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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of To Tell You the Truth, by Leonard Merrick
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: To Tell You the Truth
-
-Author: Leonard Merrick
-
-Release Date: September 16, 2013 [EBook #43742]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: ASCII
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org
-(Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive
-- Cornell University Library
-
-
-
-
-
-TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH
-
-BY
-
-LEONARD MERRICK
-
-
-HODDER & STOUGHTON LIMITED
-
-LONDON
-
-
-
-
-CONTENTS
-
-       I    MADEMOISELLE MA MERE
-      II    ARIBAUD'S TWO WIVES
-     III    THAT VILLAIN HER FATHER
-      IV    THE STATUE
-       V    THE CELEBRITY AT HOME
-      VI    PICQ PLAYS THE HERO
-     VII    A FLAT TO SPARE
-    VIII    A PORTRAIT OF A COWARD
-      IX    THE BOOM
-       X    PILAR NARANJO
-      XI    THE GIRL WHO WAS TIRED OF LOVE
-     XII    IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1918
-    XIII    A POT OF PANSIES
-     XIV    FLOROMOND AND FRISONNETTE
-
-
-
-
-I
-
-MADEMOISELLE MA MERE
-
-
-She was born in Chauville-le-Vieux. Her mother gave piano lessons at
-the local Lycee de Jeunes Filles, and her father had been "professeur
-de violon" at the little Conservatoire. Music was her destiny. As
-a hollow-eyed, stunted child, who should have been romping in the
-unfrequented park, she had been doomed to hours of piano practice in
-the stuffy salon, where during eight months of the year a window was
-never opened for longer than it took to shake out the rug. Her name was
-Marie Lamande.
-
-She had accepted her fate passively. If it had not been scales and
-exercises that made a prisoner of her, she recognised that it would
-have been fractions, or zoology. In France, schools actually educate,
-but few children have a childhood. On the first day of a term, when the
-wan girls reassemble, they sometimes ask one another--curious to hear
-what novelty the "holidays" may have yielded, amid the home work--"Did
-you have a little promenade during the _vacances_?"
-
-Because its Lycee was widely known, English and American families came
-to stay in Chauville--the English pupils discovering what it was to
-be taught with enthusiasm--and Marie knew French girls who had been
-initiated into the pleasures of tea-parties. Open-mouthed, she heard
-that the extravagant anglaise or americaine must have spent at least
-five or six francs on the cakes. But all the foreigners successively
-grew tired of inviting French children whose astonished mothers sent
-them trooping as often as they were asked, and, in no case, gave an
-invitation in return, and Marie herself never had the good luck to be
-asked.
-
-Like her parents, she had been intended for the groove of tuition, and
-in due course tuition became her lot. But she was a gifted pianist, and
-ambitious; she dreamed of glory. Some years after she had been left
-alone, when her age was twenty-seven, she dared to escape from the
-melancholy town that she had grown to execrate. A slight little woman,
-without influence or knowledge of life, she aspired to conquer Paris.
-She attacked it with a sum sufficient to keep her for twelve months.
-
-Her arrival at once frightened and enraptured her. In Chauville, at
-eight o'clock in the evening, a few of the shopkeepers had sat before
-their doorways, in the dark, a while; at nine, their crude streets
-were as vacant as the boulevards of the professional and independent
-classes, whose covert homes signified, even in the daytime, VISITORS
-WILL BE PROSECUTED. Behind the shutters of long avenues were over sixty
-thousand persons--most of them heroically hard-working--of a race
-that the pleasure-seeking English called "frivolous," content with
-no semblance of entertainment but the ill-patronised performances
-provided by a gloomy theatre, which was unbarred on only two days in
-the week. Paris, spirited and sparkling, in the tourist regions, took
-her breath away. Music called to her imperiously. She sat, squeezed
-among crowds, at the recitals of celebrities; and came out prayerful,
-to wonder: "Will crowds ever applaud _me_?" But after the first few
-days she reduced her expenses, and her allowance for concert-going was
-strict.
-
-She found a lodging now in the rue Honore-Chevalier, and sought
-engagements for Soirees d'Art and Matinees Artistiques, writing to many
-people who made no reply, and crossing the bridge to appeal in person
-to many others, who were inaccessible, or rude.
-
-Among the few letters of introduction that she had brought from
-Chauville, one served its purpose. Madame Herbelin, the Directrice of
-the Lycee, always kindly disposed towards her, had recommended her to
-an acquaintance as a teacher. Thanks to this, she earned five francs
-each Thursday by a lesson.
-
-When nine alarming weeks had slipped away she gained an interview with
-a fat man who had much knowledge, and who was interested in hearing
-himself talk. He said to her:
-
-"Mademoiselle, it is a question of finances. To rise in the musical
-world you must give concerts, and to give concerts you must have money.
-Also, you must have the goodwill of pupils in a position to collect
-an audience for you, otherwise your concerts will be a heavier loss
-still. Further, you must have the usual paragraphs and critiques:
-'Triumph! Triumph! What genius is possessed by this divine artist,
-whose enchanting gifts revolutionise Paris! Mademoiselle Lamande
-is, without question, the virtuosa the most _spirituelle_, the most
-_troublante_ of our epoch.' These things do not cost a great deal in
-the Paris newspapers, but, naturally, they have to be paid for."
-
-She told him: "I am a poor woman, and the only pupil that I have here
-is a child in Montparnasse."
-
-The fat man, groaning comically, volunteered to "see what he could do."
-
-He forgot her after five minutes.
-
-Practising, in the feeble lamplight of the attic, she used to wait,
-through the long evenings, for the postman and news that never came.
-"For me?" she would call over the banisters. "Nothing, mademoiselle!"
-Then, back to the hired Pleyel, that barely left space for her to wash.
-Inexorable technique, cascades of brilliance, while her heart was
-breaking.
-
-After she shut the piano, the dim light looked dimmer. The narrow
-street was silent. Only, in the distance sometimes, was the jog-trot of
-a cab-horse and the minor jangle of its bell.
-
-Her siege of Paris made no progress.
-
-Companionship came to her when ten months had gone. A young widow
-drifted to the house, and now and then, on the stairs, they met. One
-day they found themselves seated at the same table, in a little
-cremerie close by, and over their oeufs-sur-le-plat they talked. As
-they walked home together, the widow said:
-
-"I always leave my door open to hear you play."
-
-The answer was, "Won't you come into my room instead?"
-
-Madame Branthonne was a gentlewoman, employed in the Bernstein School
-of Languages. She was so free-handed with her sous, so generous in
-the matter of brioche and chocolate, that Marie thought she must be
-comparatively rich. But madame Branthonne was not rich; and when Marie
-knew her well it transpired that she remitted every month, out of her
-slender salary, for the maintenance of a baby son in Amiens.
-
-"How you must miss him! How old is he?"
