitter, intense sense of outrage.
I still have it whenever I think of her wrongs.
God is over all and pardons us almost every
sin we commit—even without our asking, I
sometimes think—but the men and women who
for pride’s sake rob a young girl of a true and
honorable love have shut themselves out of
heaven.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="X" id="X"></a>X
<br />
<br />IN WHICH WE ENTERTAIN A
JAIL-BIRD</h2>
<p>What effect madame’s story had made
upon Lemois became at once an absorbing
question. He had listened intently with
deferential inclination of the head, and when
she had finished had risen from his seat and
thanked her calmly with evident sincerity, but
whether he was merely paying a tribute to her
rare skill—and she told her story extremely
well, and with such rapid changes of tones and
gestures that every situation and character
stood out in relief—or because he was grateful
for a new point of view in Mignon’s case,
was still a mystery to us. While she was
being bundled up by Herbert and Louis for
her ride home, Marc had delivered himself of
the opinion that Mignon would have her lover
in the end; that nothing madame had ever
tried to do had failed when once she set her
heart and mind to work, and that the banns
might as well be published at once. But, then,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span>
Marc would have begun to set nets for larks
and bought both toaster and broiler had the
same idol of his imagination predicted an immediate
fall of the skies. That his inamorata
was twenty years his senior made no difference
to the distinguished impressionist; that
Marc was twenty years her junior made not the
slightest difference to madame—nor did Marc
himself, for that matter. All good men were
comrades to her—and Marc was one: further
she never went. Her rule of life was freedom
of thought and action, and absolute
deference to her whims, however daring and
foolish.</p>
<p>Nor did the marquise herself enlighten us further
as to what she thought of Mignon’s love
affairs or Lemois’ narrow matrimonial views.
She had become suddenly intent on having the
smashed villa pulled uphill and set on its legs
again, with Marc as adviser and Le Blanc’s
friend, The Architect, as director-in-chief—an
appointment which blew into thin air that
gentleman’s determination to put into dramatic
form the new Robinson Crusoe of which Herbert
had told us, with Goringe, the explorer, as
star, the lady remarking sententiously that she
had definite reasons for the restoration and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>
wanted the work to begin at once and to continue
with all possible speed.</p>
<p>This last Le Blanc told us the next day when
he returned in madame’s motor, bringing with
him an old friend of his—a tall, sunburned,
grizzly bearded man of fifty, with overhanging
eyebrows shading piercing brown eyes, firm,
well-buttressed nose, a mouth like a ruled line—so
straight was it—and a jaw which used up
one-third of his face. When they entered Herbert
was standing with his back to the room.
An instant later the stranger had him firmly by
the hand.</p>
<p>“I heard you were here, Herbert,” he cried
joyously, “but could hardly believe it. By
Jove! It’s good to see you again! When was
the last time, old man?—Borneo, wasn’t it?—in
that old shack outside the town, and those
devils howling for all they were worth.”</p>
<p>Introductions over, he dropped into a chair,
took a pipe from his pocket, and in a few minutes
was as much a part of the coterie as if
we had known him all his life: his credentials
of accomplishment, of pluck, of self-sacrifice,
of endurance and skill were accepted at sight;
the hearty welcome he gave Herbert, and the
way his eyes shone with the joy of meeting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>
him, completing the last and most important
requirement on our list—good-fellowship. That
he had lived outside the restrictions of civilization
was noticeable in his clothes, which were
of an ancient cut and looked as if they had just
been pulled out of a trunk where they had lain
in creases for years, which was true, for during
the past decade he had been acting Engineer-in-Chief
of one section of the great dam on the
Nile, and was now home on leave. He had, he
told us, left London the week before, had crossed
with his car at Dieppe, and was making a run
down the coast by way of Trouville when he
bumped into Le Blanc and, hearing Herbert
was within reach, had made bold to drop in
upon us.</p>
<p>When Mignon and Leà had cleared the table,
dinner being over, and the coffee had been
served—and somehow the real talk always began
after the coffee—for then Lemois was with
us—Herbert looked at The Engineer long and
searchingly, a covetous light growing in his
eyes—the look of a housed sailor sniffing the
brine on a comrade’s reefer just in from the
sea—and said dryly:</p>
<p>“Are you glad to get home?”</p>
<p>“Yes and no. My liver had begun to give<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>
out and they sent me to England for a few
months, but I shall have to go back, I’m afraid,
before my time is up. Gets on my nerves here—too
much sand on the axles—too much friction
and noise—such a lot of people, too, chasing
bubbles. Seems queer when you’ve been
away from it as long as I have. How do you
stand it, old man?”</p>
<p>Herbert tapped the table-cloth absently with
the handle of his knife and remarked slowly:</p>
<p>“I don’t stand it. I lie down and let it roll
over me. If I ever thought about it at all I’d
lose my grip. Sometimes a longing to be again
in the jungle sweeps over me—to feel its dangers—its
security—its genuineness and freedom
from all shams, if you will”—and a strange
haunting look settled in his eyes.</p>
<p>“But you always used to dream of getting
home; I’ve lain awake by the hour and heard
you talk.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know,” he answered rousing himself,
“it was a battle even in those days. I would
think about it and then decide to stay a year
or two longer; and then the hunger for home
would come upon me again and I’d begin to
shape things so I could get back to England.
Sometimes it took a year to decide—sometimes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>
two or three—for you can’t get rid of that kind
of a nightmare in a minute.”</p>
<p>“You were different from me, Herbert,” remarked
Le Blanc. “You went to the wilds
because you loved them; I went because they
locked the front and back gates on me. I
suppose I deserved it, for nobody got much
sleep when I was twenty. But it sounds funny
to have you say it would take you two years
to make up your mind whether you’d come
home or not. It wouldn’t have taken me five
seconds.”</p>
<p>“Sometimes it didn’t take that long,” and a
quick laugh escaped Herbert’s lips as if to conceal
his serious mood. “Those things depend
on how you feel and what has started your
thinking apparatus to working. I walked out
of a kraal in Australia one summer’s night
when the home-hunger was on me and never
stopped until I reached Sydney—the last hundred
miles barefoot. You must have known
about it, for I met you right after”—and he
turned to The Engineer, who nodded in an
amused way. “That was before we struck
Borneo, if I remember?”</p>
<p>“Why barefooted, Herbert?” asked Louis,
hitching his chair the closer.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span></p>
<p>“Because the soles and heels were gone and
the uppers were all that were left.”</p>
<p>“Tell them about it, Herbert,” remarked The
Engineer with a smile, pulling away at his pipe.</p>
<p>“Oh, if you would, Monsieur Herbert! I
tried to tell Monsieur High-Muck about it the
night you arrived, but Monsieur Louis’ horn
put it out of my head. It is better that he
hears it from you”—and the old man’s lip
quivered, his face lighting up with admiration.
Herbert was his high-priest in matters of this
kind.</p>
<p>“There is really nothing to tell,” returned
Herbert. “I was tending cattle for a herdsman
at the time up in the hills—I and a friend
of mine. We had both run away from our
ships and were trying the rolling country for a
change, when one of those irresistible, overwhelming
attacks of homesickness seized me,
and without caring a picayune what became
of me, I turned short on my tracks and struck
out for the coast. A man does that sort of
thing sometimes. I had no money and only
the clothes on my back, but I knew the railroad
was some forty miles away, and that when
I reached it I could work my passage into civilization
and from there on to London.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span></p>
<p>“The weather was warm and I slept in a
cow shack when I found one, and in the bushes
when they got scarce. Finally I reached the
railroad. I had never tried stealing a ride,
sleeping on the trucks, hiding in freight cars,
and being put off time and again until the
next town was reached—I had never tried it
because it had never been necessary, and then
I hated that sort of thing. But I had no objection
to asking for a lift, telling the agent or
conductor the whole story, and I did it regularly
at every station I passed on foot, only to
get the customary oath or jeering laugh. After
I had walked about sixty miles I came upon a
water station known as Merton, with a goods
train standing by. This time I asked for a
ride on the tender. The engineer met my request
with a vacant stare—never taking his
pipe from his mouth. The fireman was a different
sort of man. He not only listened to
my story, but handed me part of the contents
of his dinner pail wrapped up in a newspaper—which
I was glad to get, and told him so.
Before the train had gone fifty yards she was
side-tracked for orders—which gave me another
chance to get at the fireman. ‘I may lose my
job if I do,’ he said, ‘but I’ve been up against<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span>
it myself; come around a little later; it’ll be
dark soon and something may turn up.’</p>
<p>“Something did turn up. While the engineer
was oiling under his engine I got a wink
from the fireman, climbed on the tender, crept
beneath a tarpaulin, and rooted down in the
coal. There, tired out, I fell asleep. I was
awakened by the whistle of the locomotive,
and then came the slow wheeze of the cylinder
head, and we were off. Sleeping on a hard
plank under a car going thirty miles an hour
is a spring mattress to lying in a pile of coal
with lumps as big as your head grinding into
your back. Now and then the fireman—not
my particular friend, but a man who had replaced
him as I discovered when we whizzed
past the light of a station—would ram his
shovel within reach of my ribs—just missing
me. But I didn’t mind—every mile meant
that much nearer home and less tramping in
the heat and dust to get there. If I could manage
to keep hidden until we reached Sydney I
should gain one hundred—maybe two hundred—miles
before morning.</p>
<p>“About midnight we came to a halt, followed
by a lot of backing and filling—shunting here
and there. The safety-valve was thrown wide<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span>
open, or the exhaust, or something else, and
suddenly the steam went out of her. Then
came a dead silence—not a sound of any kind.
Sore as I was—and every bone in my body
ached—I wrenched myself loose, lifted the edge
of the tarpaulin, and peeped out. The engine
and tender were backed up against a building
which looked like a round-house; not a soul
was in sight. I slid to the ground and began
to peer around. After a moment I caught the
swing of a lantern and heard the steps of a
man. It was a watchman going his rounds.</p>
<p>“‘Warm night,’ he hollered when he came
abreast of me. He evidently took me for a
fireman, and I didn’t blame him, for I was
black as soot—clothes, face, hands, and hair.</p>
<p>“‘Yes,’ I said, and stopped. It wouldn’t do
to undeceive him. Then I remembered the
name of the station where I had boarded the
tender. ‘Been hot all the way from Merton.
How far is that from Sydney?’</p>
<p>“‘Oh, a devil of a way!’ He lifted his lantern
and held it to my face. ‘Say, you ain’t
no fireman—you’re a hobo, ain’t ye?’</p>
<p>“I nodded.</p>
<p>“‘And you’re p’inted for Sydney? Well, it
serves ye right for stealin’ a ride; you’re<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>
eighty-two miles further away than when ye
started. That locomotive is a special and got
return orders.’”</p>
<p>The Engineer threw back his head and
roared.</p>
<p>“Yes, that’s it, Herbert. I remember just
how you looked when we ran against each
other in Sydney.”</p>
<p>“Not barefooted, were you, old fellow?” remarked
Louis in a sympathetic tone. “That
was tough.”</p>
<p>“Barefooted? Not much!” exclaimed The
Engineer. “He was quite a nob. That’s why I
made up to him; he was so much better dressed
than I. And do you know, Herbert, I never
heard a word of you from that time on until I
struck one of your statues in the Royal Academy
the other day. I never thought you’d
turn out sculptor with medals and things.
Thought you wanted more room to swing
around in. This is something new, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>Herbert took his freshly lighted cigar from his
mouth long enough to say, “About as new as
your building dams. You were trying to get
into the real-estate business when I bid you
good-by in Sydney. Did it work?”</p>
<p>“No, I got into jail instead.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>”</p>
<p>Everybody stared.</p>
<p>“What was it all about?” asked Herbert,
unperturbed.</p>
<p>“Stealing!”</p>
<p>“<i>Stealing!</i>” exclaimed Le Blanc.</p>
<p>“Yes. That was about it,” he answered.
“Only this time I tried to bag a government
and got locked up for my pains. One of your
countrymen”—and he nodded toward me—“was
mixed up in it. By the way”—and he
rose from his chair—“you don’t mind my taking
this candle, do you?—I’ve been looking at
something in that cabinet over there all the
evening and I can’t stand it any longer. I
may be wrong, but they look awfully like it.”</p>
<p>He had reached the carved triptych, and was
holding the flame of the candle within a few
inches of a group of tiny figures—some of Lemois’
most precious carvings—one the figure
of a man with a gun.</p>
<p>“Just as I thought. Prison work, isn’t it,
Monsieur Lemois? Yes—of course it is—I see
the tool marks. Made of soup bones. Oh,
very good indeed—best I have ever seen.
Where did you get this?”</p>
<p>“They were made by the French prisoners
in Moscow,” answered Lemois, who had also<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span>
risen from his seat and was now standing beside
him. “But how did you know?” he
asked in astonishment. “Most of my visitors,
if they look at them at all, think they are
Chinese.”</p>
<p>“Because no one, if he can get ivory, makes
a thing like this of bone”—and he held it up
to our gaze—“and everybody out of jail who
has this skill <i>can</i> get ivory. I’ve made a lot
myself—never as fine as these—this man must
have been an expert. I used to keep from
going crazy by doing this sort of thing—that
and the old dodge of taming fleas so they’d eat
out of my hand. What a pile of good stuff
you have here—regular museum”—and with a
searching, comprehensive glance he replaced
the candle and regained his chair.</p>
<p>I bent forward and touched his elbow.</p>
<p>“We’ve entertained all sorts of people here,”
I said with a laugh, “but I think this is the
first time we have ever had an out-and-out
ticket-of-leave man. Do you mind telling us
how it happened?”</p>
<p>“No; but it wouldn’t interest you. Just
one of those fool scrapes a fellow gets into
when he is chucked out neck and heels into
the world.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>”</p>
<p>Brierley drew his chair closer—so did Louis
and Le Blanc.</p>
<p>Herbert glanced toward his friend. “Let
them have it, old man. We promise not to
set the dogs on you.”</p>
<p>“Thanks. But it wouldn’t be the first time.
Well, all right if it won’t bore you. Now let
me think”—and he lifted his weather-bronzed
face, made richer by the glow of the candles
overhead, and began scratching his grizzly
beard with his forefinger.</p>
<p>“It was after you left Borneo, Herbert, that
I came across two fellows—Englishmen—who
told me of some new gold diggings on the west
coast, and I was fool enough to join them,
working my passage on one of the home-going
tramp steamers. Well, we thrashed about for
six months and landed on one of the small islands
in the Caribbean Sea—the name of which
I forget—where we left the ship and hid until
she disappeared. The gold fever was well out
of us by that time, and, besides, I had gotten
tired of scrubbing decks and my two fellow
tramps of washing dishes. The port was a regular
coaling station and some other craft would
come along; if not, we could stay where we
were. The climate was warm, bananas were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
cheap and plenty; we were entirely fit, and—like
many another lot of young chaps out for
a lark—did not care a tinker’s continental what
happened. That, if you think about it, is the
high-water mark of happiness—to be perfectly
well, strong, twenty-five years of age, and ready
for anything that bobs up.</p>
<p>“This time it was a small schooner with a
crew of about one hundred men, instead of the
customary ten or twelve. A third of them
came ashore, bought provisions and water, and
were about to shove off to the vessel again,
when one of my comrades recognized the mate
as an old friend. He offered to take us with
them, and in half an hour we had gathered together
our duds and had pushed off with the
others. The following week we ran into a
sheltered cove, where we began landing our
cargo. Then it all came out: we were loaded
to the scuppers with old muskets in cases, some
thousand rounds of ammunition, and two small,
muzzle-loading field-guns. There was a revolution
in Boccador—one of the small South
American republics—they have them every year
or so—and we were part of the insurgent navy!
If we were caught we were shot; if we got a new
flag on top of Government House in the capital<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>
of San Josepho, we would have a plantation
apiece and negroes enough to run it. It sounded
pleasant, didn’t it?</p>
<p>“I’m not going into all the details—it’s the
story of the jail you want, not the revolution.
Well, we had two weeks of tramping up to our
waists in the swamps; three days of fighting,
in which one of the field-guns blew off its nose,
killing the mate; and the next thing I knew,
my two companions and I were looking down
the muzzles of a dozen rifles held within three
feet of our heads. That ended it and we were
marched into town and locked up in the common
jail—and rightly named, I tell you, for a
filthier or more deadly hole I never got into.
It was a square, two-story building—all four
sides to the town—with a patio, or court, in
the centre. Outside was a line of sentries and
inside were more sentries and a couple of big
dogs.</p>
<p>“They put us on the ground floor with a murderous-looking
chap for guard. As the place
was packed with prisoners, we three were shoved
into one cell. Every morning at daylight one
or two—once six—poor devils were led out;
the big gate was opened, and then there would
come a rattling of rifle-shots, and when the six<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
came back they were on planks with sheets
over them. All this we could see by standing
on each other’s shoulders and looking over the
grating.</p>
<p>“Our turn came the morning of the seventh
day. The door was unlocked and we were ordered
to fall in. But we didn’t go through the
big outer gate; we were led to a door across
the yard and into a bare room where another
murderous-looking chap, in a dirty uniform
with shoulder-straps and a sword, sat at a
table. On either side of him were two more
ruffians, one with an inkstand. Not a man
Friday of them spoke anything but Spanish.
When we were pushed in front of his highness
in shoulder-straps, he looked us over keenly
and began whispering to the man with the ink.
Then to my surprise—and before either I or
my two friends—one of whom spoke a little
Spanish—could utter a protest—right-about-face,
and we were hustled back into our cell
and locked up again.</p>
<p>“For three days and nights the usual jail
things happened: We had two meals a day—bone
soup and a hunk of mouldy bread; the
guard tramped in the dust outside our cell,
while at night another took his place—the dogs<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>
prowling or sniffing at the crack of our door;
at daylight the rifle-shots!</p>
<p>“We had started to work for our release by
that time, and by persistent begging got a sheet
of paper, and, with the help of my companion,
I wrote a letter to ‘his Excellenza,’ as the
guard called his nibs, informing him that we
were English tourists who had taken passage
for sheer love of adventure, and demanding that
our case be brought to the attention of the
English consul.</p>
<p>“One week passed and then a second before
we were informed by the head jailer that there
<i>was</i> no English consul, and that if there had
been it would have made no difference, as we
had been taken with arms in our hands, and
that but for some inquiries put on foot by his
Excellenza we would have been shot long ago.</p>
<p>“So the hours and days dragged on and we
had about started in to make our wills when,
one morning after our slop coffee had been
pushed in to us, the bolts were slid back and
the nattiest-looking young fellow you ever laid
your eyes on stepped inside. He was about
twenty-four, was dressed from head to foot in
a suit of white duck, and looked as if he had
just cleared the deck of the royal yacht. With<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>
him were two slovenly looking functionaries,
one of whom carried a note-book. The young
fellow eyed us all three, sizing us up with the
air of a man accustomed to that sort of thing,
and said with an air of authority:</p>
<p>“‘I am the American consul. Your communication
was brought to me because your government
is not represented here. You’re in a
bad fix, but I’ll help you out if I can. Now
tell me all about it.’</p>
<p>“Tell him about it! Why, we nearly fell on
his neck, and before he left he had our whole
story in his head and a lot of our letters and
cards in his clothes. They might be of use,
he said, in proving that we had not, by any
means, started out to undermine his Supreme
Highness’s government. But that under fear
of death—and he winked meaningly—we had
been compelled to take up arms against the
most illustrious republic of Boccador.</p>
<p>“Nine long, weary months passed after this
and not another human being crossed our
threshold except the head jailer. When we
bombarded him with questions about the fellow
who had passed himself off as the American
consul, and who had stolen our letters and
had never shown up since—damn him!—we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>
had all learned to speak a little Spanish by
this time—he pretended not to hear and, his
inspection over, locked the door behind him.