-
-"Only eleven weeks. Miss him? Mon Dieu! But I had to leave him, or we
-should both have starved; if I had brought him with me, who would have
-looked after him all day while I was out? Besides, in this work, there
-is no telling how long one may remain in any city--I might be packed
-off to some other branch of the concern to-morrow."
-
-"Really?"
-
-"Oh yes; one never knows. Last week one of oar professors was sent at
-a day's notice to Russia. What a life! Of course, one need not consent
-to go, but it is never prudent to refuse. You used to make me cry in
-there for my baby, when you played the piano. The poor little soul is
-called 'Paul,' after his father; he is with a person who used to be
-my servant; she is married now, and has a little business, a dairy. I
-know she is good to him, but imagine how I suffer--in less than a year
-I have lost my husband and my child. Alors, vrai! what an egotist I am!
-How go your own affairs? Still no luck?"
-
-In the Garden of the Luxembourg on Sundays, the two lonely women
-sauntered under the chestnut-trees and talked of their sorrows and
-their hopes. The hopes of the widow were centred upon the lotteries _de
-Bienfaisance_, which had lured a louis from her time and again. She was
-emerging from a period of enforced discretion, and she asked: "What do
-you say to our buying a ticket between us?"
-
-The present lottery had neared its end; only one drawing remained, and
-the price of tickets was accordingly much reduced. The friends bought
-their microscopic chance for five francs each.
-
-The prizes that were dangled varied between a mite and a fortune; and
-now, in the murky lamplight of the garret, the pianist saw visions.
-Rebuffed, intimidated, she had suddenly a prospect; chimerical as the
-prospect was, she might gain the means to buy a hearing for her art!
-
-For the woman seeking recognition, opportunity. For the woman divided
-from her child, a home. Every night they spoke of it. Often while the
-lamp burnt low, and a horse-bell jangled sadly, they laughed together
-in a castle-in-the-air.
-
-But those brats from the _Assistance publique_, who blindly dispensed
-destinies at the drawing, dipped their red hands upon the wrong numbers.
-
-"As usual! I am sorry I proposed it to you. It is an imbecility to
-waste one's earnings in such a fashion--one might as well toss money in
-the Seine. Well, I have had enough! I have finished. I am determined
-never to gamble any more," cried madame Branthonne, who had made the
-same resolve a dozen times.
-
-Marie said less. But her disappointment was black; it was only now that
-she knew how vivid had been her hope. And in the meanwhile her little
-hoard had dwindled terribly, and she was seeking other pupils.
-
-"What if you get them--you will be no nearer to renown? In Chauville
-you have a living waiting for you--why wear out shoe-leather to find
-bread in Paris? Poverty in Paris is no sweeter than poverty elsewhere."
-
-"If I go back to Chauville, it means the end," she answered. "I shall
-never have anything to look forward to there--never, to the day of my
-death. Year after year I shall sit teaching exercises and little pieces
-to schoolgirls who will never play. The girls will escape, and marry,
-but _I_ shall sit teaching the same exercises and little pieces to
-their children. Here, if I can hold out, if only I can hold out long
-enough, I may batter my way up. I want to get on--I've a right to get
-on. You don't suppose that no one has ever made a career who couldn't
-pay for it?"
-
-"No," sighed her confidante; "I don't suppose it's so bad as that--men
-do help one sometimes." But in her heart she felt, "You aren't the kind
-of woman that men do things for."
-
-And, to a stranger, even pupils at five francs an hour proved hard to
-find. A pianist of talent--and she couldn't earn a living in Paris,
-even by elementary lessons. It was one of those cases which the
-uninitiated call "improbable," and which are happening all the time.
-
-Yet it fell to madame Branthonne to quit Paris first. When Marie
-Lamande could no longer sleep at night, or slept only to see the
-desolation of Chauville in her dreams, the teacher of French was
-required to go to one of the London branches of the school. It occurred
-abruptly; the news and the good-bye were almost simultaneous.
-
-A new proclamation of millions to be won, aggrandised "_par arrete
-ministeriel_," was blazoned across the pages of the newspapers; and, on
-impulse, the woman who was "determined never to gamble any more" left a
-louis with the other, to buy a ticket for her.
-
-"You know you can't spare it," urged Marie. "I wouldn't, if I were you!"
-
-Momentarily the widow hesitated; and then she gave a shrug.
-
-"Oh, of course, I'm an idiot," she exclaimed. "But what else have I got
-to hope for? Yes, get it and send it to me!"
-
-Early in the journey she vacillated again. But her instructions were
-not revoked, because soon afterwards no more than a third of the train
-remained on the rails, and madame Branthonne was among the victims
-killed.
-
-Her aghast friend heard of the catastrophe twelve hours later than
-multitudes for whom it had no personal interest. Dazed, she wondered
-whether the ex-servant in Amiens would see the name of "Branthonne" in
-the list of the dead, and what would become of the baby now. She had a
-confused notion that she ought to communicate with the woman, but she
-was ignorant of the address. She went hysterically to the head office
-of the school, where the manager undertook to make inquiries at the
-Amiens branch.
-
-When the sickness of horror passed, her thoughts reverted to the ticket
-that she had been enjoined to buy; and on the way to fulfil the duty,
-it was as if the dead woman, as she had seen her last, with her hat and
-coat on, were close to her again. "What name?" inquired the clerk in
-the big bank. "Lamande," she answered--and asked herself afterwards if
-it would have been more businesslike to say "Branthonne." But it didn't
-seem to matter. The point that perplexed her was, in whose charge ought
-the ticket to be? It belonged to the baby now, and its possibilities
-extended through the year. "Serie No. 78, Billet No. 19,333." Ought she
-to post it confidingly to the dairy-keeper when she learnt where she
-lived?
-
-The question persisted, as she tramped the streets despondently--as
-daily she drew nearer to defeat. She had discontinued to hire a piano.
-Everywhere she was humbled with the same reply, banished with the same
-gestures, maddened by the same callous unconcern. Paris was brutal! She
-dropped in her purse the last louis that protracted hope. When this
-was gone, there would be left nothing but the price of her journey to
-Chauville and despair.
-
-In the first drawing of the lottery, a few days later, the ticket won a
-prize of twelve thousand francs.
-
-In a crumpled copy of _Le Petit Journal_, in the cremerie, she read
-of the drawing, by chance--not having remembered for what date it was
-announced. And she took a copy of the paper home with her--having
-forgotten the number of the ticket that she had bought. And when the
-revelation came to her, there was, blent with her thanksgiving for the
-child's sake, the human, bitter consciousness that, had she rashly
-suggested it, half the chance might have been hers. She might have
-stood here to-night on the threshold of success. So simple it would
-have been! The knowledge was a taunt. She felt that Fate had robbed and
-derided her; she felt poor, as she had never felt poor before....
-
-The thought floated across her mind impersonally. It brought no
-shock, because it did not present itself as a temptation, even the
-faintest; it was just as if she had been recognising what somebody in
-a tale might do. Without purpose, without questioning why the thought
-fascinated her, she sat seeing how easily she could steal the money.