Pretty soon we fell into the ways of all disheartened
prisoners—each man following the
bent of his nature. I warded off sickening
despair by carving with my pocket-knife—which
they let me keep as being too small to
do them any harm—little figures out of the
beef bones I found in my soup. That’s how I
came to recognize those in Monsieur Lemois’
cabinet. When I was lucky enough to get
hold of a knuckle bone with a rounded knob
at the end, I made a friar with a bald head, the
smooth knob answering for his pate. Other
bones were turned into grotesque figures of
men, women, and animals. These I gave
to the sentry, who sent them to his children.
Often he brought me small pieces of calico and
I made dresses and trousers for them. When
I got tired of that I trained two fleas—and
they were plenty—to play leap-frog up my
arm.</p>
<p>“When these little diversions failed to drive
dull care away, we passed the time cursing the
gentleman in the immaculate cotton ducks.
He had either lied to us, or was dead, or had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>
been transferred—anyway, he had gone back
on us and left us to rot in jail.</p>
<p>“At last we determined to escape.</p>
<p>“We had made that same resolution every
day for months and had planned out half a
dozen schemes, some of which might have been
successful but for two difficulties—the double
guard on the outside of the building and the
two dogs in the jail-yard. There was now but
one chance of success. We would dig a hole
in the dirt floor clear under the wall, watch for
a stormy night, and make a break for the town
and the coast, where we might be able to signal
some trading craft and so get away.</p>
<p>“So we started to digging, beginning on the
side opposite the door—our utensils being a
sharpened bone, my pocket-knife, and a bayonet
which had dropped from a sentry’s scabbard,
and which I managed to pick up on our
exercise walk in the court-yard and conceal in
the straw on which we slept. This straw too
helped hide the dirt. We rammed the wisps
up into each end of the pallets, put the excavated
earth in the middle with a dusting of
loose straw over it, and so hid our work from
view. At the end of a month we had a hole
under the wall large enough to wriggle in. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>
could see the daylight through the loose earth
on the other side. Then we waited for a storm,
the rainy season being on and thunder showers
frequent. Two, three, four nights went by
without a cloud; then it began to pour. We
determined to try it just before the guards
were changed. This was at 2 <span class="smcap">A. M.</span> by the
church clock. The outgoing sentry would be
tired then and the new man not thoroughly
awake.</p>
<p>“When the hour came I crawled in head
first, worked myself to the end of the tunnel,
and, putting out my hands to break away the
remaining clods of earth, came bump up against
a piece of heavy board. There I lay trembling.
The board could never have rolled down from
anywhere, nor could our opening have been
detected from the outside.</p>
<p>“Somebody had placed it there on purpose!</p>
<p>“I wriggled back feet foremost, whispered in
my companions’ ears what I had found, and we
all three sat up the rest of the night wondering
what the devil it meant. When morning broke,
the head jailer came in. I noticed instantly a
change in his manner. Instead of a few perfunctory
questions, he gave a cursory glance
around the cell, his eyes resting on the pile of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>
straw, and turning short on his heel left without
a word.</p>
<p>“There was no question now but we were
suspected, so we held a council of war and determined
to keep quiet—at least for some nights.
What was up we didn’t know, but at all events
it was best to go slow. So we stuffed most of
the dirt back in the hole and waited—our ears
open to every sound, our teeth chattering. You
get pretty nervous in jail—especially when you
have about made up your mind that the next
hour is your last.</p>
<p>“We didn’t wait long.</p>
<p>“That afternoon the bolts were slid back and
the head jailer, who had never before appeared
at that hour, stood in the doorway.</p>
<p>“I thought right away that it was all over
with us; that we were discovered and that we
were either to be shot or moved to another cell—I
really didn’t care which, for instant death
could not be much worse than lingering in a
South American prison until we were gray-bearded
and forgotten.</p>
<p>“The jailer stepped inside, half closed the
door, and made this announcement:</p>
<p>“‘The American consul is outside and wants
to see you.’ Then he stepped out, leaving the
door open.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span></p>
<p>“They have a way of coaxing you to escape
down in that country and then filling you full
of lead. It’s justifiable murder when sometimes
a trial and conviction might raise unpleasant
international questions. We all three
looked at each other and instantly decided not
to swallow the bait. The American consul
dodge had been tried when they wanted to get
legal possession of our letters. So it isn’t surprising
that we didn’t believe him. Then, to
my astonishment, I caught through the crack
of the door a suit of white duck, and the natty
young man stepped in.</p>
<p>“‘I’ve been down the coast,’ he began as
chipper as if he was apologizing for not having
called after we had invited him to dinner, ‘or
I should have been here before. I have a permit
from the governor to come as often as I
like, or as often as you would be glad to see me.
I must tell you, however, that I am pledged to
keep faith with the authorities, and it is their
confidence in me which has gained me this privilege.
I can bring you nothing to eat or drink,
no tools or knickknacks or any bodily comforts.
I can only bring myself. This I have
told his Excellenza, who has his orders, and
who understands.’ Then he turned to the
jailer. ‘Get me a stool and I will stay a while<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
with them. You can leave the door open; I
will be responsible that none of them attempts
to escape.’</p>
<p>“When the jailer was out of hearing, he
passed around cigarettes, lighted his own, and
started in to tell us the news of the day: what
was going on in town and country; how the
revolution had been put down; how many
insurgents had been shot, exiled, or sent to
horrible prisons—worse than ours, which, he
informed us, was really only a sort of police
station and unsafe except for the dogs and the
guards, who were picked men and who had
never been known to neglect their duty. Only
the year before five men had attempted to dig
their way out and had been shot as they were
climbing the outside wall—rather dispiriting
talk for us, to say the least, but it was talk,
and that was what we hungered for, especially
as his spirits never flagged.</p>
<p>“All this was more or less entertaining, and
he would have had our entire confidence but for
two things which followed, and which we could
not understand. One was that he always chose
rainy or stormy nights for his subsequent visits,
dropping in on us at all hours, when we least
expected him; and the other that he never re<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>ferred
to what was being done for our release.
That he would not discuss.</p>
<p>“By and by we began to grow uneasy and
suspect him. One of the men insisted that he
was too damned polite to be honest, and that
the American consul yarn was a put-up job.
Anyway, he was getting tired of it all. It
would take him but half an hour to dig the
loose earth out of the tunnel, and he was going
to begin right away if he went at it alone.</p>
<p>“We at once fell to, working like beavers,
digging with everything we had—our fingers
bleeding—until we had cleaned out the dirt
to the plank. Then we crawled back and
waited for the consul’s customary visit. After
that was over—no matter how long it lasted—we’d
make the dash.</p>
<p>“He came on the minute; and this time, to
our intense disgust, brought his guitar—said he
thought we might like a little music—and without
so much as by-your-leave opened up with
negro melodies and native songs, the instrument
resting in the hollow of his knee, one leg
crooked over the other, a cigarette stuck tight
to his lower lip.</p>
<p>“Hour after hour went by and still he sang
on—French, German, Italian—anything and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span>
everything—rolling out the songs as if we had
been so many classmates at a college supper.
Charming, of course, had we not had a hole
behind us and freedom within sight.</p>
<p>“Hints, yawns, even blunt proposals to let
us go to bed, had no effect. Further than
these we dared not go. We were afraid to
turn him out bodily lest we should be suspected
of trying to get rid of him for a purpose.
To have let him into the secret was
also out of the question. Better wait until he
was gone.</p>
<p>“Would you believe it, he never left until
broad daybreak, his confounded irritating cheerfulness
keeping up to the last, even to his tossing
his fingers to us in good-by, quite as he
might have done to his sweetheart.</p>
<p>“At eight o’clock on that same morning, not
more than two hours after he had left, there
came a bang at the door with a sword-hilt, the
bolts were drawn, and we were marched into
the court-yard between five soldiers in command
of a sergeant. Then came the orders to
fall in, and we were pushed into the same room
where, nearly a year before, we had been examined
by the ruffian in shoulder-straps and
sent back to our cell.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span></p>
<p>“And here I must say that, for the first time
since our capture, I lost all hope. Five men for
three of us, and two of the cartridges blank!</p>
<p>“The squad closed in and we were lined up
in front of a table before another black-haired,
greasy, villanous-looking reptile who read the
death-warrant, as near as I could make out—he
spoke so fast. Then he rose from his seat,
bowed stiffly, and left the room. Next the sergeant
saluted us, ordered his men to fall in,
and left the room. Then the jailer stepped
forward, shook our hands all around, and left
the room.</p>
<p>“We were free!</p>
<p>“Outside, in the broad glare of the scorching
sun, his boyish face in a broad grin, stood
the consul, looking as if he had just stepped
out of a bandbox.</p>
<p>“‘I am sorry you found me such a bore last
night,’ he said, gay and debonair as an old
beau at a wedding, ‘but there was nothing
else to do. If I’d gone home earlier and let
you crawl out of that hole, you would have
been shot to a dead certainty. I knew a
month ago you were at work on it, and when
it was nearly finished I got permission to
drop in on you. The plank that you ran up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>
against I had put there with the help of the
jailer. It was meant to keep you quiet until
my mail got in. I was helpless, of course,
to assist you until it did, being my government’s
representative. It arrived yesterday,
informing me that our State Department has
taken up your cases with your government and
has entered a formal protest. Now all of you
come over to the consulate, and let me see
what I can do to fix you out with some clothes
and things.</p>
<p>“‘After that we’ll have breakfast.’”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI
<br /><br />
IN WHICH THE HABITS OF CERTAIN
GHOSTS, GOBLINS, BANDITS, AND
OTHER OBJECTIONABLE PERSONS
ARE DULY SET FORTH</h2>
<p>The Engineer’s story whetted every one’s
appetite for more. Lemois, hoping to
further inspire him, left his chair, crossed the
room, and began searching through the old
fifteenth-century triptych to find some object
of interest which would start him to talking
again as entertainingly as had the carved soup
bones from the Moscow prison. When he reoccupied
his seat he held in his hand a small
statuette in terra-cotta. This he placed on the
table where the light fell full upon it.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 640px;">
<img src="images/i_alt_fp240.jpg" width="640" height="451" alt="Lemois crossed the room and began searching through the old fifteenth-century triptych" title="" />
<span class="caption">Lemois crossed the room and began searching through the old fifteenth-century triptych</span>
</div>
<p>“You overlooked this, I am afraid,” he said,
addressing The Engineer. “It is one of the
most precious things I own. It is a portrait
of Madame de Rabutin-Chantal, the grandmother
of Madame de Sévigné.” The Sévigné
family were a favorite topic with the old
gentleman, and anything pertaining to them of
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
peculiar interest to him. “You will note, I am
sure, Monsieur Herbert, the marvellous carving
especially in the dress and about the neck.”</p>
<p>Before Herbert could answer, Louis craned
his head and a disgusted look overspread his
face. “I hope,” he said, “she didn’t look like
that, Lemois—squatty old party with a snub
nose.”</p>
<p>Herbert, ignoring Louis’ aside, reached over
and took the little image in his fingers.</p>
<p>“Squatty or not, Louis, it is an exquisite
bit—modern Tanagra, really. Seventeenth century,
isn’t it, Lemois?”</p>
<p>Lemois nodded. If he had heard Louis’ remark
he gave no sign of the fact.</p>
<p>“Yes,” continued Herbert, “and wonderfully
modelled. We can’t do these things now—not
in this way”—and he passed it to The Engineer,
who turned it upsidedown, as if it were
a teacup, glanced at the bottom in search of
its mark, and without a word handed it back.</p>
<p>Lemois replaced the precious object in the
triptych, his mind still filled with his favorite
topic, and, turning suddenly, wheeled a
richly upholstered chair from a far corner into
the light.</p>
<p>“And here is another relic of Madame Sé<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span>vigné,
monsieur. This is madame’s own chair;
the one she always used when she stopped
here, sometimes for days at a time, on her way
to her country-seat, Les Rochers. The room
which she occupied, and in which she wrote
many of her famous letters, is just over our
heads. If monsieur will shift his seat a little
he can see the very spot in which she sat.”</p>
<p>But The Engineer neither shifted his seat nor
rose to the bait. None of the small things of
past ages appealed to him. Even mummies
and the spoil of coffins three thousand years
old—and he had inspected many of them—failed
to stir him. It was what was built over
them, and the brains and power that hoisted
the stones into place, as well as the forces of
wind and water—the song of the creaking crane—those
were the things that thrilled him.
That Herbert, after his career in the open, had
contented himself with a few tools and a mass
of clay was what had most surprised him when
he came upon his statues in the Royal Academy.</p>
<p>So he kept silent until what Louis called the
“bric-à-brac moment” had passed—such discussion
often occurring whenever Lemois felt
he had a new audience. Gradually the talk
drifted into other channels. Mistaken identity<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>
and the injustice of convictions on circumstantial
evidence were gone into, The Engineer recalling
some of his own errors in dealing with
his men in Egypt. At this Le Blanc, wandering
slightly from the main topic, gave an account
of a mysterious woman in white who on certain
nights when the moon was bright used to descend
the wide staircase of a French château
which he often visited, the apparition being
the ghost of a beautiful countess who had been
walled up somewhere below stairs by a jealous
husband, and who took this mode of publishing
her wrongs to the world. Le Blanc had
seen her himself, first at the head of the great
staircase and then as she crept slowly down
the steps and disappeared through the solid
wall to the left of the baronial fireplace. His
hostess, who affected not to believe in such
uncanny mysteries, tried to persuade him it
was merely a shaft of moonlight stencilled on
the white wall, but Le Blanc scouted the explanation
and was ready to affirm on his word
of honor that she looked at him out of her
great, round, beseeching eyes, and would, he
felt assured, have spoken to him had not one
of the servants opened a door at the moment
and so scared her away.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span></p>
<p>I told of a somewhat similar experience in
which a strong-minded Englishwoman, who
laughed at ghosts and all other forms of unsavory
back numbers, and a bishop of distinction
were mixed up. There was a haunted
room in the Devonshire country house that
no one dared occupy. Another white figure
prowled here, but whether man or woman, no
one knew. That it was quite six feet high and
broad in proportion, and had at various times
scared the wits out of several nervous and semi-hysterical
females who had passed the night
between the sheets, all agreed. As it was the
week-end, there were a goodly number of visitors
and the house more or less crowded.
When the haunted room was mentioned, even
the bishop demurred—preferring to take the
one across the corridor—he being a frequent
visitor and knowing the lay of the land. The
strong-minded young woman, however, jumped
at the chance. She had all her life been hoping
to see a ghost and, in order to allow his or
her ghostship free entrance, had left the door of
the haunted room unlocked when she got into
bed. Despite her screwed-up courage she began
to get nervous, and when she heard the door
creak on its hinges and felt the cold, clammy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>
air of the corridor on her cheek, she slid down
off her pillow and ducked her head under the
sheet. Then, to her horror, she felt the blanket
slowly slipping away and, peering out, was
frozen stiff to see a tall figure, dressed in white,
standing at the foot of her bed, its long, skinny
fingers clutching at the covering. Without even
a groan she passed promptly into a fit of unconsciousness,
known as a dead faint, where,
with only a sheet over her, she lay until the
cold woke her. She left by the early coach
and believes to this day that she would have
been strangled had she offered the slightest protest.
Nor did her hostess’s letter, covering a
full explanation, satisfy her. “It was not a
ghost you saw, my dear, but the bishop, who
wanted an extra blanket, and who jumped out
of bed in search of one, and into your room,
thinking it empty. It’s a mercy you didn’t
scream, for then the situation could never have
been explained—better say nothing about it,
or, if you do—stick to its being a ghost.”</p>
<p>While these and other yarns were sent spinning
around the table, Louis had cut in, of
course, with all sorts of asides—some whispers
behind his hand to his next neighbor—some
squibs of criticism exploded without rhyme or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span>
reason in our midst—all jolly and diverting,
but nothing approaching a story short or long.</p>
<p>My own and Herbert’s efforts to draw him
out into something sustained brought only—“Don’t
know any yarns” and “Never had
anything happen to me”—followed at last by—“The
only time I was ever in a tight place was
when I was sketching in Perugia; then I jumped
through the window and took most of the sash
with me.”</p>
<p>“Let’s have it!” we all cried in one breath.
No one was so lively and entertaining once we
got him started.</p>
<p>“That’s all there is to it. They had locked
the door on me—three of them—and when the
back of the chair gave out—I was swinging it
around my head—I made a break for out-of-doors.”</p>
<p>“Oh!—go on—go on, Louis!” came the
chorus.</p>
<p>“No, I’d rather listen to you men. I haven’t
been tattooed in the South Seas, nor half murdered
rounding Cape Horn. I’m just a plain
painter, and my experience is limited, and my
three Perugian villains were just three dirty
Italians, one of whom was the landlord who
had charged me five prices for my meal, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>
tried to hold me up until I paid it—only a vulgar
brawl, don’t you see? The landlord had
his head in splints when I passed him the next
day.”</p>
<p>“You were lucky to escape,” said The Engineer.
“They have a way of knifing you
while you are asleep. I had a friend who just
got out of one of those Italian dives with his
life.”</p>
<p>“Yes, that was why I was swinging the
chair. Hard for any three men to get at you
if its legs and back hold out. Of course a fellow
can sneak up behind you with a knife and
then you—By Jingo!—come to think of it, I
<i>can</i> tell you a story! It just popped into my
head. You have brought it all back”—and he
nodded to our guest—“about the closest shave—so
I thought at the time—that I ever had in
my life. Your ghost stories don’t hold a candle
to it—stealthy assassin—intended victim
sound asleep—miraculous escape!—Oh! a blood-curdler!—I
was scared blue.”</p>
<p>Everybody shifted their chairs and craned
their heads to watch Louis’ face the better,
overjoyed that he had at last wakened up.
Louis scared blue—and he a match for any
five men—meant a tale worth hearing.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span></p>
<p>“It was the summer I made those studies of
mountain brooks flowing out of the glaciers—you
remember them, Herbert? Anyway, I was
across the Swiss border, and in a ragged Italian
town dumped down on the side of a hill as if
it had been spilt from a cart—one of those
sprawled-out towns with a white candle of a
campanile overtopping the heap. The diligence,
about sunup, had dropped me at the
exact spot with my traps, and was hardly out
of sight before I had started to work, and I
kept it up all day, pegging away like mad, as
I always do when a subject takes hold of me—and
this particular mountain brook was choking
the life out of me, with lots of deep greens
and transparent browns all through it, and the
creamy froth of a glass of beer floating on the
top.</p>
<p>“When the sun began to sink down behind
the mountains I realized that it was about
time to find a place to sleep. I was at work
on a 40 x 30—rather large for out-doors—and,
as it would take me several days, I had arranged
with a goatherd—who lived in a slant
with stones enough on its roof to keep it from
being blown into space—to let me store my
wet canvas and my palette and box under its<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>
supports. I’d have bunked in with the goats
if I’d had anything to cover me from the cold—and
it gets pretty cold there at night. Then
again I knew from experience that a goatherd’s
sour bread and raw onions were not filling
at any price. What I really wanted was two
rooms in some private house, or over a wine-shop
or village store, with a good bed and a
place where I could work in bad weather. I
had found just such a place the summer before,
on the Swiss side of the mountains, belonging
to an old woman who kept a cheap grocery
and who gave me for a franc a day her two
upper rooms—and mighty comfortable rooms
they were, and with a good north light. So I
hung the wet canvas where the goats couldn’t
lick off my undertones, shouldered my knapsack,
and started downhill to the village.</p>
<p>“I found that the red-tiled houses followed
a tangle of streets, no two of them straight,
but all twisting in and out with an eye on the
campanile, and so I struck into the crookedest,
wormed my way around back stoops, water
barrels, and stone walls with a ripening pumpkin
here and there lolling over their edges,
and reached the church porch just as the bell
was ringing for vespers. When you want to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>
get any information in an Italian village, you
go to the priest, and if he is out, or busy, or
checking off some poor devil’s sins—and he has
plenty of it to do—then hunt up the sacristan.</p>
<p>“There must have been an extra load of peccadilloes
on hand that night, for I didn’t find
his reverence, nor the sacristan, nor anybody
connected with the church. What I did find
was a chap squatting against one side of the
door with a tray on his lap filled with little
medals and rosaries—and a most picturesque-looking
chap he was. His feet were tied up in
raw hides; his head bound in a red cotton handkerchief,
over which was smashed a broad-brimmed
sombrero; his waist was gripped with
another to match; his lank body squeezed into
a shrunken blue jacket, and his shambly legs
wobbled about in yellow breeches. The sombrero
shaded two cunning, monkey eyes, a
hooked nose, a wavering mouth, and a beard
a week old. It was his smile, though, that
tickled my funny-bone, and this happened
when he held up the tray for my inspection—one
of those creepy, oily smiles that spread
slowly over his dirty, soapy face, like the swirl
of oil and turpentine which floats over a basin
of suds when you wash your brushes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span></p>
<p>“Not a very inviting person;—a loafer, a lazzaroni,
a dead-beat of a dago, really—and yet
my heart warmed to him all the same when
he answered me with enough French sandwiched
between his ‘o’s’ and ‘i’s’ to help out
my bad Italian. What finally trickled from
his wrinkled lips was the disappointing announcement
that no hostelry at all worthy of
the Distinguished Signore existed in the village,
nor was there money enough in the place for
any one of the inhabitants to have a surplus of
anything—rooms especially—but there was—here
the oily smile overran the soap-suddy face—a
most excellent casino kept by an equally
excellent citizen where travellers were wont to
stay overnight; that it was up a back street—they
were all ‘back’ so far as I had seen—and
that, if the Distinguished Signore would permit,
he would curtail the sale of his religious relics
long enough to conduct his D. S. to the very
door.</p>
<p>“So we started, the vendor of ‘helps to
piety’ ahead and I following behind, my knapsack
over my shoulder. I soon discovered that
if the casino was up a back street he was going
a long way round to reach it. First he dived
into an alley behind the mouldy, plaster-pock-<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span>marked
church—the candle-stick of the campanile—ducked
under an archway—‘<i>sotto portico</i>,’
he called it—opened out into a field,
struck across a little bridge into another street—hardly
a soul about, nothing alive—nothing
except dogs and children—all of which he explained
was a short cut. For some time his
dodging made no impression on me; then the
way he rounded the corners and hugged the
shadowed side of the street, away from the few
dim lamps, set me to wondering as to his intentions.
What the devil did he mean by picking
out these blind alleys? He must have seen
that I was no tenderfoot or tourist who had
lost his way.</p>
<p>“With this I began to fix certain landmarks
in my memory in case I had to make my way
back alone. There was no question now in my
mind as to the town’s character. Half the murders
and hold-ups in the large cities are concocted
in these villages, and this had rascality
stamped all over it. Every corner I turned
looked more forbidding than the last—every
street seemed to end in a trap—the kind of
street a scene-painter tries to produce when he
has a murder up a back alley to provide for the
third act. And crooked!—well, the tracks of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>
bunch of fishworms crawling out from under
a brick were straight compared to it. When
I at last protested—for I was getting ravenous
and I must say a trifle uneasy—the beggar
bowed low enough for me to see the tail of his
jacket over his sombrero, and gave as a reason
that any other route would have greatly fatigued
the signore, all of which he must have
known was a lie. The fact was that if I had
known how to get out of the tangle, I would
have lifted him by the scruff of his neck and
the slack of his trousers and dropped him into
the first convenient hole.</p>
<p>“When he did come to a halt I found myself
before a low two-story ruin of a house—almost
the last house in the village, and on the
opposite edge from that which I had entered
on my way to the church. It was evidently a
common road house, the customary portico
covered with grape-vines and a square room
on the ground floor, containing one or more
tables. In the rear, so I discovered later, was
a dreary yard corralling a few scraggly trees—one
overhanging a slanting shed under which
the cooking was done—and below this tree an
assortment of chairs and tables under an arbor,
where a bottle of wine and a bit of cheese or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>
bunch of grapes were served when the sun was
hot.</p>
<p>“It was now quite dark, and my guide had
some difficulty in getting his fingers on the
latch of the garden gate. When it swung open
I followed up a short path and found myself in
a square room which was lighted by a single
lamp. Under this sat another oily Italian, in
his shirt-sleeves, eating from an earthen bowl.
Not a picturesque-looking chap at all, but a
fat, swarthy lump of a man with small, restless
eyes, stub nose, and flabby lips—one of those
fellows you think is fast asleep until you catch
him studying you from under his eyebrows,
and begin to look out for his knife. The only
other occupant of the room was a woman who
was filling his glass from a straw-covered flask—a
thin, flat-bosomed woman who stooped
when she walked, and who sneaked a glance at
me now and then from one side of her nose.
I might better have slept in the slant and
bunked in with the goats.</p>
<p>“My guide bent down and whispered a word
in his ear; the man jumped up—looked me all
over—a boring, sizing-up look—like a farmer
guessing the weight of a steer—bowed grandiloquently,
and with an upward flourish of his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span>
hand put his house, his fortune, and his future
happiness at my feet. There were bread and
wine, and cheese and grapes; and there were
also eggs, and it might be a slice of pork. As
for chicken—he would regret to his dying day
that none was within his reach. Would I
take my repast in the house at the adjoining
table, or would I have a lamp lighted in the
arbor and eat under the trees?</p>
<p>“I preferred the lamp, of course, under the
trees; picked up the flask of wine, poured out
a glass for my guide, which he drank at a gulp,
and handed him a franc for his trouble. The
woman gave a sidelong glance at the coin and
followed him out into the garden; there the
two stood whispering. On her return, while
she passed close enough to me to graze my
arm, she never once raised her eyes, but kept
her face averted until she had hidden herself
in the kitchen.</p>
<p>“I had selected the garden for two reasons:
I wanted the air and I wanted to know something
more of my surroundings. What I saw—and
I could see now the more clearly, for the
moon had risen over the mountain—were two
rear windows on the second floor, their sills
level with the sloping shed, and a tree with its<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span>
branches curved over its roof. This meant
ventilation and a view of the mountains at
sunrise—always a delight to me. It also meant
an easy escape out the window, over the roof,
and down the tree-trunk to the garden, and so
on back to the goatherd if anything unusual
should happen. That, however, could take
care of itself. The sensible thing to do was to
eat my supper, order my coffee to be ready at
six o’clock, go to bed in one of these rear rooms,
and get back to my work before the heat became
intense.</p>
<p>“All this was carried out—that is, the first
part of it. I had the rear room, the one I had
picked out for myself, not by my choice but
by his, the landlord selecting it for me; it
would be cooler, he said, and then I could
sleep with my window open, free from the
dust which sometimes blew in the front windows
when the wind rose—and it was rising
now, as the signore could hear. Yes, I should
be called at six, and my coffee would be ready—and
‘may the good God watch over your
slumbers, most Distinguished of Excellencies.’</p>
<p>“This comforting information was imparted
as I followed him up a break-neck stair and
down a long, narrow corridor, ending in a small<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>
hall flanked by two bedroom doors. The first
was mine—and so was the candle which he now
placed in my hand—and ‘will your Excellency
be careful to see that it is properly blown out
before your Excellency falls asleep?’ and so I
bade him good-night, pushed in the door, held
the sputtering candle high above my head, and
began to look around.</p>
<p>“It wouldn’t have filled your soul with joy.
Had I not been tired out with my day’s work
I would have called him back, read the riot
act, and made him move in some comforts.
The only things which could be considered furniture
were a heavy oaken chest and a solid
wooden bed—a box of a bed with a filling of
feathers supporting two hard pillows. And
that was every blessed thing the room contained
except a toy pitcher and basin decorating
the top of the chest; a white cotton curtain
stretched across the lower sash of the single
window; a nail for my towel, a row of wooden
pegs for my clothes, and a square of looking-glass
which once had the measles. Not a chair
of any kind, no table, no wash-stand. This was
a place in which to sleep, not sit nor idle in.
Off with your clothes and into bed—and no
growling.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span></p>
<p>“I walked to the open window, pushed aside
the cotton curtain, and looked out on the sloping
shed and overhanging tree, and the garden
below, all clear and distinct in the light of the
moon. I could see now that the tree had either
prematurely lost its leaves or was stone dead.
The branches, too, were bent as if in pain.</p>
<p>“The correct drawing of trees, especially of
their limbs and twig ends, has always been a
fad of mine, and the twistings of this old scrag
were so unusual, and the tree itself so gnarled
and ugly, that I let my imagination loose, wondering
whether, like the villagers, it was suffering
from some unconfessed sin, and whether
fear of the future and the final bonfire, which
overtakes most of us sooner or later, was not
the cause of its writhings. With this I blew
out the candle and crawled into bed, where I
lay thinking over the events of the evening
and laughing at myself for being such a first-class
ass until I fell asleep.</p>
<p>“How long I slept I do not know, but when I
woke it was with a start, all my faculties about
me. What I heard was the sound of steps
on the shed outside my window—creaking,
stealthy steps as of a man’s weight bending the
supports of the flimsy shed. I raised myself<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span>
cautiously on my elbow and looked about me.
The square of moonlight which had patterned
the floor when I first entered the room was
gone, although the moon was still shining. This
showed me that I had slept some time. I noticed,
too, that the wind had risen, although
very little seemed to penetrate the apartment,
the curtains only flopping gently in the draught.</p>
<p>“I lay motionless, hardly breathing. Had I
heard aright—or was it a dream? Again came
the stealthy tread, and then <i>the shadow of a
hand</i> crept across the curtain. This sent me
sitting bolt upright in bed. There was no question
now—some deviltry was in the air.</p>
<p>“I slid from under the cover, dropped to the
floor, flattened myself to the matting, worked
my body to the window-sill, and stood listening.
He must have heard me, for there came
a sudden halt and a quick retreat. Then all
was silent.</p>
<p>“I waited for some minutes, reached up with
one hand and gently lowered the sash a foot or
more, leaving room enough for me to throw it
up and spring out, but not room enough for
him to slide in without giving me warning. If
the brute tried it again I would paste myself to
the wall next the sash where I could see him,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>
and he not see me, and as he ducked his head
to crawl in I’d hit him with all my might;
that would put him to sleep long enough for
me to dress, catch up my traps, and get away.</p>
<p>“Again the step and the shadow. This time
he stopped before he reached the window-sill.
He had evidently noticed the difference in the
height of the sash. Then followed a hurried
retreating footstep on the roof. I craned my
head an inch or more to see how big he was,
but I was too late—he had evidently dropped
to the garden below.</p>
<p>“I remained glued to the window-jamb and
waited. I’d watch now for his head when he
pulled himself up on the roof. If it were the
lumpy landlord, the best plan was to plant the
flat of my boot in the pit of his stomach—that
would double him up like a bent pillow. If it
was the brigand with the rosaries, or some of
his cut-throat friends, I would try something
else. I had no question now that I had been
enticed here for the express purpose of doing
me up while I was asleep. The mysterious way
in which I had been piloted proved it; so did
my guide’s evident anxiety to avoid being seen
by any of the inhabitants. Then there bobbed
up in my mind the cool, sizing-up glance of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>
landlord as he looked me over. This clinched
my suspicions. I was in for a scrap and a
lively one. If there were two of them, I’d give
them both barrels straight from the shoulder;
if there were three or more, I’d fight my way
out with a chair, as I had done at Perugia.</p>
<p>“With this I came to a sudden halt and
moved to the middle of the room. There I
stood, straining my eyes in the dim light, hoping
to find something with which to brain the
gang should they come in a bunch. I took
hold of the bed and shook it—the posts and
back were as solid as a cart body. The chest
was worse—neither of them could be whirled
around my head as a club, as I had used the
chair at Perugia. Next I tried the door, and
found it without lock or bolt—in fact it swung
open as noiselessly and easily as if it had been
greased. The toy pitcher and basin came next—too
small even to throw at a cat. It was a
case, then, of bare fists and the devil take the
hindmost.</p>
<p>“With this clear in my mind, I laid the pitcher
on the floor within an inch of the door, so that
the edge would strike it if opened, and again
raised the window high enough for me to jump
through. I could, of course, have dragged the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span>
chest across the door, as a girl would have done,
put the basin and pitcher on top, and shoved
the head-board of the bed against the window-sash—but
this I was ashamed to do; and then,
again, the whole thing might be a blooming
farce—one I would laugh over in the morning.</p>
<p>“The question now arose whether I should
get into my clothes, walk boldly down the corridor,
and make a break through the kitchen
and square room, with the risk of being stabbed
in the garden, or whether I should stick it out
until morning. Inside, I could choose my
fighting ground; outside was a different thing.
Then, again, daylight was not far off.</p>
<p>“I decided to hold the fort; slipped into my
clothes—all but my coat—packed my knapsack,
laid the basin within striking distance of the
pitcher, placed the candle and matches close to
my hand, stretched myself on the bed, and,
strange as it may seem to you, again dropped
off to sleep; only to find myself again sitting
bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding away
like a trip-hammer, my ears wide open.</p>
<p>“More footsteps!—this time in the corridor.
I slid out of bed, crept to the door, and pulled
myself together. When the pitcher and basin
came together with a clink, he would get it be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>hind
the ear—all at once—ker-chunk! He was
so close now that I heard his fingers feeling
around in the dark for the knob. A steady,
gentle push with his hand near the key-hole,
and he could then steal in without waking me.
Whether he smelt me or not I do not know, for
I made no sound—not even with my breath—but
he came to a dead halt, backed away, rose
to his feet and tiptoed down the corridor.</p>
<p>“That settled all sleep for the night, and it
was just as well, for the day was breaking—first
the gray, pallid light, then the yellow, and
then the rose tint. Nothing like a sunrise to
put a fellow’s ghosts to flight. So I picked up
the basin and pitcher, unhooked my towel, had
a wash, finished dressing, leaned out of the
window for a while watching the rising sun
warm up the little snow peaks one after another,
and, shouldering my trap, started along
the corridor and so on downstairs.</p>
<p>“The pot-bellied lump of a scoundrel was
waiting for me in the square room. He gave
me the same keen, scrutinizing look with which
he had welcomed me the night before. This
time it began with my hair and ended at my
boots, which were still muddy from the tramp
of the previous evening.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span></p>
<p>“‘I am sorry, your Excellency,’ he said, ‘but
if you had left your shoes outside your door
I could have polished them; I was afraid of
disturbing you or I should have hunted for
them inside.’”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Louis, as he finished, settled his big shoulders
back in the chair until it creaked with his
weight, and ran his eye around the table waiting
for the explosion which he knew would follow.
All we could do was to stare helplessly in
his face. Le Blanc, who hadn’t drawn a full
breath since the painter began, found his voice
first.</p>
<p>“And he didn’t intend cutting your throat?”
he roared indignantly.</p>
<p>“No, of course not—I never said he did. I
said I was scared blue, and I was—real indigo.
Oh!—an awful night—hardly got an hour’s
sleep.”</p>
<p>“But what about the fellow on the shed, and
his footsteps, and the shadow of the hand?”
demanded Brierley, wholly disappointed at the
outcome of the yarn.</p>
<p>“There was no fellow, Brierley, and no footsteps.”
This came in mild, gentle tones, as if
the hunter’s credulity were something surpris<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span>ing.
“I thought you understood. It was the
scraping of the dead tree against the roof of
the shed that made the creaking noise; the
hand was the shadow cast by the end of a
bunched-up branch swaying in the wind. The
same thing occurred the next night and on
every moonlight night for a week after—as long
as I stayed.”</p>
<p>“And what became of the soap-suddy brigand
with the rosaries?” inquired The Engineer
calmly, looking at Louis over the bowl of his
pipe, a queer smile playing around his lips.</p>
<p>“Oh, a ripping good fellow,” returned Louis
in the same innocent, childlike tone—“a real
comfort; best in the village outside the landlord
and his wife, with whom I stayed two
weeks. Brought me my luncheon every day
and crawled up a breakneck hill to do it, and
then kept on two miles to mail my letters.”</p>
<p>“Well, but Louis,” I exclaimed, “what a
mean, thin, fake of a yarn; no point, no plot—no
nothing but a string of——”</p>
<p>“Yes, High-Muck, quite true—no plot, no
nothing; but it is as good as your bogus ghosts
and shivering bishops. And then I always had
my doubts about that bishop, High-Muck.