-
-The ticket was on the table; there was nothing to show that she hadn't
-any right to it--she had merely to claim the prize. There would be a
-fort-night's delay, at least, before she got it. Well, she could eke
-out the sum that was put by for her fare. She imagined her sensations
-on the morning that she walked from the bank with notes for twelve
-thousand francs in her pocket. If her pocket were picked! Yielding even
-more intently to the thought, she perceived that the proper course
-would be to open an account before she left.... It wouldn't be twelve
-thousand francs--a substantial sum would be deducted for _les droits
-des pauvres._ But it would be enough--the price of power! The thought
-leapt further. She saw herself, gorgeously gowned, on a platform--heard
-the very piece that she was playing, the plaudits that came thundering;
-she trembled in the emotion of a visionary fame.
-
-Recalling her, there sounded, in the dark emptiness again, the minor
-jangle of a cab-horse bell.
-
-Then she understood. It had been no idle supposition, the thought that
-mastered her. "_O divine Vierge Marie_!" she wailed on her knees, and
-knew that she wanted to be a thief.
-
-Through the night, through the morrow, through every waking moment,
-a voice was saying to her: "You _won't_ be robbing a child; you can
-do for it all that She did--every month, just the same thing. Long
-before the child is old enough to need so large a sum you will be in a
-position to give it to him. What will he have lost? Nothing. You are
-terrified by the semblance of a sin; it is not a sin really. Dare it,
-dare it, be bold!"
-
-Nothing could quell the voice. It was whispering while she prayed. And
-the crashing of orchestras could not drown it, when she fled to music
-for relief.
-
-She learnt that the woman in Amiens was called Gaillard, and had a
-shop in the rue Puteaux. But now she shrank from writing to her--she
-didn't know how she meant to act. Once, in desperation, she did begin a
-letter, an avowal of the prize that had been drawn; but she hesitated
-again.
-
-There was an evening when, with steps that wavered, like a woman
-enfeebled by illness, she packed her things to return to Chauville....
-She sat wide-eyed, staring at the trunk.
-
-When she had dragged the things frantically out, she wrote to Amiens,
-making herself responsible for the monthly payments. "All that his
-mother did _I_ will do!" she wrote, feeling less criminal for the
-phrase. And then one morning, tortured, she caught the express to the
-town to see that all was well. The place was small and poor; and though
-the baby looked well cared for, and the young woman and her husband
-seemed kind, the visit was horrible to her. Next day she spent some of
-the stolen money on a baby's bonnet and pelisse. And as the quality of
-the gift suggested means, she received, before the date for her second
-remittance, a scrawl declaring that the cost of provisions had risen
-dreadfully, and asking for twenty francs a month more.
-
-"RECITAL DONNE PAR MADEMOISELLE MARIE LAMANDE." A blue-and-white
-poster, with her name staring Paris in the face. The time came when
-she saw one on a wall, and stopped, thrilling at it in the rain. A week
-afterwards she saw one on a wall again, and passed it with a sigh,
-remembering the half-empty salle, and the cheques that she had drawn.
-
-"Patience, mademoiselle, patience. An artist does not arrive in a
-day; one must persevere." There were plenty of persons to give her
-encouragement now that it might be advantageous to them.
-
-But the expense of her debut was a warning, and she proceeded slowly.
-Though they made her feel very shy and cowardly, she did not succumb to
-the arguments of vehement people who offered "opportunities the most
-exceptional" at a big price, and whose attitudes of amazement implied
-that she must be brainless to decline. She did not waste money in
-bettering her abode. She did not, when she had given a recital again,
-continue to imagine that the prize had provided a sum abundant for her
-purpose.
-
-The knowledge obsessed her that she owed this money, that one day she
-was to repay it. For a year she told herself, "The road is harder than
-I thought, but I shall reach the end of it in time!" During the second
-year she struggled in a panic, while the money was melting, melting
-without result.
-
-To adventure a concert meant such wearisome, such overwhelming
-preparation. And within a week it was as if it had never been--she
-was again forgotten. But she saw a little chorus-girl, who had done
-something more than ordinarily immodest, launch herself into celebrity
-in a night.
-
-At last, when she realised that she had wrecked her peace of mind for
-nothing, when to cross the bridge was to eye the river longingly, she
-knew that she wasn't free to find oblivion like that. Restitution to
-the child would be impossible, but it was her destiny to support him.
-She wrote to madame Herbelin, in Chauville, appealing for influence
-to regain the footing that she had kicked away. Her bent face was wet
-and ugly as she detailed the story of her failure; she foresaw the
-greetings, tactful, but galling, of acquaintances, the half-veiled
-satisfaction of other music-mistresses in the town.
-
-The reply that reached her made it evident that to recover the position
-would be a slow process. And her means to wait were limited.
-
-Hitherto the acknowledgments from Amiens had varied but slightly:
-"The remittance had come; the baby was well," or "the baby had had
-some infantile ailment, and was better." Now, a partially illegible
-letter informed her suddenly that the little business was to be given
-up. Circumstances compelled the woman to take a situation again, and
-she could not keep the orphan in her care. It was explained that
-"Mademoiselle should arrange to remove him in a month's time."
-
-Already stricken, she was stupefied by this news. It seemed to her the
-last blow that could be dealt. What was to be done? She marvelled that
-she had not contemplated the contingency. She had not contemplated
-it--at most, she had given it a passing glance. She had questioned,
-agonised, whether she could manage to maintain the payments regularly;
-she had asked herself what lay before her when the child was older and
-his needs increased; she had wondered, conscience-racked, how she was
-to bear her life; but for this new responsibility, hurled on her when
-she was broken, she had been unprepared.
-
-"Remove him?" To what? She wasn't remaining in Paris; was she blindly
-to answer some advertisement before she left and leave a baby behind
-her here, helpless in hands that might misuse him? She shuddered. No;
-now that he would be at the mercy of a stranger, the place must be near
-enough for her to visit it--often and unexpectedly. She must find a
-place near Chauville.
-
-But could she do it? However secretly she arranged, wasn't it sure to
-be known? What was she to say? It was a misfortune that she had written
-to madame Herbelin too fully to be able to assert now that she had
-married. What was she to say? And who would credit what she said?
-
-Hourly, the craven in her faltered that there were hundreds of honest
-homes in Paris where he would be gently treated, where he would be as
-safe as he had been in Amiens. And always her better self cried out:
-"But you'd desert him without knowing that the home you had found was
-one of them!"
-
-For three weeks she cowered at the crossways. She did not love the
-little child that she had wronged, as she bore him back with her to
-Chauville. The journey was long, and he clung to her, whimpering, and
-she caressed him, white-faced and abject; but there was no love for him
-in her heart. The dusk, when they arrived, was welcome. She led him
-down the station steps, her head sunk low. In the street he cried to
-be carried, and she picked him up--submissive to her burden. She had
-had to sacrifice her reputation, or the child--and mademoiselle Lamande
-returned to her native town with a baby in her arms.