I’ve heard you tell that story before, and it has<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span>
always struck me as highly improper. I don’t
wonder the girl was scared to death and skipped
the next morning. And the gay old bishop!
Felt cold, did he?” and Louis threw back his
head and laughed until the tears rolled down
his cheeks.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII<br /><br />
WHY MIGNON WENT TO MARKET</h2>
<p>It is market day at Dives. This means that
it is Saturday. On Friday the market is
at Cabourg, on Wednesday at Buezval, and
on the other days at the several small towns
within a radius of twenty miles.</p>
<p>It means, too, that the street fronting the
Inn is blocked up with a line of carts, little
and big, their shafts in the gutter, the horses
eating from troughs tied to the hind axle;
that another line stretches its length along the
narrow street on the kitchen side of the Inn
which leads to the quaint Norman church,
squeezing itself through a yet narrower street
into a small open square, where it comes bump
up against a huge hulk of a building, choked
up on these market days with piles of vegetables,
crates of chickens, boxes of apples, unruly
pigs alive and squealing; patient, tired,
little calves; geese, ducks—all squawking;
chrysanthemums in pots spread out on the
sidewalk; old brass, old iron; everything that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span>
goes to supply the needs of the white-capped
women and wide-hatted men who crowd every
square foot of standing room.</p>
<p>Market day means, too, that Pierre is unusually
busy; and so is Lemois, and so are Leà
and our little Mignon. Long before any one
of us were out of bed this morning, the court-yard
was crowded with big red-faced Norman
farmers and their fat wives, all talking at once
over their coffee, each with half a glass of Calvados
(Norman apple-jack) dumped into their
cups. At noon, the market over, they were
back again for their midday breakfast, and
Pierre, who had been working since daylight
without a mouthful to eat, then placed on a
big table in one of the open kiosks a huge
earthen crock, sizzling-hot, filled with tripe,
bits of pork, and chicken—the whole seasoned
with onions and giving out a most seductive
and inviting smell when its earthenware cover
was lifted. There were great loaves of brown
bread, too, which Lemois himself cut and served
to the guests, besides cold pork in slices and
cabbage chopped into shreds. When each
plate was full, and the knives and forks had
begun to rattle, he went indoors for his most
precious heirloom—the square cut-glass decan<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span>ter
with its stopper made of silver buttons cut
from a peasant’s jacket and soldered together—and
after brimming each glass, seated himself
and took his meal with the others, bowing
them out when breakfast was over—hat in
hand—as if they were ambassadors of a foreign
court—gentleman and peasant, as he is—while
they, full to their eyelids, stumbled up
into their several carts, their women climbing
in after.</p>
<p>And a great day it was for an out-door meal
or for anything else one’s soul longed for—and
they have these days in Normandy in October,
when the fire is out in the Marmouset, the air
a caress, and a hunger for the vanished summer
comes over you. So soothing was the
touch of the autumn air, and so lovely the
tones of the autumn sky, that Louis hauled
out a sketch-box from beneath a pile of canvases,
and tucking one of them under his arm,
disappeared through the big gate in the direction
of the old church. Brierley took down
his gun, and, calling Peter, strolled out of the
court-yard promising to be back at luncheon,
while Herbert, who had risen at dawn and
walked to Houlgate to bid The Engineer good-by,
dragged out an easy-chair from the “Gal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span>lerie,”
backed it up against the statue of the
Great Louis, and under pretence of resting his
legs, buried himself in a book, the warm sunshine
full on the page.</p>
<p>I, being left to my own devices, waited until
the last cart with its well-fed load of Norman
farmers had turned the corner of the Inn and
quiet reigned again; and remembering that I
was host, sought out our landlord and put the
question squarely as to what objections, if any,
he, the lord of the manor, had to our lunching
out of doors too, and at the same table on
which Pierre had placed the big crock and its
attendant trimmings.</p>
<p>“Of course, my dear Monsieur High-Muck,
you shall all lunch in the court, but the menu
shall be better adapted to your more gentle
appetites than the one prepared for our departed
guests. I am at this moment paying
the penalty for my share of the indigestible
mess—but then I could not hurt their feelings
by refusing—and so I have a queer feeling
here”—and he ironed his waistcoat with the
flat of his hand, his eyes upraised as if in
pain. “But let me think—what shall it be
to-day? I have a fish which Mignon, who has
just gone to the market, will bring back, be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span>cause
I could not go myself nor spare Leà.
Those big-eating people came so early and
stayed so late. After the fish we will have
Poulet Vallèe D’auge, with stewed celery, and
at last a Pêche Flambée—and it will be the
last time, for the late peaches are about over.
And now about the wine—will you pick it out
or shall I? Ah!—I remember—only yesterday
I found a few bottles of Moncontour Vouvray
at the bottom of a shelf in my old wine-cellar.
It will bring fresh courage to your hearts.
When it does not do that, and you have only
dull despair or thick headaches, it should be
poured out on the ground”—having delivered
which homily, the old man, with his eye on
Coco asleep on his perch, sauntered slowly up
the court in the direction of the wine-cellar,
from which he emerged a few minutes later
bearing two dust-encrusted bottles topped with
yellow wax—a distinguishing mark which he
himself had placed there some twenty years
before and had forgotten.</p>
<p>So while Herbert read on, only looking up
now and then from his book, Leà and I set the
table, stripping it of its rough, heavy dishes,
swabbing it off with a clean, water-soaked
towel—I did the swabbing and Leà held the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span>
basin—bringing from the Marmouset our linen
and china, then dragging up the big wooden
chairs, which were rain-proof and never housed.</p>
<p>We missed Mignon, of course. Buying a
fish, and the market but half a dozen blocks
away, should not require a whole hour for its
completion, especially since she had been told
to hurry—more especially still, since Pierre’s
pot was on the boil awaiting its arrival, Louis
and Brierley having returned hungry as bears.
Indeed I had already started in to ask Lemois
the plump question as to what detained our
Bunch of Roses, when Leà’s thin, sharp, fingers
clutched my coat-sleeve, her eyes on Lemois.
What she meant I dared not ask, but there was
no doubt in my mind that it had to do with the
love affair in which every man of us was mixed
up as coconspirator—a conclusion which was instantly
confirmed when I looked into her shrivelled
face and caught the joyous, lantern flare
behind her eyes.</p>
<p>Waiting until we were out of hearing, Lemois
having gone to the kitchen, she answered
with a shake of her old head:</p>
<p>“Mignon loiters because Gaston is well
again.”</p>
<p>“But he has never been ill. That crack on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span>
his head did him a lot of good—hurt Monsieur
Lemois, I fancy, more than it did Gaston—set
him to thinking—maybe now it will come out
all right.”</p>
<p>“No; it only made him the more obstinate;
he has forbidden the boy the place.”</p>
<p>“And is that why you are so happy?”</p>
<p>The shrewd, kindly eyes of the old woman
looked into mine and then a sudden smile flung
a myriad of wrinkles across her face.</p>
<p>“I am happy, monsieur,” she whispered as I
followed her around the table with the box of
knives and forks, “because things are getting
brighter. Gaston has a stall now in the market
where he can sell his fish himself, and where
Mignon can see him once in a while. She is
with him now. You know the hucksters paid
him what they pleased, and sometimes, even
when Gaston’s catch was big, he made only a
few francs some mornings. And the mother
and he were obliged to take what they could
get, for you cannot wait with fish when the
weather is hot. To buy the stall and pay for
it all at once was what troubled them, so it
is a great day for Gaston—Monsieur Gaston
Duprè now”—and her eyes twinkled. “Even
if Monsieur Lemois holds out—and he may,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>
after all—then there may be another way. Is
it not so? Ah, we will see! She is very happy
now. Only I am getting nervous; she stays
so long I am afraid that Monsieur Lemois
may find out,” and she shot an anxious glance
up the garden.</p>
<p>“What did the stall cost, Leà?” I asked,
flattening the knives beside the plates as I
talked, my eye on the kitchen door so Lemois
should not surprise us.</p>
<p>“Oh, a great sum—one hundred and ten
francs. Two knives here, if you please, monsieur.”</p>
<p>“Well, where did it come from—their savings?”
obeying her directions as I spoke.</p>
<p>“No—not his money nor his mother’s; she
could not spare so much. She must be buried
some time, and there must always be money
enough for that. All Gaston knows is that
the chief of the market came to his house and
left the receipt with the permit. It is for a
year.”</p>
<p>“Well—somebody must have paid. Who
was it?” I had finished with the knives and
had begun on the forks and tablespoons.</p>
<p>“Yes—there was somebody, perhaps it was
madame la marquise?” and she turned quickly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span>
and looked into my eyes, an expression of
shrewd inquiry adding a new set of wrinkles
to her gentle face. “Maybe you know, monsieur?”</p>
<p>“No, it’s all news to me. I am glad for her
sake, anyhow, whoever did it. Was it news to
Mignon?”</p>
<p>“When?”</p>
<p>“Why this morning when she went to market?”</p>
<p>“Yes, of course it was news to her. I, myself,
only knew it last night, and I wouldn’t
tell her; she would have betrayed herself in
her joy. So when the market people stayed
so long—and I did all I could to make them
stay”—here her small bead eyes were pinched
tight in merriment—“I said there was nothing
for your dinner and we must have a fish and
that Mignon might better go for it. Watch
her when she returns: her face will tell you
whether she has seen him or not. Now give
me the box, monsieur, and thank you for helping
me. Listen! There she comes; I hear her
singing.”</p>
<p>And so did the whole court-yard, and she
kept on singing, her basket on her arm, her face
in full sunlight, until she espied Leà. Then down<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span>
went the fish and away she flew, throwing her
arms around the dear old woman’s neck, not
caring who saw her; hugging her one minute,
kissing her seamed cheeks the next, chattering
like a magpie all the time, her eyes flashing, her
cheeks red as two roses.</p>
<p>Only when Lemois appeared in the kitchen
door and bent his steps toward us did her customary
demureness return, and even then the
joy in her heart was only stifled for the moment
by a fear of his having overheard her
song and of his wondering at the cause.</p>
<p>And if the truth be told, he did come very
near finding out when luncheon was served,
and would have done so but for the fact that I
upset Le Blanc’s glass of Vouvray and followed
up the warning with a punch below his fat
waist-line when he began telling us how sorry
he was for being late, he having made a wide
détour to avoid the market carts, winding up
with: “And oh, by the way, I met your little
maid, Mignon, in the fish-market; she was having
a beautiful time with a young fisherman
who——”</p>
<p>It was here the dig came in.</p>
<p>“Ouch! What the devil, High-Muck, do you
mean? Oh, I understand—yes, as I was say<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span>ing”—here
he stole a glance at Lemois—“I
met Mignon in the market; she was buying a
beautiful fish. I hope, Monsieur Lemois, we
are to have it for dinner. Don’t bother, Leà,
about the spilt wine; just get me a fresh glass.
And, Louis, do you mind letting go that crusting
of cobwebs so I can get another taste of
that nosegay?” and thus the day was saved.</p>
<p>We broke loose, however, when Lemois was
gone, and I told the whole story as Leà had
given it, Louis, in his customary rôle of toast-master,
rising in his seat and pledging the young
couple, whose health and happiness we all
drank, Brierley whistling the Wedding March
to the accompaniment of a great clatter of
knives and forks on the plates.</p>
<p>In fact, the very air seemed so charged with
uncontrollable exhilaration that Coco, the oldest
and most knowing of birds—he is sixty-five
and has seen more love-making from his perch
in the dormer overlooking that same court-yard
than all the chaperones who ever lived—suddenly
broke out into screams of delight,
ruffling his feathers, curling up his celery sprout
of a topknot, his eyes following Mignon, his
head cocked on one side, when she raced back
and forth from Pierre’s range to our big table.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span>
Even Tito, the scrap of a black kitten, who
was never three feet away from Mignon’s heels,
dodged in and out of her swaying petticoats in
mad chase after her restless feet, and would
not be quieted until she stopped long enough
to take him up in her arms for a moment’s
cuddling.</p>
<p>Of none of all this, thank Heaven, did Lemois
have the faintest glimmer of a suspicion.
When on her return from market he had scolded
her for being late, he had taken her silence
only as proof that she thought she deserved it.
When he would have broken out on her again,
suddenly remembering that our coffee was
likely to be delayed, Herbert, to whom I had
whispered my discovery—diplomat as he was—begged
him to delay the serving of it until it
could be poured directly from the pot into our
cups, as the air of the court would chill it. All
of which, Heaven be thanked again, Mignon
overheard, sending her flying back to the
kitchen, her eyes aglow with the happiness of
a secret that filled her heart to bursting.</p>
<p>When she at last appeared with the coffee-pot,
so contagious was her joy that our extended
hands trembled as we held the tiny cups
beneath her fingers. Somehow we had caught<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span>
a little of her thrill. And it was all so evident
and so marvellous and so inspiring that
every man Jack of us, blighted old bachelors
as we were, fell to wondering whether, after all,
it would not have been better to have bent the
neck to the yoke and had a running-mate beside
us than to have continued our dreary trot
in single harness.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII
<br /><br />
WITH A DISSERTATION ON ROUND<br />
PEGS AND SQUARE HOLES</h2>
<p>Work on the wrecked villa of madame la
marquise was progressing with a vim.
The Engineer, called in consultation, had with
a comprehensive grasp of the situation brushed
aside the architect’s plan of shoring up one end
of the structure at a time; had rigged a pair
of skids made from some old abandoned timber
found on the beach and with a common
ship’s windlass, a heavy hawser, and a “Heave
ho, my hearties!”—to which every loose fisherman
within reach lent a hand—had dragged the
ruin up the hill and landed it intact on level
ground some twenty feet back from its former
site. This done—and it was accomplished in
a day—the porch was straightened and the
lopsided walls forced into place. With the exception
of the collapsed chimney, the former
residence of the distinguished lady was not such
a wreck as had been supposed.</p>
<p>Next followed the slicing off of the raw edge<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span>
of the landslide, the building of a fence, and,
later on, the preparation of a new garden.
This last was to be madame’s very own, and
neither care nor cost was to be considered in
its making. She could sleep in a garage—she
had slept there since the catastrophe—and take
her meals from the top of a barrel (which was
also true), but a garden meant the very breath
of her life—flowers she must have—flowers all
the time, from the first crocus to the last October
blossoms. Marc, now her abject slave,
was then at Rouen arranging for their shipment.
The daily news—such as twenty or
more men at work, the chimney half finished,
the fence begun, etc., etc.—Le Blanc, who was
constantly at the site, generally brought us at
night, his report being received with the keenest
zest, for the marquise was now counted as
the most delightful of our coterie.</p>
<p>His very latest and most important bulletin
set us all to speculating;—the old garage—here
his voice rose in intensity—was to be
moved back some fifty feet and a new wing
added, with bedroom above and a kitchen below.
“A new garage!” we had all exclaimed.
Who then was to occupy it? Not madame, of
course, nor her servants, for they, as hereto<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span>fore,
would be quartered in the reconstructed
villa. Certainly not any of her visitors—and
most assuredly not Marc!</p>
<p>“Take my advice and stop guessing,” laughed
the Frenchman; “she’ll tell you when she gets
ready, and not before. And she’ll have the
wing completed on time, for nothing daunts
her. To want a thing done is, with her, to
have it finished. The new wing was an after-thought,
and yet it did not delay the work an
hour. She’ll be serving tea in that wreck next
week.”</p>
<p>“It is because madame la marquise was born
with a gift,” remarked Lemois dryly from his
seat near the fire. “Her mind is constructive,
and everything madame touches must have a
definite beginning and lead up to a definite
ending. Her sanity is shown in her never trying
to do things for which she is not fitted.
As a musician, or a painter, or even a sculptor,
or in any occupation demanding a fine imagination,
madame, it seems to me, would have
been a pathetic failure.”</p>
<p>“How about an antiquary?” remarked Louis,
blowing a ring of smoke across the table, a
quizzical smile lighting up his face.</p>
<p>“As an antiquary, my dear Monsieur Louis,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span>
the eminent lady would have been a pronounced
success. She is one now, for she insists
on knowing that the thing she buys is
genuine, and it saves her many absurdities. I
can think of nothing in her collection that can
be questioned—and I cannot say that of my
own.”</p>
<p>“And so you don’t believe that a man or a
woman can make what they please of themselves?”
asked Herbert, who was always glad
to hear from Lemois.</p>
<p>“Not any more than I believe that tulip
bulbs will grow blackberries if I water them
enough.”</p>
<p>“It’s all a question of blood,” essayed Le
Blanc, snipping the end from his cigar with
a gold cutter attached to his watch-chain.
“Failures in life are almost always due to a
scrap of gray tissue clogging up a gentleman’s
brain, which, ten chances to one, he has inherited
from some plebeian ancestor.”</p>
<p>“Failures in life come from nothing of the
sort!” blurted out Louis. “It’s just dead laziness,
and of the cheapest kind. All the painters
I knew at Julien’s who waited for a mood
are waiting yet.”</p>
<p>“The trouble with most unsuccessful men,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span>”
volunteered Brierley, “is the everlasting trimming
up of a square peg to make it fit a
round hole.”</p>
<p>“Then drive it in and make it fit,” answered
Louis. “It will hug all the tighter for the
raw edges it raises.”</p>
<p>“And if it splits the plank, Louis?” I asked.</p>
<p>“Let it split! A man, High-Muck, who can’t
make a success of his life is better out of it,
unless he’s a cripple, and then he can have my
pocket-book every time. Look at Herbert!—he’s
forged ahead; yet he’s been so hungry
sometimes he could have gnawed off the soles
of his shoes.”</p>
<p>“Only the imagination of the out-door
painter, gentlemen,” answered Herbert with a
laughing nod to the table at large. “The
hungry part is, perhaps, correct, but I forget
about the shoes.”</p>
<p>“I stick to my point!” exclaimed Le Blanc,
facing Herbert as he spoke. “It’s blood as well
as push that makes a man a success. When he
lacks the combination he fails—that is, he does
nine times out of ten, and that percentage, of
course, is too small to trust to.”</p>
<p>“That reminds me of a story,” interrupted
Brierley with one of his quiet laughs, “of some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span>
fellows who took chances on the percentage,
as Le Blanc calls it, and yet, as we Americans
say, ‘arrived.’ A well-born young Englishman,
down on his luck, had been tramping the streets,
too proud to go home to his father’s house,
the spirit of the hobo still in him. One night
he struck up an acquaintance with another
young chap as poor and independent as himself.
Naturally they affiliated. Both were
sons of gentlemen and both vagabonds in the
best sense. One became a reporter and the
other a news-gatherer. The first had no dress
suit and was debarred from state functions and
smart receptions; the second boasted not only
a dress suit useful at weddings, but a respectable
morning frock-coat for afternoon teas.
The two outfits brought them lodgings and
three meals a day, for what the dress suit could
pick up in the way of society news the man
with the pen got into type. Things went on
this way until August set in and the season
closed; then both men lost their jobs. For
some weeks they braved it out, badgering the
landlady; then came the pawning of their
clothes, and then one meal a day, and then
a bench in St. James’s Park out of sight of
the bobbies. This being rock bottom, a council<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span>
of war was held. The news-gatherer shipped
aboard an outgoing vessel and disappeared from
civilization. The reporter kept on reporting.
Both had courage and both had the best blood
of England in their veins, according to my view.
Twenty years later the two met at a drawing-room
in Buckingham Palace. The reporter
had risen to a peer and the news-gatherer to a
merchant prince. There was a hearty handshake,
a furtive glance down the long, gold-encrusted
corridor, and then, with a common
impulse, the two moved to an open window
and looked out. Below them lay the bench on
which the two had slept twenty years before.”</p>
<p>“Of course!” shouted Le Blanc; “that’s just
what I said—a case of good blood—that’s what
kept them going. They owed it to their ancestors.”</p>
<p>“Ancestors be hanged! It was a case of pure
grit!” shouted Louis in return. “All the blood
in the world wouldn’t have helped them if it
hadn’t been for that. Neither of them expected,
when they started out in life, to be
shown up six flights of marble stairs by a hundred
flunkeys in silk stockings, but, as Brierley
puts it, ‘they <i>arrived</i> all the same.’ Blood alone
would have landed them as clerks in govern<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span>ment
pay or obscure country gentlemen waiting
for somebody to die. They kept on driving in
the peg and before they got through all the
chinks were filled. Keep your toes in your
pumps, gentlemen. High-Muck is loaded for
something; I see it in his eyes. Go on, High-Muck,
and let us have it. How do you vote—blood
or brains?”</p>
<p>“Neither,” I answered. “Lemois is nearest
the truth. You can’t make a silk purse out
of—you know the rest—neither can you force
a man, nor can he force himself, to succeed in
something for which he is not fitted. All you
do is to split the plank and ruin his life. I’ll
tell you a story which will perhaps give you
and idea of what I mean.</p>
<p>“Perhaps five years ago—perhaps six—my
memory is always bad for dates—I met a fellow
in one of our small Western cities at home
who, by all odds, was the most brilliant conversationalist
I had run across for years. The
acquaintance began as my audience—I was
lecturing at the time—left the room and was
continued under the sidewalk, where we had a
porter-house steak and a mug apiece, the repast
and talk lasting until two in the morning.
Gradually I learned his history. He had started<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span>
life as a reporter; developed into space writer,
then editor, and was known as the most caustic
and brilliant journalist on any of the Western
papers. With the death of his wife, he had
thrown up this position and was, when I met
him, conducting a small country paper.</p>
<p>“What possessed me I don’t know, but after
seeing him half a dozen times that winter—and
I often passed through his town—I made
up my mind that his brilliant talk, quaint philosophy,
and mastery of English were wasted on
what he was doing, and that if I could persuade
him to write a novel he would not only
drop into the hole his Maker had bored for
him, but would make a name for himself. All
that he had to do was to <i>put himself into type</i>
and the rest would follow. Of course he protested;
he was fifty years old, he said, had but
little means, no experience in fiction, his work
not being imaginative but concerned with the
weightier and more practical things of the day.</p>
<p>“All this made me only the keener to do
something to drag him out of the pit and start
him in a new direction.</p>
<p>“The first thing was to make him believe
in himself. I pooh-poohed the idea of his failure
to succeed at fifty as being any reason for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span>
his not acquiring distinction at sixty, and
counted on my fingers the men who had done
their best work late in life. Taking up some
of the editorials he had sent me (undeniable
proofs, so he had maintained, of his inability
to do anything better or, rather, different), I
picked out a sentence here and there, reading
it aloud and dilating on his choice of words; I
showed him how his style would tell in an up-to-date
novel, and how forceful his short, pithy
epigrams would be scattered throughout its text.</p>
<p>“Little by little he began to enthuse: I had
kindled his pride—something that had lain dormant
for years—and the warmth of its revival
soon sent the blood of a new hope tingling
through his veins. He now confessed that he
<i>had</i> always wanted to write sustained fiction
without ever having had either the opportunity
or the strength to begin. Inspired by my efforts,
others of his friends at home joined in
the bracing up, recognizing as I had done the
charm and quality of the man—his wit and
tenderness, his philosophy and knowledge of the
life about him. They forgot, of course, as had
I, that in fiction—and in all imaginative literature
for that matter—something more is required
than either a knowledge of men or the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span>
ability for turning out phrases. As an actor
steps in between the dramatist and the audience—visualizing
and vitalizing the text by deft
gestures, telling emphases, and those silent
pauses often more effective than the speech
itself—so must the author with his pen: in
other words, he must infuse into the written
word something that presents to you in print
that which the actor makes you <i>see</i> beyond
the footlights. This, however, you men know
all about, so I won’t dilate on it.</p>
<p>“Well, he started in and threw himself into
the task with a grip and energy of which I had
not thought him capable. It took him about
six months to finish the novel; then he came
East and laid the manuscript in my hands.
We shut ourselves up in my study and went
over it. When I suggested that a page dragged,
he would snatch it from my hand, square himself
on my hearth-rug with his back to the fire,
and read it aloud, pumping his personality into
every line. Conversations which, when I read
them, had seemed long-winded and commonplace
took on a new meaning. When he had
gone to bed I reread the passages and again
my heart sank.</p>
<p>“The publisher came next, I delivering the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span>
manuscript myself with all the good things I
could say about it.</p>
<p>“At the end of the week that ominous-looking
white coffin of an envelope in which so
many of our hopes are buried, and which most
of us know so well, was laid on my study table,
and with it the short obituary notice: ‘Not
adapted to our uses.’</p>
<p>“I was afraid to tell him, and didn’t. I arranged
a dinner instead for the three of us—the
editor, whom he had not yet met, being
one. During the meal not a word was said
about the rejected novel. I had cautioned the
author—and, of course, the editor never brought
his shop to a dinner-table.</p>
<p>“After the cigars I took up the manuscript
and the discussion opened. The editor was
very frank, very kind, and very helpful. He
had wanted to publish it, but there were long
passages—essays, really—in which the reader’s
galloping interest would get stalled. Experience
had taught him that it was slow-downs
like these that mired so much of modern fiction.</p>
<p>“‘Which passages, for instance,’ I asked
rather casually.</p>
<p>“‘Well, the part which—Hand me the
manuscript and I will—<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span>—’</p>
<p>“‘No; suppose my friend reads it—you
have enough of that to do all day.’</p>
<p>“Just as I expected, the reader’s personality
again transformed everything. The long-winded
descriptions under the magic of his
voice seemed too short, while every conversation
thought dull before appeared to be illumined
by a hidden meaning tucked away
between the lines.</p>
<p>“When the editor left at midnight the coffin
was in his pocket. Two days later the book
department forwarded a contract with a check
for five hundred dollars as advance royalties.</p>
<p>“There was no holding my friend down
to earth after that. His joy and pride in that
shambling, God-forsaken, worthless plodder
whom he had despised for years was overwhelming.
He was like a boy out of school. Stories
which he had forgotten were pulled out of the
past and given with a humor and point
that dazzled every one around my study fire.
Personal reminiscences of politicians he had
known, and campaigns he had directed from
his editorial chair, were told in a way that
made them live in our memories ever after.
Never had any of my friends met so delightful
and cultivated a man.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span></p>
<p>“The next day he went back to his home
town carrying his enthusiasm with him.</p>
<p>“In two months the usual book notices
began to crop out in the papers—all written
in the publisher’s establishment—a fact which
he must have known, but which, from his enthusiastic
letters, I saw he had overlooked. His
own village papers reprinted the notices with
editorial comments of their own—‘Our distinguished
fellow-citizen,’ etc.—that sort of
thing.</p>
<p>“These were also forwarded to me by mail
with renewed thanks for the service I had
done him—he, the ‘modern Lazarus snatched
from an early grave.’ When a bona fide reviewer
noticed the book at all, it was in half
a dozen lines, with allusions to the amateurishness
of the effort—‘his first and, it is hoped,
his last,’ one critic was brutal enough to add.
When one of these reached him, it was dismissed
with a smile. He knew what he had
done, and so would the world once the book
got out among the people.</p>
<p>“Then the first six months’ account was
mailed him. The royalty sales had not reached
one-half of the first payment!</p>
<p>“He sat—so his brother told me afterward<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span>—with
the firm’s letter in his hand, and for
an hour never opened his lips. That afternoon
he went to bed; in three months he was
dead! It had broken his heart.</p>
<p>“I, too, sat with a paper in my hand—his
brother’s telegram. Had I done right or
wrong? I am still wondering and I have not
yet solved the question. Had I never crossed
his path and had he kept on in his editor’s
chair, giving out short, crisp comments on the
life of the day, he would, no doubt, be alive
and earning a fair support. I had attempted
the impossible and failed. The square peg in
the round hole had split the plank!”</p>
<p>“Better split it,” remarked Louis, “than
stop all driving. Poor fellow, I’m sorry for
him; nothing hurts like having your pride
dragged in the mud, and nothing brings keener
suffering—I’ve seen it and know. Why didn’t
you brace him up again, High-Muck?”</p>
<p>“I did try, but it was too late. Just before
he died he wrote me the old refrain: ‘At
twenty-five I might have weathered it, but not
at fifty.’”</p>
<p>Herbert drew his chair closer, assuming his
favorite gesture, his hands on the edge of the
table.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span></p>
<p>“I say ‘poor fellow’ too, Louis, but High-Muck
has not put his finger on the right spot.
It was not the man’s pride that was wounded;
nor did he die of a broken heart. He died because
he had not reached his pinnacle, and that
is quite a different thing. What blinded him
and destroyed his reason—for it cannot be
thought very sensible for a man to abandon a
certain fixed income for a rainbow—was not
your reviving his belief in himself, but your
giving him, for the first time, an opportunity
to spread his wings. But for that you could
not have persuaded him to write a line. The
pitiful thing was that the wings were not large
enough—still they were <i>wings</i> to be used in
the air of romance, and not legs with which to
tread the roads of the commonplace, and he
knew it. He had felt them growing ever since
he was a boy. It is only a question of the
spread of one’s feathers, after all, whether one
succeeds soaring over mountains with a view
of the never-ending Valley of Content below, or
whether one keeps on grovelling in the mud.”</p>
<p>As Herbert paused a tremulous silence fell
upon the group. That he, of all men, should
thus penetrate, if not espouse, the cause of
failure—the hardest of all things for a man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span>
of phenomenal success to comprehend or excuse
in his fellows—came as a new note.</p>
<p>“To illustrate this theory,” he continued, unconscious
of the effect he had produced, “I will
tell you about a man whom I once came across
in one of the studios of Paris, back of the Pantheon.
All his life he had determined to be a
sculptor—and when I say ‘determined’ I mean
he had thought of nothing else. By day he
worked in the atelier, at night he drew from
a cast—a custom then of the young sculptors.
In the Louvre and in the Luxembourg—out in
the gardens of the Tuileries—wherever there
was something moulded or cut into form, there
at odd hours you could always find this enthusiast.
At night too, when the other students
were trooping through the Quartier, breaking
things or outrunning the gendarmes, this poor
devil was working away, doing Ledas and Venuses
and groups of nudes, with rearing horses
and chariots,—all the trite subjects a young
sculptor attempts whose imagination outruns
his ability.</p>
<p>“Year after year his things would come up
before the jury and be rejected; and they deserved
it. Soon it began to dawn on his associates,
but never on him, that, try as he might,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span>
there was something lacking in his artistic make-up.
With the master standing over him advising
a bit of clay put on here, or a slice taken off
there, he had seemed to progress; when, however,
he struck out for himself his results were
most disheartening. It was during this part of
his life that I came to know him. He was then
a man of forty, ten years younger than your
dead novelist, High-Muck, and, like him, a man
of many sorrows. The difference was that all
his life my man had been poor; at no time for
more than a week had he ever been sure of his
bread. As he was an expert moulder and often
gratuitously helped his brother sculptors in taking
casts of their clay figures, he had often been
begged to accept employment at good wages
with some of the stucco people, but he had refused
and had fought on, preferring starvation
to <i>pâtisserie</i>, as he called this kind of work.</p>
<p>“Nor had he, like your novelist, happiness to
look back upon. He had married young, as
they all do, and there had come a daughter who
had grown to be eighteen, and who had been
lost in the whirl—slipped in the mud, they said,
and the city had rolled over her. And then the
wife died and he was alone. The girl had crept
up his stairs one night and lay shivering outside<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span>
his door; he had taken her in, put her to bed,
and fed her. Later on her last lover discovered
by chance her hiding-place, and in the
mould-maker’s absence the two had found the
earthen pot with the few francs he owned and
had spent them. After that he had shut his
door in her face. And so the fight went on,
his ideal still alive in his heart, his one purpose
to give it flight—‘soaring over the heads
of the millions,’ as he put it, ‘so that even dullards
might take off their hats in recognition.’</p>
<p>“When I again met him he was living in an
old, abandoned theatre on the outskirts of Paris,
a weird, uncanny ruin—rats everywhere—the
scenery hanging in tatters, the stage broken
down, the pit filled to the level of the footlights
with a mass of coal—for a dealer in fuels had
leased it for this purpose, his carts going in
and out of the main entrance. One of the
dressing-rooms over the flies was his studio,
reached by a staircase from the old stage entrance.
A former tenant had cut a skylight
under which my friend worked.</p>
<p>“In answer to his ‘Entrez’ I pushed open his
door and found him in a sculptor’s blouse cowering
over a small sheet-iron stove on which
some food was being cooked. He raised his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span>
head, straightened his back, and came toward
me—a small, shrunken man now, prematurely
old, his two burning eyes looking out from
under his ledge of a forehead like coals beneath
a half-burnt log, a shock of iron-gray hair sticking
straight up from his scalp as would a brush.
About his nose, up his cheeks, around his mouth,
and especially across his throat, which was free
of a cravat, ran pasty wrinkles, like those on a
piece of uncooked tripe. Only half-starved
men who have lived on greasy soups and scraps
from the kitchens have these complexions.</p>
<p>“I describe him thus carefully to you because
that first glance of his scarred face had
told me his life’s story. It is the same with
every man who suffers.</p>
<p>“He talked of his work, of the conspiracies
that had followed him all his career, shutting
him out of his just rewards, while less brilliant
men snatched the prizes which should have
been his; of his hopes for the future; of the
great competition soon to come off at Rheims,
in which he would compete—not that he had
yet put his idea into clay—that was always a
mere question of detail with him. Then, as
if by the merest accident—something he had
quite forgotten, but which he thought might<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span>
interest me—he told me, with a quickening of
his glance and the first smile I had seen cross
his pasty face, of a certain statue of his, ‘a
Masterpiece,’ which a great connoisseur had
bought for his garden, and which faced one of
the open spaces of Paris. I could see it any
day I walked that way—indeed, if I did not
mind, he would go with me—he had been
housed all the morning and needed the air.</p>
<p>“I pleaded an excuse and left him, for I
knew all about this masterpiece which had been
bought by a tradesman and planted in his garden
among groups of cast-iron dogs and spouting
dolphins, the hedge in front cut low enough
for passers-by to see the entire collection.
Hardly a day elapsed that the poor fellow did
not walk by, drinking in the beauty of his work,
comforting himself with the effect it produced
on the plain people who stopped to admire.
Sometimes he would accost them and bring the
conversation round to the sculptor, and then
abruptly take his leave, they staring at him as
he bowed his thanks.</p>
<p>“The following year I again looked him up;
his poverty and his courage appealed to me; besides,
I intended to help him. When I knocked
at his door he did not cry ‘Entrez’—he kept<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span>
still, as if he had not heard me or was out.
When I pushed the door open he turned, looked
at me for an instant, and resumed his work.
Again my eyes took him in—thinner, dryer,
less nourished. He was casting the little images
you buy from a board carried on a vendor’s
back.</p>
<p>“Without heeding his silence I at once stated
my errand. He should make a statue for my
garden; furthermore, his name and address
should be plainly cut in the pedestal.</p>
<p>“He thanked me for my order, but he
made no more statues, he said. He was now
engaged in commercial work. Art was dead.
Nobody cared. Did I remember his great
statue—the one in the garden?—his Apollo?—the
Greek of modern times? Well, the place
had changed hands, and the new owner had
carted it away with the cast-iron dogs and the
dolphins and ploughed up the lawn to make an
artichoke-bed. The masterpiece was no more.
‘I found all that was left of my work,’ he added,
‘on a dirt heap in the rear of his out-house, the
head gone and both arms broken short off.’</p>
<p>“His voice wavered and ceased, and it was
with some difficulty that he straightened his
back, moved his drying plaster casts one side,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span>
and offered me the free part of the bench for a
seat.</p>
<p>“I remained standing and broke out in protest.
I abused the ignorance and jealousy of
the people and of the juries—did everything I
could, in fact, to reassure him and pump some
hope into him—precisely what you did to your
own author, High-Muck. I even agreed to
pay in advance for the new statue I had ordered.
I told him, too, that if he would come back to
the country with me, I would make a place for
him in an empty greenhouse, where he could
work undisturbed. He only shook his head.</p>
<p>“‘What for?’ he answered—‘for money? I
am alone in the world, and it’s of no use to me.
I am accustomed to being starved. For fame?
I have given my life to express the thoughts
of my heart and nobody would listen. Now
it is finished. I will keep them for the good
God—perhaps He will listen.’</p>
<p>“A week later I found him sitting bolt
upright in his chair under the skylight, dead.
Above in the dull gloom hung a row of plaster
models, his own handiwork—fragments of arms
and hands with fists clenched ready to strike;
queer torsos writhing in pain; queerer masks
with hollow eyes. In the grimy light these<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span>
seemed to have come to life—the torsos leaning
over, hunching their shoulders at him as if
blaming him for their suffering; the masks
mocking at his misery, leering at each other.