-
-She had booked to the Gare du Marche, the station in the poorest
-quarter. A porter followed, trundling the luggage over the cobbles.
-In a narrow bed, under a skylight, the child and anxiety allowed her
-little sleep.
-
-Before she could begin her search for work, it was imperative that
-she should find someone to shelter him, if only during the day; and
-in the morning she questioned a servant who was sweeping the stairs.
-The girl looked as if she had been picked from a dust-bin, and clothed
-from a rag-bag, but, compared with English girls of her class, she had
-brilliant intelligence. She thought it probable that the woman at the
-epicerie across the road might be accommodating.
-
-The woman at the epicerie was unable to arrange, but she suggested a
-concierge of her acquaintance "la bas." "La bas" proved to be remote.
-Chauville had not changed. As of old, the door of the Eglise Ste.
-Clothilde was lost in its vast frame of funeral black; as of old,
-the insistent bell was dinning for the dead. The population was
-still concealed, except where a cortege of priests, and acolytes, and
-mourners wound their slow way with another coffin to the cemetery,
-Chauville's most animated spot.
-
-As a makeshift, the concierge sufficed.
-
-To gain an interview with madame Herbelin strained patience. But after
-the applicant had sat for a long while, with her feet on the sawdust
-of the salle d'attente, where an officer, and a marquise drooped
-resignedly, madame la Directrice told her: "It is a sad pity that you
-left the town." Marie could not remember that the busy woman said
-anything more valuable.
-
-There was, however, another occasion. This time the lady said:
-"Mademoiselle, I knew you when you were a little girl, and I knew your
-parents, and I have regretted, more than you may suppose, that it was
-not in my power to offer you an appointment at the Lycee, in your
-emergency. But I have recently heard something about you that is very
-grave--something that I trust is not true."
-
-"Madame," said Marie, trembling, "I can guess what you have heard,
-and it is _not_ true. Only this is true--I have placed a child with a
-concierge in the rue Lecomte and go to see it there. It is the orphan
-of a woman who was my friend in Paris, a widow--we lived together."
-
-Madame Herbelin did not speak.
-
-"Madame Branthonne was killed in a railway accident, going to England,"
-Marie went on; "she was a teacher in the Bernstein School. Her baby
-had been left in Amiens, with a woman called Gaillard. A few weeks
-ago the woman wrote to me that she was going away, and was unable to
-keep the child any longer. I couldn't abandon it to the _Assistance
-publique_."
-
-"Where is she now, this madame Gaillard?" inquired the Directrice
-coldly.
-
-"I do not know," said Marie. And then, recognising the lameness of the
-reply, she burst forth into a torrent of details to corroborate the
-story.
-
-Her voice, more than the details, carried conviction to the listener.
-After a long pause she said:
-
-"Mademoiselle, I believe you have done a generous thing." The thief
-winced. "But it was an imprudent thing, a thing that you could not
-afford to do. I do not speak of your intention to maintain the
-child--may le bon Dieu aid you in the endeavour! But you did wrong to
-bring it to Chauville. You should not expose yourself to calumny. I
-counsel you most earnestly to place the child somewhere else without
-delay."
-
-"Madame, it is my duty to have him under my own eyes," she urged.
-"Apart from me, he might be starved, beaten, corrupted--my friend's boy
-might be reared as an apache. How could I know? I should risk it all.
-It would be inhuman of me."
-
-"I think you over-estimate the dangers," sighed madame Herbelin. "In
-fine, if you put the boy away from you, it is possible he may suffer.
-But if you keep him near you, it is certain _you_ will suffer. I cannot
-say more."
-
-"_I_ must suffer," answered Marie.
-
-A permanent home for him, not far from the rue Lecomte, was found at a
-bonneterie, whose humble little window contained Communion caps, and
-the announcement "Piqures a la Machine."
-
-To have had him in her lodging would have cost her less. But this child
-that dishonoured her must be covert from the jeunes filles that she
-hoped would come there; and if she had to give lessons out, she could
-not leave him there alone.
-
-She did have to give lessons out. It was a descent for her here to go
-to the pupils' houses, but she was compelled to do it. And something
-bitterer--she was compelled to accept a lowered fee, and affect to be
-unconscious why a reduction was proposed. To obtain the services of a
-"belle musicienne" for a trifle, there were a few mothers who engaged
-her, and replied to questioning relatives that she was a "slandered
-woman." But to her they did not say that she was slandered, and their
-hard eyes were an insult.
-
-She gave a lesson twice a week for twenty francs a month now,
-mademoiselle Marie Lamande, who had advertised recitals in Paris, and
-she went short of food, to meet the charges at the bonneterie. The boy
-seemed to be amply nourished, and the remembrance sustained her on the
-days when she was dinnerless.
-
-God! for a chance to get away, to be free of this place, where it was
-an ordeal to tread the streets. When she could afford to buy a postage
-stamp she applied for salaried work in some distant school. Once
-it looked as if the child were not to live; and as she sat, obeying
-orders, through one endless night, she knew, before she fainted from
-exhaustion, that if he died, her own escape from Chauville would be
-made by the same road.
-
-But he recovered--thanks partially to her--and her duty still had to be
-done.
-
-He recovered, and, as time passed, began to talk like other children
-on the doorsteps. She recalled the refinement of his mother, and the
-little child in a black blouse, shrilling kitchen French, avenged
-himself unknowingly. "As often as we ever meet, when the boy I robbed
-is a poor, big, common man," she thought, "every note of his voice will
-be a chastisement!"
-
-Before she accomplished her release, she bore in Chauville-le-Vieux a
-three-years' martyrdom.
-
-Madame Herbelin had consented to testify to her abilities, and she went
-far away, to a school at Ivry-St.-Hilaire. She had pleaded that, in the
-letter of recommendation, she might be referred to as "madame" Lamande,
-but this entreaty the Directrice would not grant.
-
-"Mademoiselle," she said, "I cannot do it for you; and if you are wise,
-there is no need. Remember what I told you when you returned, and be
-guided by me this time. Do not repeat there the blunder that you made
-here. Leave the child where he is; you have tested the person and you
-know she is honest. Occasionally, once a year, you can afford to come
-and see him. If you take him with you, you will not gain much by your
-removal. Of course, at Ivry-St.-Hilaire your parentage is unknown and
-there is nothing to hinder you from inventing a relationship; but it
-isn't worth the trouble--believe me, you would be suspected just the
-same. Make the most of this opportunity; go unencumbered--do not live
-your whole life in shadow for the sake of an ideal."
-
-But her conscience would not allow her to see him only once a year, nor
-to leave him to play on the doorstep, and attend the Ecole Communale.
-In view of a constant salary, she already foresaw herself alleviating
-his plight. She was resigned to live her life in shadow, that she might
-yield a little sunshine to him.