It was a grewsome sight, and I did not shake
off the memory of the scene for days.</p>
<p>“And so I hold,” added Herbert, with a
sorrowful shake of his head “that it is
neither pride nor suffering that kills men of
this class. It is because they have failed to
reach the pinnacle of their ideals—that goal
for which some spirits risk both their lives and
their hopes of heaven.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV
<br /><br />
A WOMAN’S WAY</h2>
<p>However serious the talk of the night before—and
Herbert’s pathetic story of the
poor mould-maker was still in our memory when
we awoke—the effect was completely dispelled
as soon as we began to breathe the air of the
out of doors.</p>
<p>The weather helped—another of those caressing
Indian-summer days—the sleepy sun
with half-closed eyes dozing at you through its
lace curtains of mist; every fire out and all the
windows wide open.</p>
<p>Leà helped. Never were her sabots so active
nor so musical in their scuffle: now hot
milk, now fresh coffee, now another crescent—all
on the run, and all with a spontaneous,
uncontrollable laugh between each serving—all
the more unaccountable as of late the dear old
woman’s face, except at brief intervals, had
been as long as an undertaker’s.</p>
<p>And Mignon helped!</p>
<p>Helped? Why, she was the whole programme—with
another clear, ringing, happy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span>
song that came straight from her heart; her
head thrown back, her face to the sun as if
she would drink in all its warmth and cheer,
the coffee-roaster keeping time to the melody.</p>
<p>And it was not many minutes before each
private box and orchestra chair in and about
the court-yard, as well as the top galleries, were
filled with spectators ready for the rise of the
curtain. Herbert leaned out over his bedroom
sill, one story up; Brierley from the balcony,
towel in hand, craned his head in attention;
Louis left his seat in the kiosk, where he was
at work on a morning sketch of the court,
and I abandoned my chair at one of the tables:
all listened and all watched for what was going
to happen. For happen something certainly
must, with our pretty Mignon singing more
merrily than ever.</p>
<p>I, being nearest to the footlights, beckoned
to old Leà carrying the coffee, and pointed inquiringly
to the blissful girl.</p>
<p>“What’s the meaning of all this, Leà?—what
has happened? Your Mignon seemed joyous
enough the other morning when she came from
market, but now she is beside herself.”</p>
<p>The old woman lowered her voice, and, with
a shake of her white cap, answered:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span></p>
<p>“Don’t ask me any questions; I am too
happy to tell you any lies and I won’t tell you
the truth. Ah!—see how cold monsieur’s milk
is—let me run to Pierre for another”—and she
was off; her flying sabots, like the upturned
feet of a duck chased to cover, kicking away
behind her short skirts.</p>
<p>Lemois, too, had heard the song and, picking
up Coco, strolled toward me his fingers caressing
the bird, his uneasy glance directed
toward the happy girl as he walked, wondering,
like the rest of us, at the change in her
manner. To watch them together as I have
done these many times, the old man smoothing
its plumage and Coco rubbing his black beak
tenderly against his master’s cheek, is to get a
deeper insight into our landlord’s character and
the subtle sympathy which binds the two.</p>
<p>The bird once settled comfortably on his
wrist, Lemois looked my way.</p>
<p>“You should get him a mate, monsieur,” I
called to him in answer to his glance, throwing
this out as a general drag-net.</p>
<p>The old man shifted the bird to his shoulder,
stopped, and looked down at me.</p>
<p>“He is better without one. Half the trouble
in the world comes from wanting mates; the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span>
other half comes from not knowing that this
is true. My good Coco is not so stupid”—and
he reached up and stroked the bird’s crest
and neck. “All day long he ponders over what
is going on down below him. And just think,
monsieur, what <i>does</i> go on down below him in
the season! The wrong man and the wrong
woman most of the time, and the pressure of
the small foot under the table, and the little
note slipped under the napkin. Ah!—they
don’t humbug Coco! He laughs all day to
himself—and I laugh too. There is nothing,
if you think about it, so comical as life. It is
really a Punch-and-Judy show, with one doll
whacking away at the other—‘Now, will you
be good!—Now, will you be good!’—and they
are never good. No—no—never a mate for
my Coco—never a mate for anybody if I can
help it.”</p>
<p>“Would you have given the same advice
thirty years ago to madame la marquise?”
Madame was the one and only subject Lemois
ever seemed to approach with any degree of
hesitancy. My objective point was, of course,
Mignon; but I had opened madame’s gate,
hoping for a short cut.</p>
<p>“Ah!—madame is quite different,” he re<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span>plied
with sudden gravity. “All the rules are
broken in the case of a woman of fashion
and of rank and of very great wealth. These
people do not live for themselves—they are
part of the State. But I will tell you one
thing, Monsieur High-Muck, though you may
not believe it, and that is that Madame la
Marquise de la Caux was never so contented as
she is at the present moment. She is free now
to do as she pleases. Did you hear what Monsieur
Le Blanc said last night about the way
the work is being pressed? The old marquis
would have been a year deciding on a plan;
madame will have that villa on its legs and
as good as new in a month. You know, of
course, that she is coming down this afternoon?”</p>
<p>I knew nothing of the kind, and told him so.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 640px;">
<img src="images/i_alt_fp308.jpg" width="640" height="453" alt="“Just think, monsieur, what does go on below Coco in the season”" title="" />
<span class="caption">“Just think, monsieur, what <i>does</i> go on below Coco in the season”</span>
</div>
<p>“Yes; she sent me word last night by a mysterious
messenger, who left the note and disappeared
before I could see him—Leà brought
it to me. You see, madame is most anxious
about her flowers for next year, and this afternoon
I am going with her to a nursery and to
a great garden overlooking the market-place to
help her pick them out.” Here he caressed his
pet again. “No, Monsieur Coco, you will not
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span>
be allowed down here in the court where your
pretty white feathers and your unblemished
morals might be tarnished by the dreadful people
all about. You shall go up on your perch;
it is much better”—and with a deprecatory
wave of his hand he strolled up the court-yard,
Coco still nibbling his cheek with his horny
black beak, the old man crooning a little love
song as he walked.</p>
<p>I rose from my chair and began bawling out
the good news of madame’s expected visit to
the occupants of the several windows, the
effect being almost as startling as had been
Mignon’s song.</p>
<p>Instantly plans were cried down at me for
her entertainment. Of course she must stay
to dinner, our last one for the season! This
was carried with a whoop. There must be, too,
some kind of a special ceremony when the invitation
was delivered. We must greet her at
the door—all of us drawn up in a row, with
Herbert stepping out of the ranks, saluting like
a drum-major, and requesting the “distinguished
honor”—and the rest of it: that, too,
was carried unanimously. Whatever her gardening
costume, it would make no difference,
and no excuse on this score would receive a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span>
moment’s consideration. Madame even in a
fisherman’s tarpaulins would be welcome—provided
only that she was really inside of
them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With the whirl of her motor into the court-yard
at dusk, and the breathing of its last
wheeze in front of the Marmouset, the plump
little woman sprang from her car muffled to
her dimpled chin in a long waterproof, her two
brown, squirrel eyes laughing behind her goggles.
Instantly the importuning began, everybody
crowding about her.</p>
<p>Up went her hands.</p>
<p>“No—please don’t say a word and, whatever
you do, don’t invite me to stay to dinner,
because I’m not going to; and that is my
last word, and nothing will change my mind.
Oh!—it is too banal—and you’ve spoiled everything.
I didn’t think I’d see anybody. Why
are you not all in your rooms? Oh!—I am
ready to cry with it all!”</p>
<p>“But we can’t think of your leaving us,” I
begged, wondering what had disturbed her, but
determined she should not go until we had
found out. “Pierre has been at work all the
morning and we—<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span>—”</p>
<p>“No—it is I who have been working all the
morning, digging in my garden, getting ready
for the winter, and I am tired out, and so I
will go back to my little bed in my dear garage
and have my dinner alone.”</p>
<p>Here Herbert broke loose. “But, madame,
you <i>must</i> dine with us; we have been counting
on it.” He had set his heart on another evening
with the extraordinary woman and did not
mean to be disappointed.</p>
<p>“But, my dear Monsieur Herbert, you see,
I——”</p>
<p>“And you really mean that you won’t stay?”
groaned Louis, his face expressive of the deepest
despair.</p>
<p>“Stop!—stop!—I tell you, and hear me
through. Oh!—you dreadful men! Just see
what you have done: I had such a pretty little
plan of my own—I’ve been thinking of it for
days. I said to myself this morning: I’ll go
to the Inn after I have finished with Lemois—about
six o’clock—when it is getting dark—quite
too dark for a lady to be even poking
about alone. They will all be out walking or
dressing for dinner, and I’ll slip into the darling
Marmouset, just to warm myself a little, if
there should be a fire, and then they will<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span>
come in and find me and be so surprised, and
before any one of them can say a word I will
shout out that I have come to dinner! And
now you’ve ruined everything, and I must say,
‘Thank you, kind gentlemen’—like any other
poor parishioner—and eat my bowl of bread
and milk in the corner. Was there ever <i>anything</i>
so banal?—Oh!—I’m heartbroken over it
all. No; don’t say another word—please, papa,
I’ll be a good girl. So help me off with my
wraps, dear Monsieur Louis. No; wait until
I get inside—you see, I’ve been gardening all
day, and when one does gardening——”</p>
<p>The two were inside the Marmouset now,
the others following, the laughter increasing as
Louis led her to the hearth, where a fire had
just been kindled. There he proceeded to
unbutton her fur-lined motor-cloak—the laughter
changing to shouts of delight when freeing
herself from its folds. She stood before us
a veritable Lebrun portrait, in a short black-velvet
gown with wide fichu of Venetian lace
rolled back from her plump shoulders, her throat
circled with a string of tiny jewels from which
drooped a pear-shaped pearl big as a pecan-nut
and worth a king’s ransom.</p>
<p>“There!” she cried, her brown eyes dancing,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span>
her face aglow with her whirl through the crisp
air. “Am I not too lovely, and is not my gardening
costume perfect? You see, I am always
careful to do my digging in black velvet and
lace,” and a low gurgling sound like the cooing
of doves followed by a burst of uncontrollable
laughter filled the room.</p>
<p>If on her other visits she had captured us all
by the charm of her personality, she drew the
bond the tighter now. Then she had been the
thorough woman of the world, adapting herself
with infinite tact to new surroundings, contributing
her share to the general merriment—one
of us, so to speak; to-night she was the
elder sister. She talked much to Herbert about
his new statue and what he expected to make
of it. He must not, she urged, concern himself
alone with artistic values or the honors
they would bring. He had gone beyond all
these; his was a higher mission—one to bring
the human side of the African savage to light
and so help to overturn the prejudice of centuries,
and nothing must swerve him from what
she considered his lofty purpose—and there
must be no weak repetition of his theme.
Each new note he sounded must be stronger
than the last.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span></p>
<p>She displayed the same fine insight when,
dinner over, she talked to Louis of his out-door
work—especially the whirl and slide of his
water.</p>
<p>“You will forgive a woman, Monsieur Louis,
who is old enough to be your great-grandmother,
when she tells you that, fine as your
pictures are—and I know of no painter of our
time who paints water as well—there are some
things in the out of doors which I am sure you
will yet put into your canvases. I am a fisherman
myself, and have thrashed many of
the brooks you have painted, and there is nothing
I love so much as to peer down into the
holes where the little fellows live—way down
among the pebbles and the brown moss and
green of the water-plants. Can’t we get this—or
do I expect the impossible? But if it could
be done—if the bottom as well as the surface
of the water could be given—would we not uncover
a fresh hiding-place of nature, and would
not you—you, Monsieur Louis—be doing the
world that much greater service?—the pleasure
being more ours than yours—your reward being
the giving of that pleasure to us. I hope you
will all forgive me, but it has been such an inspiration
to meet you all. I get so smothered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span>
by the commonplace that sometimes I gasp for
breath, and then I find some oasis like this and
I open wide my soul and drink my fill.</p>
<p>“But enough of all this. Let us have something
more amusing. Monsieur Brierley, won’t
you go to the spinet and—” Here she sprang
from her chair. “Oh, I forgot all about it,
and I put it in my pocket on purpose. Please
some one look in my cloak for a roll of music;
none of you I know have heard it before. It
is an old song of Provence that will revive for
you all your memories of the place. Thank you,
Monsieur Brierley, and now lift the lid and I
will sing it for you.” And then there poured
from her lips a voice so full and rich, with
notes so liquid and sympathetic, that we stood
around her in wonder doubting our ears.</p>
<p>Never had we found her so charming nor so
bewitching, nor so full of enchanting surprises.</p>
<p>So uncontrollable were her spirits, always
rising to higher flights, that I began at last to
suspect that something outside of the inspiration
of our ready response to her every play of
fancy and wit was accountable for her bewildering
mood.</p>
<p>The solution came when the coffee was served
and fresh candles lighted and Leà and Mignon,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span>
with a curtsy to the table and a gentle, furtive
good-night to madame, had left the room.
Then, quite as if their departure had started
another train of thought, she turned and faced
our landlord.</p>
<p>“What a dear old woman is Leà, Lemois,”
she began in casual tones, “and what good care
she takes of that pretty child; she is mother
and sister and guardian to her. But she cannot
be everything. There is always some other
yearning in a young girl’s heart which no woman
can satisfy. You know that as well as I do.
And this is why you are going to give Mignon
to young Gaston. Is it not true?” she added
in dissembling tones.</p>
<p>Lemois moved uneasily in his chair. The
question had come so unexpectedly, and was
so direct, that for a moment he lost his poise.
His own attitude, he supposed, had been made
quite clear the night of the rescue, when he had
denounced Gaston and forbidden Mignon to see
him. Yet his manner was grave enough as he
answered:</p>
<p>“Madame has so many things to occupy her
mind, and so many people to help, why should
she trouble herself with those of my maid?
Mignon is very happy here, and has everything<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span>
she wants, and she will continue to have them
as long as she is alive.”</p>
<p>“Then I see it is not true, and that you intend
breaking her heart; and now will you
please tell us why?” She looked at him and
waited. There was a new ring—one of command—in
her voice. I understood now as I
listened why it took so short a time for her to
rebuild the villa.</p>
<p>“Is madame the girl’s guardian that she
wishes to know?” asked Lemois. The words
came with infinite courtesy, madame being the
only woman of whom he stood in awe, but
there was an undertone of opposition which,
if aggravated, would, I felt sure, end in the old
man’s abrupt departure from the room.</p>
<p>I tried to relieve the situation by saying how
happy not only Mignon but any one of us
would be with so brilliant an advocate as madame
pleading for our happiness, but she waved
me aside with:</p>
<p>“No—please don’t. I want dear Lemois to
answer. It was one of my reasons for coming
to-night, and he must tell me. He is so kind
and considerate, and he is always so sorry for
anything that suffers. He loves flowers and
birds and animals, and music and pictures and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span>
all beautiful things, and yet he is worse than
one of the cannibals that Monsieur Herbert tells
us about. They eat their young girls and have
done with them—Lemois kills his by slow torture—and
so I ask you again, dear Lemois—<i>why</i>?”</p>
<p>Everybody sat up straight. How would Lemois
take it? His fingers began to work, and
the corners of his mouth straightened. A sudden
flush crossed his habitually pale face. We
were sure now of an outbreak: what would
happen then none of us dared think.</p>
<p>“Madame la marquise,” he began slowly—too
slowly for anything but ill-suppressed feeling—“there
is no one that I know for whom
I have a higher respect; you must yourself
have seen that in the many years I have known
you. You are a very good and a very noble
woman; all your life people have loved you—they
still love you. It is one of your many
gifts—one you should be thankful for. Some
of us do not win this affection. You are, if you
will permit me to say it, never lonely nor alone,
except by your own choosing. Some of us cannot
claim that—I for one. Do you not now
understand?” He was still boiling inside, but
the patience of the trained landlord and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span>
innate breeding of the man had triumphed.
And then, again, it would be a rash Frenchman
of his class who would defy a woman of her
exalted rank.</p>
<p>Over her face crept a pleased look—as if she
held some trump card up her sleeve—and one
of her cooing, bubbling laughs escaped her lips.</p>
<p>“You are not telling me the truth, you dear
Lemois. I am not in love with Gaston, the fisherman,
nor are you with our pretty Mignon.
Neither you nor I have anything to do with
it. Here are two young people whose happiness
is trembling in the balance. You hold
the scales—that is, you claim to, although the
girl is neither your child nor your ward and
could marry without your consent, and would
if she did not love you for yourself and for all
you have done for her. Answer me now—do
you object because Gaston is a fisherman?”</p>
<p>Whether her knowledge of Lemois’ legal
rights—and she had stated them correctly—softened
him, or whether he saw a loophole
for himself, was not apparent, but the answer
came with a certain surrender.</p>
<p>“Yes. It is a dangerous life. You have only
to live here, as I have done, to count the women
who bid their men good-by and watch in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span>
gray dawn for the boat that never comes back—Mignon’s
elder brothers in one of them. I
do not want her to go through that agony—she
is young yet—some one else will come. The
first love is not always the last—except in the
case of madame”—and he smiled in strange
fashion. The bomb was still within reach of
his hand, but the fuse had gone out.</p>
<p>“Then it isn’t Gaston himself?” she demanded
with unflinching gaze.</p>
<p>“No—he is an honest lad; good to his
mother; industrious—a brave fellow. He has,
too, so I hear, a place in the market—one of
the stalls—so he is getting on, and will soon be
one of our best citizens.” He would talk all
night about Gaston, and pleasantly, if she
wished.</p>
<p>“Well, if he were a notary? Would that be
different?” Her soft brown eyes were hardly
visible between their lids, but they were burning
with an intense light.</p>
<p>“Yes, it might be.” Same air of nonchalance—anything
to please the delightful woman.</p>
<p>“Or a chemist?”—just a slit between the
lids now, with little flashes along the edges.</p>
<p>“Or a chemist,” intoned Lemois.</p>
<p>“Or a head gardener, perhaps?” Both eyes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span>
tight shut under the fluffy gray hair, an intense
expression on her face.</p>
<p>“Why not say a minister of state, madame?”
laughed Lemois.</p>
<p>“No—no—don’t you dare run away like
that. Stand to your guns, monsieur. If he
were a head gardener, then what?”</p>
<p>Lemois rose from his chair, laid his hand on
his shirt-front, and bowed impressively. He
was evidently determined to humor her passing
whim.</p>
<p>“If he were a head gardener I would not
have the slightest objection, madame.”</p>
<p>She sprang to her feet and began clapping
her plump hands, her laughter filling the room.</p>
<p>“Oh!—I am so happy! You heard what he
said—all of you. You, Monsieur Herbert—and
you—and you”—pointing to each member of
our group. “If he were a head gardener! Oh,
was there ever such luck! And do you listen
too, you magnificent Lemois! Gaston is a
head gardener; has been a head gardener for
days; every one of the plants you bought for
me to-day he will put into the ground with
his own hands. His mother will have the stall
I bought in the fish market, and he and Mignon
are to live in the new garage, and he is to have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span>
charge of the villa grounds, and she is to manage
the dairy and the linen and look after the
chickens and the ducks. And the wedding is
to take place just as soon as you give your consent;
and if you don’t consent, it will take
place anyway, for I am to be godmother and
she is to have a dot and all the furniture they
want out of what was saved from my house,
and that’s all there is to it—except that both
of them know all about it, for I sent Gaston
down here last night with a note for you,
and he told Mignon, and it’s all settled—now
what do you say?”</p>
<p>A shout greeted her last words, and the
whole room broke spontaneously into a clapping
of hands, Louis, as was his invariable custom
whenever excuse offered, on his feet, glass
in hand, proposing the health of that most
adorable of all women of her own or any other
time, past, present, or future—at which the
dear, penguin-shaped lady in black velvet and
lace raised her dainty white palms in holy horror,
protesting that it was Monsieur Lemois
whose health must be drunk, as without him
nothing could have been done, the clear tones
of her voice rising like a bird’s song above the
others as she sprang forward, grasped Lemois<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span>’
hand and lifted him to his feet, the whole
room once more applauding.</p>
<p>Yes, it was a great moment! Mignon’s happiness
was very dear to us, but that which captured
us completely was the daring and cleverness
of the little woman who had worked for it,
and who was so joyous over her success and so
childishly enthusiastic at the outcome.</p>
<p>Lemois, unable to stem the flood of rejoicing,
seemed to have surrendered and given up the
fight, complimenting the marquise upon her
diplomacy, and the way in which she had entirely
outgeneralled an old fellow who was not
up to the wiles of the world. “Such a mean
advantage, madame, to take of a poor old man,”
he continued, bowing low, a curious, unreadable
expression crossing his face. “I am, as you
know, but clay in your hands, as are all the
others who are honored by your acquaintance.