-
-So, when she had sacrificed herself again, madame la Directrice
-thought: "She is strangely devoted to the child. I wonder if I was
-wrong to befriend her--perhaps she is a bad woman, after all!"
-
-She did not venture to take the boy with her, however. She was more
-than three months at Ivry before her furtive arrangements for him were
-concluded. Then she placed him with priests twenty miles distant from
-her, in the Etablissement des Freres Eudoxie at Maison-Verte. Small as
-the annual charges were, they were vast in relation to her salary. Till
-she succeeded, by slow degrees, in obtaining a few private pupils, her
-self-denial was severe.
-
-But the little chap was in better hands now. And the woman had procured
-a respite from disdain. A tinge of colour crept back into her cheeks,
-and she faced the world less fearfully. By and by, when she could
-afford the fare, she went to the institution sometimes, on a Sunday,
-and walked with him in the cour, and noted that gradually his speech
-improved. As she could afford the fare but seldom, the intervals were
-long.
-
-Paul looked forward to her rare visits. Some of the boys had visitors
-more frequently than he, pale women who came to walk beside them in
-the cour; and the boastful shout of "Ma mere!" was often humiliating
-to Paul. He had been taught to call her "mademoiselle," but one
-Sunday, the child, in a triumphant cry, found his own name for her:
-"_Mademoiselle ma mere est venue!_"
-
-After that, he called her always "Mademoiselle ma mere"; and, divining
-something of the little wistful heart, mademoiselle did not reprove him.
-
-At Ivry-St.-Hilaire a thing strange and bewildering happened. For
-the first time in her life a man sought her society; for the first
-time in her life she was happier for talking to a man. Two moments
-were prodigious to her--a moment after she had heard herself laughing
-merrily; a moment when she realised why she had just plucked out a grey
-hair.
-
-When they were alone together one day the man said to her:
-
-"Now that I have made a practice in the town at last, I am rooted
-here--and Ivry isn't amusing. If a woman were to marry me she would
-have to live here always. I tell you this because I love you."
-
-It was as if God had wrought another miracle. "I can't understand it,"
-she whispered truly.
-
-Then the man laughed and took her in his arms, and it seemed to her
-that she had never known what it was to be tired.
-
-When he let her go and she came back to the world, her sin was staring
-at her. And now the voice that decoyed her before was clamouring: "If
-you degrade yourself in his sight you'll lose him."
-
-Her lover appeared to her no less a hero because, under his imposing
-presence, he was a cur, and the thing that she feared would revolt him
-was her dishonesty.
-
-Not on that day, nor on the next, but after many resolutions to do
-right had melted into terrors, she forced him to listen; and it seemed
-to her that she was dying while she spoke.
-
-"I stole," she moaned, her face covered.
-
-"Pauvrette!" he exclaimed tenderly.
-
-When she dared to look, he was smiling. The relief and gratitude in her
-soul were so infinite that she wanted to kneel at his feet.
-
-But when she sobbed out the story of her later struggles and told him
-how she was devoting her life to the child, his brow grew dark.
-
-"That, of course, would have to be changed," he said.
-
-"Changed?" she stammered.
-
-"Obviously, best beloved. One must consider public opinion. These
-journeys to Maison-Verte are mad; they must cease. You have not
-been fair to yourself; and now, more than ever, you need to reflect
-that----"
-
-"But," she broke in, frightened, "you don't understand. It is
-not a mere question of my going to Maison-Verte; he will not be
-there always--he will grow up, and his future will be my care. My
-responsibility goes on. Oh, I know--you need not tell me--that you have
-thoroughly the right to refuse, but--but I have no right to alter.
-Since I have seen that I could never hope to give back what I took, I
-have seen that he was my charge for life."
-
-"Mon Dieu!" he said, "you exaggerate quixotically. To give back what
-you took? Remember what you have already done!"
-
-"Counted in francs," she pleaded, "I have done very little. It has been
-difficult to do, that's all."
-
-Presently, when he perceived that, on this one point, the little weak
-woman was inflexible, the man made a beautiful speech, declaring that
-she was worth more than the opinion of Ivry-St.-Hilaire, and of all
-France. He said that nothing mattered to him but their "divine love."
-He looked more heroic still, and his eyes were moist with the nobility
-of the sentiments that he was delivering.
-
-But as he sat in the principal cafe of the town by and by, among the
-stacks of swords in the corners, and the elite of the military and
-civil circles, clearing their throats vociferously on to the floor, he
-knew that a few days hence he meant to deliver a second lie about the
-"supplications of his family and his duty as a son." Had her debt been
-paid, he would have held her absolved from yielding so much as another
-thought to the boy, and he could have afforded to pay the debt, but
-it did not even enter his mind to commit such a madness. Yet, in his
-fashion, he loved her. The "chivalry" of offering marriage to a woman
-without a _dot_ had proved it.
-
-It would have been kinder to her not to leave her in a fool's paradise;
-she was to suffer more intensely because of that.
-
-"Some of the facts, sufficient to explain the position, I have confided
-to my mother," he told her. "She is very old, and the honour of the
-family is very dear to her. I entreat you, in her name. The boy shall
-remain in this institution, or be placed in some other. They will teach
-him a trade. When the time comes for him to earn his living he will be
-no worse off than the other _gosses_ there. Be guided by me. I assure
-you, you are morbidly sensitive. There is no reason why you should ever
-meet him again. My adored one, our happiness is in your hands. Give the
-child up!"
-
-"I cannot," she repeated hopelessly.
-
-And then, all of a sudden, the imposing presence vanished and she saw
-the puny man--more clearly than he had ever seen himself.
-
-"It begins to be plain why you 'cannot,'" he hissed. "Zut, tell your
-yarn about your 'theft' to somebody greener. For _me_ it's too thin!...
-But why should we part, ducky? The matter could be arranged."
-
-When he had demonstrated his intelligence in this way, without
-advantage, the man went down the garden path, out of her life--and for
-an hour she sat sightless, and ageing years. The birds in the garden
-were making a cruel noise. She felt that she had grown too old during
-the afternoon to bear the shrillness of the birds. When was it that she
-had had the arrogance to pull out a grey hair?
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Her love-story was over; but the drear routine continued--the thrift,
-the drudgery, the clandestine journeys to the boy. If, when she saw him
-next, he felt that she was colder to him, she did not mean to be so.
-Never had she striven quite so wearily to be tender.
-
-It was insensibly that she ceased to recall him as a burden. Had Time's
-touches been more swift she would have marvelled at the mystery of the
-thing. But the weight of life was lifted very slowly, and the burden
-bid fair to be consoling before she realised that the load was less.
-
-As the months wore by, and term succeeded term, the boy evoked an
-interest in the loneliness. Duty no longer took her to him--it was
-affection; to amuse him now was not a task--their playtime had
-become her single pleasure. From this child, the woman who had had
-no childhood, captured gleams of youth--the virgin who was for ever
-celibate, caught glimpses of maternity. "In the _vacances_, Paul,
-I'll come and stay at Maison-Verte," she used to say, "and we'll have
-picnics in the park!" When the _trimestre_ was over and she studied his
-report, her smile was proud. Once when she went, he rushed to meet her
-with a prize. "Mademoiselle ma mere, look, look!" he halloed. And the
-virgin's arms were flung about him and she hugged him like a mother.
-
-As a mother she marked his progress, year by year; as a mother,
-mourning his barren prospects and craving to advance them, she beat her
-breast that she had made him penniless. It was as a mother that, by
-parsimonies, protracted and implacable, she garnered the means at last
-to better his condition. By this time her hair was all grey, and the
-schoolboy's voice was breaking.
-
-On the day that she was strong enough, she meant to confess to him and
-see his love turn to contempt. But the day when she was strong enough
-wouldn't come. When he was sixteen she had said: "I shall tell him in a
-year from now!" When he was seventeen she had wept: "God couldn't mind
-his loving me for a year more!"
-
-"Mademoiselle," he would say--for he was a young man and had dropped
-the other name--"I don't know why you have been so good to me." And she
-would answer: "Your mother and I were friends, dearest." Only that.
-
-"You work too hard," he would declare, "ever so much too hard; you're
-always tired. You know, you weren't ambitious enough--that was your
-great mistake. You shouldn't have gone in for teaching; you ought to
-have played at concerts--you might have been no end of a swell. Play
-something to me now, will you? What used my mother to say about your
-playing?"
-
-"She said once that it made her cry for her baby, Paul. What do _you_
-think of when I play?"
-
-But he was shy of admitting what he thought of, because he thought of
-noble deeds, and his ideal woman, and of the ecstasy it would be to see
-his name on the cover of a book--and he was doomed to be a clerk.
-
-Yet when the clerk chafed in his bonds, and the conceit of authorship
-was too mighty to be bridled, it was to her that he first revealed a
-manuscript. It was she, trembling, who was his first critic. "Your
-good women are all perfect," she told him, "and your bad women have
-never a good impulse. We aren't like that." But she was never too weary
-to talk about the tales; and when they began to wander among august
-journals that refused them, she used to pray, before the crucifix in
-her bedroom, that the hearts of editors might be moved.
-
-Now she meant to confess to him before he entered on his military
-service.
-
-The parting was so bitter that she failed at the last moment. He went
-far from her. The years of his service were a much greater hardship
-to her than to him. During the first week she stinted her own diet to
-send a _bon de poste_ to ameliorate his food; but he wouldn't keep the
-money. In the avenues of Ivry, never did she see the pitifully garbed
-conscripts being drilled without picturing the conscript who was dear
-to her, garbed like that--and closing her eyes with the pain.
-
-And when he was free to return, the meeting was so sweet that she was a
-coward once more.
-
-He was a clerk for a long time, but his dissatisfaction would have
-been longer still without her. She it was who took to the _Echo
-d'Ivry-St.-Hilaire_ the article that paved his way to journalism. There
-was a day of sovereignty when he was offered an ill-paid post on that
-undistinguished paper. How victoriously he twirled his moustache! How
-proudly, through her spectacles, she watched him do it!
-
-Oh, of course he wouldn't be content to stick for ever on the Ivry
-_Echo_, not he! He was going to write great novels just the same.
-Incipiently the women of his stories lived now, but he was still
-very young. She said to him at this stage: "You put your girls in a
-drawing-room, but they come from a tavern." And, abashed and wondering,
-he saw that poor mademoiselle knew more of girlhood than a literary man
-had learnt. He was an artist, or he would not have seen.
-
-Because he was an artist he probed his questions deep. Because she
-loved him she did not flinch. To him she voiced truths that she had
-shrunk from owning to herself. Thoughts that had frightened her, and
-thoughts that she had deemed too sacred to be uttered, she brought
-forth for his guidance. Her innocence and her knowledge she yielded to
-him, her vanities and her regrets. She bared the holiest secrets of her
-sterile life and stripped her soul, that he might make his books of it.
-
-But always there remained the one secret that she could not tell.
-
-After he had begun to get on--when he was a journalist in Paris--she
-had a terrible grief. She had travelled to Paris to see him, and he
-declined to admit her. He declined to admit her because he knew what
-she had come to say, and, under Heaven, there was nothing to him so
-precious as an idol that he had made out of a spiritual profile and
-some vices. The Ivry editor had told her it was rumoured that the woman
-talked of marrying Paul, and mademoiselle had written imploring letters
-to him without avail. "He must be the best judge of his own mind," he
-had answered, "and of the true nature of the woman he loved."
-
-Then, distraught, she had made the journey, and been turned from the
-door with a servant's transparent he. The tumult of the modern traffic
-confused her--the failing little figure was jostled by the crowd. She
-went, deafened, through remembered gates, to a bench, and sat there,
-feeling stunned. The bench was in the Garden of the Luxembourg, where
-it seemed to her that in another life she had walked beside his mother.
-
-She had to save him. When her mind cleared, she thought only of that.
-Since it was impossible to plead to Paul, she must plead to the woman.
-She would find out where she lived; she would say In imagining herself
-in the presence of such a woman, she was as timorous as a child. She
-would say--what? The wildness of the notion overwhelmed her. Suddenly
-she felt that she could say nothing, that she would be tongue-tied, a
-sight for ridicule.
-
-But she must save Paul!
-
-She was two days in Paris before she obtained the address; and she was
-no less amazing to the wanton than was the wanton to the spinster. From
-different worlds they marvelled at each other across a hearthrug. She
-said:
-
-"He is not my son, but he is as dear to me as if he were; indeed, the
-sons of many women are far less to them, I think, than he to me. I
-worked for him when he was a baby. Since he has been a man, he has
-meant the only interest in my life; it has been a wretched failure of
-a life--the one hope left in it is to see him succeed. Madame, his
-career is in your hands. I entreat you to be merciful--I beg it of
-you on my knees. I don't pretend to judge your feelings for him, but
-if you care for him really and deeply, do what you know is right for
-the man you love--make a memory for yourself that you'll be proud of.
-You're beautiful now, and young, and you don't take some things very
-earnestly, but one day, when you're older and memories are all you've
-got, a noble remembrance will be sweet. You'll say to yourself: '_I_
-saved a man from ruining his future, _I_ saved a woman from breaking
-her heart.'"
-
-After her curiosity in the alien was exhausted, the beauty rang the
-bell, and said:
-
-"What kind of a fool are you to have imagined I should give up a man I
-liked, because a stranger asked me to? It's about the silliest idea I
-ever heard of."
-
-And then she herself did something sillier. She told Paul what had
-happened, mimicking the suppliant's sorrow, and jeering at her prayer.
-The man read into the scene the pathos that the jeerer missed, and he
-saw that the woman he had idealised lacked the grace of pity.