But now that I am tied to your chariot wheels,
I must of course take part in your triumphal
procession; so permit me to make a few suggestions.”</p>
<p>The marquise laughed gently, but with a puzzled
look in her eyes. She was not sure what he
was driving at, but she did not interrupt him.</p>
<p>“We will have an old-time wedding,” he con<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span>tinued
gayly, with a comprehensive wave of his
hand as if he were arranging the stage setting—“something
quite in keeping with the general
sentiment; for certain it is that not since the
days when fair ladies let themselves down from
castle walls into the arms of their plumed
knights, only to dash away into space on milk-white
steeds, will there be anything quite so
romantic as this child-wedding!”</p>
<p>“And so you mean to have a rope ladder, do
you, and let my——”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, madame la marquise,” he interrupted—“nothing
so ordinary! We”—here he
began rubbing his hands together quite as if he
was ordering a dinner for an epicure—“we will
have a revival of all the old customs just as
they were in this very place. Our bride will
join her lord in a cabriolet, and our groom will
come on horseback—all fishermen ride, you
know—and so will the other fishermen and
maids—each gallant with a fair lady seated
behind him on the crupper, her arms about his
waist. Then we will have trumpeters and a
garter man——”</p>
<p>“A what!” She was still at sea as to his
meaning, although she had not missed the tone
of irony in his voice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span></p>
<p>“A man, madame, whose duty is to secure
one of the bride’s garters. Oh, you need not
start—that is quite simply arranged. The old-time
brides always carried an extra pair to save
themselves embarrassment. The one for the
garter-man will be trimmed with ribbons which
he will cut off and distribute to the other
would-be brides, who will keep them in their
prayer-books.”</p>
<p>“Leà, for instance,” chimed in Louis, winking
at Herbert.</p>
<p>“Leà, for instance, my dear Monsieur Louis.
I know of no better mate for a man—and it is
a pity you are too young.”</p>
<p>The laugh was on Louis this time, but the
old man kept straight on, his subtle irony
growing more pointed as he continued: “And
then, madame, when it is all over and the couple
retire for the night—and of course we will give
them the best room in our house, they being
most distinguished personages—none other than
Monsieur Gaston Duprè, Lord of the Lobster
Pot, Duke of Buezval, and Grand Marshal of
the Deep Sea, and Mademoiselle Mignon, Princess
of——”</p>
<p>The marquise drew herself up to her full
height. “Stop your nonsense, Lemois. I won’t<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span>
let you say another word; you shan’t ridicule
my young people. Stop it, I say!”</p>
<p>“Oh, but wait, madame—please hear me out—I
have not finished. These pewter dishes
must also come into service”—and he caught
up the two bowls from the tops of the great
andirons behind him—“these we will fill with
spices steeped in mulled wine, which, as I tried
to say, we will send to their Royal Highnesses’
bedroom—after they are tucked away in——”</p>
<p>“No!—no!—we will do nothing of the kind;
everything shall be just the other way. There
will be no horses, no cabriolet, no trumpeters,
no garters except the ones the dear child will
wear, and no mulled wine. We will all go on
foot, and the only music will be the organ in
the old church, and the breakfast will be here,
in our beloved Marmouset, and the punch will
be mixed by Monsieur Brierley in the Ming
bowl I brought, and Monsieur Louis will serve
it, and then they will both go to their own
home and sleep in their own bed. So there!
Not another word, for it is all settled and finished”—and
one of her rippling, joyous laughs—a
whole dove-cote mingled with any number
of silver bells—quivered through the room.</p>
<p>Lemois joined in the merriment, shrugging<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span>
his inscrutable shoulders, repeating that he, of
course, was only a captive, and must therefore
do as he was bid, a situation which, he added
with another low bow, had its good side since
so charming a woman as madame held his chain.</p>
<p>And yet despite his gayety there was under it
all a certain reserve which, although lost on the
others, convinced me that the old man had not,
by any means, made up his mind as to what
he would do. While Mignon was not his legal
ward, his care of her all these years must count
for something. Madame, of course, was a difficult
person to make war upon once she had
set her heart on a thing—and she certainly had
on this marriage, amazing as it was to him—and
yet there was still the girl’s future to be
considered, and with it his own. All this was
in his eyes as I watched him resuming his place
by the fire after some of the excitement had
begun to quiet down.</p>
<p>But none of this—even if she, too, had studied
him as I had—would have made any impression
on Mignon’s champion. She was accustomed
to being obeyed—the gang of mechanics
who had under her directions performed two
days’ work in one had found that out. And
then, again, her whole purpose in life was to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span>
befriend especially those girls who, having no
one to stand by them, become broken down by
opposition and so marry where their hearts seldom
lead. How many had she taken under her
wing—how many more would she protect as
long as she lived!</p>
<p>Before she bade us good-night all the wedding
details were sketched out, our landlord
listening and nodding his head whenever appeal
was made to him, but committing himself by
no further speech. The ceremony, she declared
gayly—and it must be the most beautiful and
brilliant of ceremonies—would take place in
the old twelfth-century church, at the end of
the street, from which the great knights of old
had sallied forth and where a new knight, one
Monsieur Gaston, would follow in their footsteps—not
for war, but for love—a much better
career—this, with an additional toss of her
head at the silent Lemois. There would be
flowers and perhaps music—she would see about
that—but no trumpeters—and again she looked
at Lemois—and everybody from Buezval would
be invited—all the fishermen, of course, and
their white-capped mothers and sisters and
aunts, and cousins for that matter—everybody
who would come; and Pierre and her own chef<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span>
from Rouen would prepare the wedding breakfast
if dear Lemois would consent—and if he
didn’t consent, it would be cooked anyhow, and
brought in ready to be eaten—and in this very
room with every one of us present.</p>
<p>“And now, Monsieur Louis, please get me
my cloak, and will one of you be good enough
to tell my chauffeur I am ready?—and one thing
more, and this I insist on: please don’t any of
you move—and, whatever you do, don’t bid me
good-by. I want to carry away with me just
the picture I am looking at: Monsieur Herbert
there in his chair between the two live
heads—yes, I believe it now—and Messieurs
Louis and Brierley and Le Blanc, and our
delightful host, and dear tantalizing Lemois,
by the hearth—and the queer figures looking
down at us through the smoke of our cigarettes—and
the glow of the candles, and the
light of the lovely fire to which you have welcomed
me. Au revoir, messieurs—you have
made me over new and I am very happy, and
I thank you all from the bottom of my heart!”</p>
<p>And she was gone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When the door was shut behind her, Herbert
strolled to the fire and stood with his face to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span>
the flickering blaze. We all remained standing,
paying unconscious homage to her memory.
For some seconds no one spoke. Then, turning
and facing the group, Herbert said, half
aloud, as if communing with himself:</p>
<p>“A real woman—human and big, half a dozen
such would revolutionize France. And she
knows—that is the best part of it”—and his
voice grew stronger—“she <i>knows</i>! You may
think you’ve reached the bottom of things—thought
them all out, convinced you are right,
even steer your course by your deductions—and
here comes along a woman who lifts a lid
uncovering a well in your soul you never
dreamed of, and your conclusions go sky-high.
And she does it so cleverly, and she is so sane
about it all. If she were where I could get at
her now and then I’d do something worth
while. I’ve made up my mind to one thing,
anyhow—I’m going to pull to pieces the thing
I set up before I came down here and start
something new. I’ve got another idea in my
head—something a little more human.”</p>
<p>“Isn’t ‘The Savage’ human, Herbert?” I
asked, filling his glass as I spoke, to give him
time for reply.</p>
<p>“No; it’s only African—one phase of a race.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span>”</p>
<p>“How about your ‘group,’ ‘They Have
Eyes and They See Not’?” asked Brierley, who
had drawn up a chair and stood leaning over
its back, gazing into the fire.</p>
<p>“A little better, but not much. The Great
Art is along other lines—bigger, higher, stronger—more
universal lines, one that has nothing
racial about it, one that expresses the human
heart no matter what the period or nationality.
The ‘Prodigal Son’ is a drama which has been
understood and is still understood by the whole
earth irrespective of creed or locality. It appeals
to the savage and the savant alike and
always will to the end of time. So with the
Milo. She is Greek, English, or Slav at your
option, but she will live forever because she
expresses the divine essence of maternity which
is eternal. It is this, and only this, which
compels. I have had glimmerings of it all my
life. Madame cleared out the cobwebs for me
in a flash. A great woman—real human.”</p>
<p>Then noticing that no one had either interrupted
his outburst or moved his position, he
glanced around the group and, as if in doubt as
to the way his outburst had been received,
said simply:</p>
<p>“Well, speak up; am I right or wrong?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span>
You don’t seem to see it as I do. How did
she appeal to you, Brierley?”</p>
<p>The young fellow stepped in front of his
chair and dropped into its depths.</p>
<p>“You are dead right, Herbert; you are, anyhow,
about the Milo. I never go into her
presence without lifting my hat, and I have
kept it up for years. But you don’t do yourself
justice, old man. Some of your things will
live as long as they hold together. However”—and
he laughed knowingly—“that’s for
posterity to settle. How does madame appeal
to me? you ask. Well, being a many-sided
woman—no frills, no coquetry, nor sham—she
appeals to me more as a comrade than in any
other way—just plain comrade. Half the
women one meets of her age and class have
something of themselves to conceal, giving you
a side which they are not, or trying to give it
for you to read at first sight. She gave us her
worst side first—or what we thought was her
worst side—and her best last.”</p>
<p>“And you, Le Blanc?” resumed Herbert.
“She’s your countrywoman; let’s have it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I don’t know, Herbert. I, of course,
have heard of her for years, and she was therefore
not so much of a surprise to me as she was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span>
to you all. If, however, you want me to get
down to something fundamental, I’ll tell you
that she confirms a theory I have always had
that—But I won’t go into that. It’s our
last night together and we——”</p>
<p>“No; go on. This interests me enormously,
especially her personality. We’ll have our
nightcap later on.”</p>
<p>“Well, all right,” and he squared himself toward
Herbert. “She confirms, as I said, a
theory of mine—one I have always had, that
the Great Art—that for which the world is waiting—is
not so much the creation of statues,
if you will pardon me, as the creation of a better
understanding of women by men. Not of their
personalities, but of their impersonalities. Most
women are afraid to let themselves go, not knowing
how we will take them, and because of this
fear we lose the best part of a woman’s nature.
She dares not do a great many generous things—sane,
kindly, human things—because she is
in dread of being misunderstood. She is even
afraid to love some of us as intensely as she
would. Madame dares everything and could
never be misunderstood. All doubts of her
were swept out in her opening sentence the
night she arrived. She ought to found a school<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span>
and teach women to be themselves, then we’d
all be that much happier.”</p>
<p>“And now, Louis,” persisted Herbert, “come,
we’re waiting. No shirking, and no nonsense.
Just the plain truth. How does she appeal to
you?”</p>
<p>“As a dead game sport, Herbert, and the
best ever! Every man on his feet and I’ll
give you a toast that is as short and sweet as
her adorable self.</p>
<p>“Here’s to our friend, Madame la Marquise
de la Caux—THE WOMAN.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV
<br /><br />
APPLE-BLOSSOMS AND WHITE MUSLIN</h2>
<p>Coco, the snow-white cockatoo, on his perch
high up in the roof dormer overlooking the
court, is having the time of his life. To see
and hear the better, he wobbles back and forth
to the end of his wooden peg, steadying himself
by his black beak, and then, straightening up,
unfurls his yellow celery top of a crest and, with
a quick toss of his head, shrieks out his delight.</p>
<p>He wants to know what it is all about, and
I don’t blame him. No such hurrying and
scurrying has been seen in the court-yard below
since the morning the players came down from
Paris and turned the sixteenth-century quadrangle
into a stage-setting for an old-time comedy:
new gravel is being raked and sifted over
the open space; men on step-ladders are trimming
up the vines and setting out plants on
top of the kiosks; others are giving last touches
to the tulip-beds and the fresh sod along the
borders, while two women are scrubbing the
chairs and tables under the arbors.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span></p>
<p>As for the Inn’s inhabitants, everybody seems
to have lost their wits: Pierre has gone entirely
mad. When butter, or eggs, or milk, or
a pint of sherry—or something he needs, or
thinks he needs—is wanted, he does not wait
until his under-chef can bring it from the storage-cave
where they are kept—he rushes out
himself, grabbing up a basket, or pitcher, or
cup as he goes, and comes back on the double-quick
to begin again his stirring, chopping, and
basting—the roasting-spit turning merrily all
the while.</p>
<p>Leà is even more restless. Her activities,
however, are confined to clattering along the
upstairs corridors, her arms full of freshly
ironed clothes—skirts and things—and to the
banging of chamber doors—one especially, behind
which sits an old fishwoman, yellow as a
dried mackerel and as stiff, helping a young
girl dress.</p>
<p>The only one who seems to have kept his
head is Lemois. His nervousness is none the
less in evidence, but he gets rid of his pent-up
steam in a different way. He lets the
others hustle, while he stands still just inside
the gate giving orders to hurrying market boys
with baskets of fish; signing receipts for cases<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span>
filled with poultry and early vegetables just in
by the morning train from Caen; or firing instructions
to his gardeners and workmen—self-contained
as a ball governor on a horizontal
engine and seemingly as inert, yet an index
of both pressure and speed.</p>
<p>All this time Coco keeps up his hullabaloo,
nobody paying the slightest attention. Suddenly
there comes an answering cry and the
cockatoo snaps his beak tight with a click and
listens intently, his head on one side. It is
the shriek of a siren—a long-drawn, agonizing
wail that strikes the bird dumb with envy.
Nearer it comes—nearer—now at the turn
of the street; now just outside the gate, and
in whirls Herbert’s motor, the painter beside
him.</p>
<p>“Ah!—Lemois—the top of the morning to
you and yours!” Louis’ stentorian voice rings
out. “Never saw a better one come out of the
skies. Out with you, Herbert. Are we the first
to arrive? Here, give me that basket of grapes
and box of bonbons. A magnificent run, Lemois.
Left Paris at five o’clock, while the milk
was going its rounds; spun through Lisieux
before they were wide awake; struck the coast,
and since then nothing but apple-bloom—one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span>
great pink-and-white bedquilt up hill and
down dale. Glorious! I want a whole tree, full
of blossoms, remember—just as I wrote you—none
of your mean little chopped-off twigs, but
a cart-load of branches. Let me have that old
apple-tree out in the lot in front—the apples
were never any good, and Mignon may as well
have the blossoms as those thieving boys. Did
you send word to the school children? Yes, of
course you did. Oh, I tell you, Herbert, we
are going to have a bully time—Paul and Virginia
are not in it. Hello! Leà, you up there,
you blessed old carved root of a virgin!—where’s
the adorable Mignon?”</p>
<p>“Good-morning, Monsieur Louis—and you
too, Monsieur Herbert,” came her voice in reply
from the rail of the gallery above our heads.
“Mignon is inside,” and she pointed to the
closed door behind her. “Gaston’s mother
is helping her. Madame la marquise will be
here any minute, and so will Monsieur Le Blanc
and everybody from Buezval. Oh!—you should
see my child! You wouldn’t know her in the
pretty clothes madame has sent.”</p>
<p>And now while Herbert is digging out from
under the motor seats various packages tied
with white ribbons, including the drawing he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span>
made of Leà, now richly framed, and which
with the aid of the old woman he carried up
the crooked stairway and deposited at a certain
door, I will tell you what all this excitement
is about.</p>
<p>Madame la marquise has had her way. Not
an instantaneous and complete victory. There
had been parleyings, of course, after that eventful
night some months before when she had
outgeneralled and then defied Lemois, and concessions
had been made, both sides yielding a
little; but before we separated for our homes
we felt sure that the old man either had or
would surrender.</p>
<p>“Well, let it be as you will,” he had said
with a sigh; “but not now. In the spring
when the apple-blossoms are in bloom—and
then perhaps you may come back.”</p>
<p>To me, however, who had stayed on for a
few days, he had, late one afternoon, poured
out his whole heart. The twilight had begun
to settle in the Marmouset, and the last glow
of the western sky creeping through the stained-glass
windows was falling upon the old Spanish
leather and gold crowned saints and figures,
warming them into rich harmonies, when I had
stolen inside the wonderful room to take one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span>
of my last looks—an old habit of mine in a
place I love. There I found him hunched up
in Herbert’s chair at one corner of the fireplace,
his head on his hand.</p>
<p>“Well, you have won your fight,” he had
said in a low, measured voice, speaking into
the bare chimney, his fingers still supporting his
forehead. “You will take my child from me
and leave me alone.”</p>
<p>“But she will be much happier,” I now
ventured.</p>
<p>“Perhaps so—I cannot tell. I have seen
many a bright sunrise end in a storm. But
none of you have understood me. You thought
it was money, and what the man could bring
her, and that I objected because the boy was
poor and a fisherman. What am I but a man
of the people?—what is she but a peasant?—and
her mother and grandmother before her.
Who are we that we should try to rise above
our station, making ourselves a laughing-stock?