-
-Later, when success came to him, there was no domestic tragedy
-darkening the home behind it, and he had owed to mademoiselle a timely
-rent in the veil of his illusion.
-
-She was teaching at Ivry still when his success came. For weeks she
-had known by his letters, and the papers, that his new book had made
-a reputation for him, but one morning she heard that it was "making
-him rich." The hard times were over for them both, he wrote. There
-was to be no more labour for her, no more loneliness; they were to
-live together in a little appartement in Passy. She was to rest, "with
-flowers in the window, and her hands in her lap--he was coming to carry
-her away."
-
-The letter quivered as she read it, and she put it down, in fright. The
-secret that had smouldered while she toiled for him, while she worked
-to keep herself, flared menace now that he proposed to keep her. She
-dared not accept her comfort of his ignorance. She saw herself as a
-cheat who had hidden her sin, a hypocrite who had taken gratitude to
-which she had no claim. Now he must be told. The confession that had
-terrorised her all her life could be escaped no longer; the day of her
-Calvary was here.
-
-At every step in the street she shuddered, though it was not till
-evening that he was due. She clasped him, crying with pride and fear,
-when he strode in. He rattled gaily of things triumphant, things too
-difficult to-day for her to understand. She thanked God that it was
-twilight and he couldn't clearly see her face. She crept away from him
-and bowed her head. The young man looked forward. The old woman looked
-back.
-
-In the twilight her confession came at last--in the twilight, his
-reverent knowledge of his boundless debt.
-
-"But I have loved you," she sobbed. "At the beginning you were my
-punishment, but then I loved you!"
-
-"You have borne want for me, and contempt. I have taken your youth
-from you, and your happiness and your strength." He went to her, and
-knelt, and kissed the trembling hands. "How _I_ love _you_," he cried,
-"mademoiselle ma mere!"
-
-
-
-
-II
-
-ARIBAUD'S TWO WIVES
-
-
-In the Bois, one day, I met madame Aribaud. By madame "Aribaud" I mean
-the wife of a very popular dramatist, and I call them Aribaud because
-it wouldn't do to mention their real name. I like meeting madame
-Aribaud when I am in Paris. It refreshes me, not only because she isn't
-preceded by a gust of scent, and doesn't daub her mouth clown red,
-like so many Parisiennes, but because she is so cheerful. She diffuses
-cheerfulness. She sat beaming at her little son, while he scattered
-crumbs for the birds, and she informed me--it was in 1912--that he was
-in the latest fashion, having a nurse from England to give him the real
-English pronunciation, though as yet he was hardly a linguist. And the
-nurse said, "I tell madam we must be pietient with 'im; we can't expect
-'im to talk like I do hall at once."
-
-Also the lady informed me that they had finished arranging their
-new house, and that on the morrow I must go there to dejeuner. Very
-readily I went, and they showed me the "English nursery," and an
-American contrivance that she had presented to her husband for his
-dressing-room--"_Comme ils sont pratiques, les americains_!"--and an
-antique or two that she had picked up for his study; and, not least,
-she showed us both some croquettes de pommes that looked ethereal
-and--I have never tasted croquettes de pommes like madame Aribaud's!
-I always say she is the most domesticated of pretty women, and her
-husband the most pampered of good fellows. Playgoers who know him
-merely by his comedies, in which married people get on together so
-badly up to the fourth act, might be surprised to see inside his villa.
-
-Only when he and I were lounging in the study afterwards--my hostess
-was in the little garden, pretending to be a horse--I said to him, as
-the boy's shouts came up to us through the open window, "Doesn't the
-child disturb you out there when you're busy?"
-
-My friend nodded. "Sometimes," he acknowledged, "he disturbs me. What
-would you have? He must play, and the 'garden' is too diminutive for
-him to go far away in it. It makes me think of what Dumas pere said
-when he paid a visit to his son's chalet in the suburbs--'Open your
-dining-room window and give your garden some air!' Once or twice I have
-wondered whether I should work in a front room, instead, but to tell
-you the truth, I always come to the conclusion that I like the noise.
-Believe me, a dramatist may suffer from worse drawbacks than a child's
-laughter." He blew smoke thoughtfully, and added, "I had a wife who was
-childless."
-
-Now, though I knew Maurice Aribaud very well indeed, I had never heard
-that this was his second marriage, and I suppose I stared.
-
-"Yes," he said again, "I had a wife who was childless." And then, with
-many pauses, he told me a lot that I had not suspected about his life,
-and though I can't pretend to remember his precise words, or the exact
-order in which details were forthcoming, I am going to quote him as
-well as I can.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-"I had not two louis to knock together when I met her--and I wasn't
-so very young. I had been writing for the theatre for years, and had
-begun to despair of ever seeing anything produced. To complete my
-misery, I had no companionship, if one excepts books--no friend who
-wrote, or aspired to write, no acquaintance who did not draw his screw
-from a billet as humdrum as my own. I was a clerk in the Magasins du
-Louvre, and though of course the other men in the office talked about
-plays--in France everybody is interested in plays; in England, I hear,
-you are interested only in the players--none of them was so congenial
-that I was tempted to announce my ambitions to him. I used to think how
-exciting it must be to know authors and artists, even though they were
-obscure and out-at-elbows. Every night, as I walked home and passed the
-windows of a bohemian cafe I used to look at it wistfully. I envied the
-fiercest disappointments of the habitues inside, for they were at least
-professionals of sorts; they moved on a different planet from myself.
-Once in a blue moon I found the resolution to enter, pushing the door
-open timidly, like a provincial venturing into Paillard's. I suppose
-I had a vague hope that something might happen, something that would
-yield confidences, perhaps a comrade for life. But I sat in the place
-embarrassed, with the air of an intruder, and came out feeling even
-lonelier than when I went in.
-
-"One windy, wet day I was at the mont-de-piete to redeem my watch.
-I had pawned it two or three weeks before, because I had seen a
-second-hand copy of a book that I wanted very much and couldn't
-afford at the moment. I will not inquire whether you have ever pawned
-anything in Paris, yourself, but if you haven't, you may not know the
-formalities of the _degagement_. Ah, you have pawned things only in
-London.
-
-"Well, after you have paid the principal and the interest, you are
-given a numbered ticket, and then you go into a large room and take
-your choice among uncomfortable benches, and wait your turn. It is
-something like cashing a cheque at the head office of the Credit
-Lyonnais, only at the mont-de-piete the people on the benches sit
-waiting for the most disparate articles. On one side of you, there may
-be a fashionably dressed woman who rises to receive a jewel-case--and
-on the other, some piteous creature who clutches at a bundle. The goods
-and chattels descend in consignments, and when one consignment has been
-distributed, the interval before the next comes down threatens to be
-endless. The officials behind the counter converse in undertones, and
-you meanwhile have nothing livelier to do than listen to the rain and
-wonder how hard-up your neighbour may be.
-
-"That day, however, I did not chafe at the delay. There was a young
-girl there whose face caught and held my attention almost immediately.