Had he been a land-owner with a thousand
head of cattle it would have been the same
with me. Nothing will be as it was any more.
I am an old man and she is all the child I have.
When she was eight years old she would come
into this very room and nestle close in my lap,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span>
and I would talk to her by the hour—she and
I alone, the fire lighting up the dark. And so
it was when she grew up. It is only of late
that she has shut herself away from me. I deserve
it maybe—she must marry somebody,
and I would not have it otherwise—but why
must it be now? I do not blame madame la
marquise. She is an enthusiastic woman whose
heart often runs away with her head; but she
is honest and sincere. She had only the child’s
happiness in view, and she will be a mother to
them both as long as she lives, as she is to
many others I know.”</p>
<p>He had paused for a moment, I standing still
beside him, and had then gone on, the words
coming slowly, like the dropping of water:</p>
<p>“You remember Monsieur Herbert’s story,
do you not, of the old mould-maker who lost
his daughter, and who died in his chair, his
clay masks grinning down at him from the
skylight above? Well, I am he. Just as they
grinned at the old mould-maker, his daughter
gone, so in my loneliness will my figures grin at
me.”</p>
<p>This had been in late October.</p>
<p>What the dull winter had been to him I
never knew, but he had not gone back on his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span>
word, and now that the apple-blossoms were
in bloom, and the orchards a blaze of glory, the
wedding day, just as he had promised, had arrived!</p>
<p>No wonder, then, Coco is screaming at the
top of his voice; no wonder the court-yard is
swept by a whirlwind of flying feet; no wonder
the upstairs chamber door, with Leà as guardian
angel, is opened and shut every few minutes,
hiding the girl behind it; and no wonder
that Herbert’s impatient car, every spoke in its
wheels trembling with excitement, is puffing
with eagerness to make the run to the old
apple-tree in the outer lot, and so on to the
church, loaded to its extra tires with a carpet
of blossoms for Mignon’s pretty feet.</p>
<p>No wonder, either, that before Herbert’s car,
with Louis in charge of the blossom raid, had
cleared the back gate, there had puffed in
another motor—two this time—Le Blanc in
one, with his friend, The Architect, beside him,
the seats packed full of children, their faces
scrubbed to a phenomenal cleanliness, their
hair skewered with gay ribbons, all their best
clothes on their backs; madame la marquise
and Marc in the other, an old weather-beaten
fisherman—an uncle of Gaston’s, too lame to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span>
walk—beside her, and bundled up on the back
seat two lean withered fishwomen in black
bombazine and close-fitting white caps—a
cousin and an aunt of the groom—the first
time any one of the three had ever stepped
foot in a car.</p>
<p>As madame and her strange crew entered the
court, I turned instinctively to Lemois, wondering
how he would deport himself when the
crucial moment arrived—and a car-load of relatives
certainly seemed to express that fatality—but
he was equal to the occasion.</p>
<p>“Ah, madame!” he said in his courtliest
manner, his hand over his heart, “who else in
the wide world would have thought of so kindly
an act? These poor people will bless you to
their dying day. And it is delightful to see you
again, Monsieur Marc. You have, I know,
come to help madame in her good works. As
I have so often told her, she is——”</p>
<p>“And why should I not give them pleasure,
you dear Lemois? See how happy they are.
And this is not half of them! No, don’t get out,
mère Francine—you are all to keep on to the
church and get into your seats before the village
people crowd it full; and you, Auguste”—this
to her chauffeur—“are to go back to Buez<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span>val
for the others—they are all waiting.” Here
she espied Herbert on a ladder tacking some
blossoms over the doorway. “Ah!—monsieur,
aren’t you very happy it has turned out so well?
I caught only a glimpse of you as you dashed
past a few minutes ago or I should have held
you up and made you bring the balance of the
old fishwomen. They are all crazy to come.
Ah! but you needn’t to have come down. It
is so good to see you again,” and she shook his
hand heartily. “But what a morning for a
wedding! Did you notice as you came along
the shore road the little puff clouds skipping
out to sea for very joy and hear the birds splitting
their throats in song? Even my own head
is getting turned with all this billing and cooing,
and I warn all of you right here”—and
she swept her glance over the men gathered
about her, her eyes twinkling in merriment—“that
you must be very careful to keep out
of my way or the first thing you know one of
you will be whisked off to the altar and married
before you know it. And now I am going
upstairs to see how my little bride gets on, if
Monsieur Marc will be good enough to carry
my heavy wraps inside.”</p>
<p>She turned, stopped for an instant attracted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span>
by something she saw through the archway of
the court, and burst into a peal of ringing
laughter.</p>
<p>“Oh!—come here quick, every one of you,
and see what’s driving in! It’s Monsieur
Brierley in the dearest of donkey carts. Where
did you get that absurd little beast?”</p>
<p>“Whoa! Victor Hugo!” shouted Brierley,
springing from the cart (both together wouldn’t
have covered the space occupied by an upright
piano). “I found him last fall, my dear madame
la marquise, in a stable in Caen, kicking
out the partitions, and brought him home to
my Abandoned Farm by the Marsh to add a
touch of hilarity to my surroundings. He
wakes me every morning with his hind feet
against the door of his stable and is a most engaging
and delightful companion. Hello! Lemois,
and—you here, Herbert! Shake!—awful
glad to see you. Where’s Louis?—gone for
blossoms?—just like him. I tried to get here
earlier, to help you all, but Victor Hugo is peculiar
and considerably set in his ways, and if
I had tried to overpersuade him he might still
be a mile down the road with his feet anchored
in the mud.</p>
<p>“Take a look inside my cart, will you, Her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span>bert?
My contribution to start the young
couple housekeeping”—and he pulled off a covering
of clean straw—“six dozen eggs, a pair
of mallards—shot them yesterday, and about
the last of them this season, and no business
to shoot even these—a basket of potatoes, a
dozen of pear jam—in family jars—and a
small keg of apple-jack—the two last, the
sweet and the strong, to be eaten and drank together
to keep peace in the house. No, don’t
take Hugo out of the shafts, Lemois, and don’t
say anything about its being meal-time, not
loud enough for him to hear. When the fun
is over I’m going to drive him down to madame’s
garage and pack the housekeeping stuff
away in Mignon’s cupboard.”</p>
<p>Long before noon the court-yard, as well
as the archway and the kiosks and arbors,
had begun to fill up, the news of the extraordinary
proceedings having brought everybody
ahead of time. There was the mayor, wearing
his tricolor sash and insignia of office, and with
him his stout, double-chinned wife in black silk
and white gloves—bareheaded, except for a gold
ornament that looked like a bunch of twisted
hair-pins; there were the apothecary and the
notary and the man who sold pottery, not for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span>getting
the bustling, outspoken fat doctor who
had sewed up Gaston’s head the time madame’s
villa went sliddering toward the sea—or tried
to—as well as all the great and small folk of
the village who claimed the least little bit of
acquaintance with any one connected with the
function from Lemois down.</p>
<p>Why the distinguished Madame la Marquise
de la Caux—to say nothing of Lemois and the
equally distinguished sculptors, painters, and
authors, some of whom were well known to
them by reputation—should make all this fuss
about a simple little serving-maid who had
brought them their coffee—a waif, really,
picked from between the cobbles—one like a
dozen others the village over, except for her
beauty—was a question no one of them had
been able to answer. Was it a whim of the
great lady?—for it was well known she had
made the match—or was there something else
behind it all? (a mystery, by the way, which
they are still trying to solve; disinterested
kindness being the most incomprehensible thing
in the world to some people). The notary was
particularly outspoken in his opinion. He even
criticised the great woman herself from behind
his hand to the apothecary, whose upper room<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span>
he occupied. “Been much better if these people
of high degree had stayed at home and let the
two young people enjoy themselves in their own
way. Great mistake mixing the classes.” But,
then, the notary is the mouth-piece of the revolutionary
party in the village and hates the
aristocracy as a singed cat does the fire.</p>
<p>Soon there came a shout from the gallery
over our heads, and we all looked up. Leà,
her wrinkled face aglow with that same inner
light, the rays struggling through her rusty
skin, craned her head over the rail. Then
came Mignon, madame close behind, pushing
her veil aside so we could all see her face—the
girl blushing scarlet, but too happy to do more
than laugh and bow and make little dumb nods
with her head, hiding her face as best she could
behind Leà’s angular shoulders.</p>
<p>“Yes, we are all ready, and are coming down
the back stairs, and will meet you at the gate,”
cried madame when she had released the girl—“and
it’s time to start.”</p>
<p>Mignon’s passage along the corridor, followed
by madame and Leà and Gaston’s old
mother, roused a murmur of welcome which
swelled into an outburst of joyous enthusiasm
as her feet touched the level of the court, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span>
continued until she had joined Gaston and the
others already formed in line for the march to
the church.</p>
<p>And a wonderful procession it was!</p>
<p>First, of course, came the mayor—his worthy
spouse on his left. “The State before the
Church,” madame la marquise remarked with
a sly twinkle, “and quite as it should be,”
rabid anti-clerical as she was.</p>
<p>Close behind stepped Lemois in a frock-coat
buttoned to his chin, his grave, thoughtful face
framed in a high collar and black cravat—like
an old diplomat at a court function—Mignon
on his arm: Such a pretty, shrinking, timid
Mignon, her lashes lifting and settling as if
afraid to raise her eyes lest some one should
find a chink through which they could peep
into her heart.</p>
<p>Next came Louis escorting dear old Leà!</p>
<p>There was a picture for you! Had she been
a duchess the rollicking young painter could not
have treated her with more deference, bearing
himself aloft, his chest out, handing her over
the low “thank-ye-marm” at the street corner—the
old woman, straight as her bent shoulders
would allow, calm, self-contained, but near
bursting with a joy that would drown her in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span>
tears if she gave way but an instant—and all
with a quiet dignity that somehow, when you
looked at her, sent a lump to your throat.</p>
<p>And then madame and Gaston!—she stepping
free and alive, her little feet darting in and out
below her rich, short gown, her eyes dancing;
he swinging along beside her with that quick,
alert step of the young who have always
stretched their muscles to the utmost, his sun-burnt
skin twice as dark from the mad rush of
blood through his veins; abashed at the great
honor thrust upon him, and yet with that certain
poise and independence common to men
who have fought and won and can fight and
win again.</p>
<p>And last—amused, glad to lend a hand, enjoying
it all to the full—Herbert, and Gaston’s
poor old broken-down-with-hard-work mother—stiff,
formal, scared out of her seven wits—trying
to smile as she ambled along, her mouth
dry, her knees shaking—the rest of us bringing
up the rear—Brierley, Le Blanc, The Architect,
Marc, and I walking together.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 640px;">
<img src="images/i_alt_fp350.jpg" width="640" height="452" alt="First, of course, came the mayor—his worthy spouse on his left" title="" />
<span class="caption">First, of course, came the mayor—his worthy spouse on his left</span>
</div>
<p>But the greatest sight was at the church—it
was but a short step,—the mayor, as he
reached it, bowing right and left to the throng,
the sacristan pushing his way through the
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span>
school children massed in two rows on either
side of the flower-strewn path, their hands filled
with Louis’ blossoms; back of these the rest
of the villagers—those who wanted to see the
procession, and crowding the doorway and
well inside the aisles, every soul who could
claim admission for miles around. And then
as we passed under the old portal—through
which, so the legend runs, strode the Great
Warrior surrounded by his knights (not a word
of which do I believe)—the small organ with
a spasmodic jerk wheezed out a welcome that
went on increasing in volume until we had
moved beneath the groined arches and reached
the altar. There we grouped ourselves in a
half-circle while the vows were pledged and the
small gold ring was slipped on Mignon’s finger
and Gaston had kissed Mignon; and Mignon
had kissed her new mother; and madame la
marquise had taken both their hands in her
own and said how happy she was, and how she
wished them all the joy in the world. And
then—and this was the crowning joy of the
ceremony—then, like the old cavalier he is, and
can be when occasion demands, Lemois stepped
up and shook Gaston’s hand, Mignon looking
at the old man with hungry, loving eyes until,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span>
unable to restrain herself the longer, she threw
her arms around his neck and burst into tears—and
so, with another wheeze of the organ, way
was made and the homeward march began.</p>
<p>It was high noon now—the warm spring sun
in both their faces—Mignon on Gaston’s arm.
And a fine and wholesome pair they made—good
to look upon, and all as it should and
would oftener be if meddlesome cooks could
keep their fingers out of the social broth: she
in her pretty white muslin frock and veil, her
head up, her eyes shining clear—she didn’t
care now who saw; Gaston in his country-cut
clothes (his muscles would stretch them into
lines of beauty before the week was out), his
new straw hat with its gay ribbon half shading
his fine, strong young face; his eyes drinking in
everything about him—too supremely happy to
do more than walk and breathe and look.</p>
<p>Everything was ready for them at the Marmouset.
Lemois had not been a willing ally, but
having once sworn allegiance he had gone over
heart and soul. The young people and their
friends—as well as his own—including the exalted
lady and her band of conspirators, should
want for nothing at his hands.</p>
<p>Louis and Leà, as well as madame la mar<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span>quise,
were already inside the Marmouset when
the bride and groom arrived. More apple-blossoms
here—banks and festoons of them;
the deep, winter-smoked fireplace stuffed full;
loops, bunches, and spirals hanging from the
rafters, the table a mass of ivory and pink,
the white cloth with its dishes and viands shining
through.</p>
<p>Mignon’s lip quivered as she passed the
threshold, and all her old-time shyness returned.
This was not her place! How could she sit down
and be waited upon—she who had served all
her life? But madame would have none of it.</p>
<p>“To-morrow, my child, you can do as you
choose; to-day you do as <i>I</i> choose. You are
not Mignon—you are the dear sweet bride
whom we all want to honor. Besides, love has
made you a princess, or Monsieur Herbert
would not insist on your sitting in his own
chair, which has only held the nobility and persons
of high degree, and which he has wreathed
in blossoms. And you will sit at the head of the
table too, with Gaston right next to you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As grown-ups often devote themselves to
amusing children—playing blind-man’s-buff,
puss-in-the-corner, and Santa Claus—so did<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span>
Herbert and Louis, Le Blanc, Brierley, The
Architect, madame, and the others lay themselves
out to entertain these simple people.
Leà and Mignon, knowing the ways of gentle-folk,
soon forgot their shyness, as did Gaston,
and entered into the spirit of the frolic without
question—but the stiff old mother, and the
lame uncle, and the aunts and cousins were
sore distressed, refusing more than a mouthful
of food, their furtive glances wandering over
the queer figures and quaint objects of the
Marmouset—more marvellous than anything
their eyes had ever rested on. One by one,
with this and that excuse, they stole away and
stood outside, their wondering eyes taking in
the now quiet and satisfied Coco and the appointments
of the court-yard.</p>
<p>Soon only our own party and Leà and the
bride and groom were left, Lemois still the gracious
host; madame pitching the key of the
merriment, Louis joining in—on his feet one
minute, proposing the health of the newly
married couple; his glass filled from the contents
of the rare punch-bowl entwined with
blossoms, which madame had given the coterie
the autumn before; paying profound and florid
compliments the while to madame la marquise;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span>
the next, poking fun at Herbert and Le Blanc;
having a glass of wine with Lemois and another
with Gaston, who stood up while he drank in
his effort to play the double rôle of servant and
guest, and finally, shouting out that as this was
to be the last time any one would ever get a
decent cup of coffee at the Inn, owing to the
cutting off in the prime of life of the high
priestess of the roaster—once known as the
adorable Mademoiselle Mignon—that Madame
Gaston Duprè should take Lemois’ place at the
small table. “And may I have the distinguished
pleasure, madame”—at which the bride
blushed scarlet, and meekly did as she was
bid, everybody clapping their hands, including
Lemois.</p>
<p>And it was in truth a pretty sight, one never
to be forgotten: Gaston devouring her with
his eyes, and the fresh young girl spreading out
her white muslin frock as she settled into the
chair which Louis had drawn up for her, moving
closer the silver coffee-pot with her small
white hands—and they were really very small
and very pretty—dropping the sugar she had
cracked herself into each cup—“One for you,
is it, madame?”—and “Monsieur Herbert, did
you say two?”—and all with a gentle, uncon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span>scious
grace and girlish modesty that won our
hearts anew.</p>
<p>The snort and chug of Le Blanc’s car, pushed
close to the door, broke up the picture and
scattered the party. Le Blanc would drive the
bridal pair home himself—Gaston’s mother and
her relations having already been whisked away
in madame’s motor, with Marc beside the
chauffeur to see them safely stowed inside their
respective cabins.</p>
<p>But it was when the bride stepped into the
car at the gate—or rather before she stepped
into it—that the real choke came in our throats.
Lemois had followed her out, standing apart,
while Leà hugged and kissed her and the others
had shaken her hands and said their say; Louis
standing ready to throw Brierley’s two big hunting-boots
after the couple instead of the time-honored
slipper; Herbert holding the blossoms
and the others huge handfuls of rice burglarized
openly from Pierre’s kitchen.</p>
<p>All this time Mignon had said nothing to
Lemois, nor had she looked his way. Then at
last she turned, gazing wistfully at him, but he
made no move. Only when her slipper touched
the foot-board did he stir, coming slowly forward
and looking into her eyes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span></p>
<p>“You have been a good girl, Mignon,” he
said calmly.</p>
<p>She thanked him shyly and waited. Suddenly
he bent down, took her cheeks between
his hands, kissed her tenderly on the forehead,
and with bowed head walked back into the
Marmouset alone.</p>
<p class="center">END.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p class="center"><b><span class="caption-large">BOOKS BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH</span></b><br />
<span class="smcap">Published by</span> CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</p>
<div class='center'>
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Arm-Chair at the Inn.</span> Illustrated</td><td align='right'> <i>net</i> $1.30</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Kennedy Square.</span> Illustrated</td><td align='right'>1.50</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Peter.</span> Illustrated</td><td align='right'>1.50</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Tides of Barnegat.</span> Illustrated</td><td align='right'>1.50</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Fortunes of Oliver Horn.</span> Illustrated</td><td align='right'>1.50</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Romance of an Old-Fashioned Gentleman.</span> Illustrated</td><td align='right'>1.50</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Colonel Carter’s Christmas.</span> Illustrated</td><td align='right'>1.50</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Forty Minutes Late.</span> Illustrated</td><td align='right'>1.50</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Wood Fire in No. 3.</span> Illustrated</td><td align='right'>1.50</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Veiled Lady.</span> Illustrated</td><td align='right'>1.50</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">At Close Range.</span> Illustrated</td><td align='right'>1.50</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Under Dog.</span> Illustrated</td><td align='right'>1.50</td></tr>
</table></div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41284 ***</div>
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