-Not only was her prettiness remarkable--her expression was astonishing.
-She looked happy. Yes, in the gaunt room, among the damp, dismal
-crowd, relieving the tedium by a heavy sigh or an occasional shuffling
-of their shoes, this fair-haired, neat, innocent little girl looked
-happy. Smiles hovered about her lips, and her eyes sparkled with
-contentment. I tried to conjecture the reason for her delight, what
-treasured possession she was about to regain. A trinket? No, something
-indefinable in her bearing forbade me to think it was a trinket. My
-imagination ranged over a dozen possible pledges, without finding one
-to harmonise with her. Ridiculous as it sounds, I could picture nothing
-so appropriate for her to recover as a canary, which should fly,
-singing, to her finger. Every time a number was called, curiosity made
-me hope that her turn had come. The latest load that had been delivered
-was almost exhausted. Only three packages remained. Another call, and
-she got up at last! The package was a bulky one. I craned my neck. It
-was a typewriter.
-
-"Quite five minutes more lagged by before I got my watch, and when I
-crossed the courtyard I had no expectation of seeing her again; but no
-sooner had I passed through the gate than I discovered her in trouble.
-She had been trying to carry the typewriter and an open umbrella, and
-now the umbrella had blown inside out, and she had put the typewriter
-on the pavement.
-
-"In such a situation it was not difficult for me to speak.
-
-"I picked the thing up for her. She thanked me, and made another
-ineffectual attempt to depart. I offered my help. She demurred. I
-insisted. We made for her tram together--and tram after tram was full.
-It had been raining for several hours and Paris was a lake of mud. In
-the end I trudged beside her through the swimming streets, carrying
-her typewriter all the way to the step of her lodging. So began my
-courtship.
-
-"She was as solitary as I; her father's death had left her quite alone.
-He had been old, and very poor. Blind, too. But his work had been done
-up to the last, my little sweetheart guiding him to the houses--he
-had earned a living as a piano-tuner. In Sevres she had an aunt, his
-sister-in-law; but though the woman boasted a respectable business
-and was fairly well-to-do, she had come foward with nothing more
-substantial than advice, and the orphan had had only her typewriter to
-keep the wolf from the door. Her struggles in Paris with a typewriter!
-She had been forced to pawn it every time she lost a situation. But
-every time she saved enough to recapture it she felt prosperous again.
-Her own machine meant 'luxuries.' With her own machine she could afford
-a plant to put in her attic window, and a rosebud for her breast.
-
-"She loved flowers, and she often wore them, tucked in her bodice,
-after the Magasins du Louvre closed--the lonely clerk used to hurry
-to meet the little typist on her way home. Yet she told me once
-that her love for them had come very late; for years the sight of
-all flowers had saddened her. She had been born on that melancholy
-boulevard that leads to the cemetery of Pere La Chaise, that quarter
-of it where one sees, exposed for sale, nothing but floral tokens for
-the mourners--nothing to right and left but mountains of artificial
-wreaths, and drear chrysanthemums in stiff white paper cones. As a
-child she had thought that flowers were grown only for graves.
-
-"I recall the courtship in all seasons, and always in the streets--when
-the trees were brown and the light faded while we walked; and when the
-trees had whitened and the lamps were gleaming; and when the trees grew
-green and we walked in sunshine. It was in the streets that we fell in
-love--in the streets that I asked her if she would marry me.
-
-"We were on the quai des Orfevres one Sunday afternoon in summer. I
-had meant to wait till we were in the Garden of the Tuileries, but
-we had stopped to look at the river, and I can see it all now, the
-barge folk's washing hanging out to bleach, and a woman knitting among
-the geraniums on a deck. There was a little fishing-tackle shop, I
-remember, called 'Au Bon Pecheur,' and a poodle and a Persian cat were
-basking together on the doorstep. Our hands just touched, because
-of the people passing; and then we went on to the Tuileries, and
-talked. And before we seemed to have talked much, it was moonlight; a
-concert had begun, and away in the distance a violinist was playing
-_La Precieuse_. 'Why,' I exclaimed,' I've given you no dinner!' She
-laughed; she hadn't been hungry, either. No millionaires have ever
-dined at Armenonville more merrily than we, for a hundred sous, at a
-little table on a sidewalk.
-
-"She said, 'When I am your wife, I shall type-write all your plays for
-you, Maurice--perhaps that will bring you luck.' And by and by, when we
-came to the Magasins du Louvre, she pointed to the Comedie-Francaise:
-'You haven't far to travel to reach it, dearest!' she smiled--'we'll
-cross the road together.'
-
-"How sweet she looked in the wedding frock that she had stitched! How
-proud I was of her! Our menage was two rooms on the left bank; and in
-the evening, in our tiny salon on the sixth floor, her devoted hands
-clattered away on her machine, transcribing my manuscript, till I
-kissed and held them prisoners. Didn't she work hard enough all day for
-strangers, poor child?--my salary was too small to liberate her. 'You
-are jealous,' she would say gaily, 'because I write your dialogue so
-much faster than you.' And often I wished that I could create a scene
-as rapidly as she typewrote it. But we had our unpractical evenings,
-also, when we built castles-in-the-air, and chose the furniture for
-them. I had brought home, from the Magasins, one of the diaries that
-they issue annually. It contained plans of the theatres--it always
-does--and, perched on my knee, she pictured a play of mine at each
-of them in turn, and the house rocking with applause. And then we
-pencilled the private box we'd have; and drove, in fancy and our
-auto-mobile, to sit there grandly on the three-hundredth night.
-
-"We spent many hours in selecting presents that I would have made to
-her if I could. One of the things she wanted was, of course, a theatre
-bag: 'the prettiest that you can pretend!' and I pretended a beauty
-for her in rose brocade--and inside I put the daintiest enamelled
-opera-glasses that the rue de la Paix could show, and a fan of Brussels
-point, and a Brussels-point handkerchief, and a quaint gold bonbonniere
-with sugared violets in it. I remember she threw her arms round my neck
-as ecstatically as if the things were really there. We were, at the
-time, supping on stale bread, with a stick of chocolate apiece."
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The dramatist sat silent, his eyes grown wide. I think that for a
-moment he had forgotten his new, desirable home and the antiques on the
-mantelpiece--that he was back in a girl's arms in a room on a sixth
-floor. Under the window, his wife had ceased to play at horses, and was
-swinging their son, instead. The child's delight was boisterous.
-
-She called up to us now: "Are we a nuisance, messieurs? Shall we go to
-the nursery?"
-
-"No, no," cried Aribaud, starting, "not at all; we are doing nothing.
-Continue, mon ange, continue!"
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-"What a heaven opened," he went on, turning to me, "when I had a piece
-taken at last! As long as I live I shall think of the morning that
-letter came, of our reading it together, half dressed, and crying with
-joy. She was making the coffee for breakfast. And yet, even when the
-contract was signed, it sometimes seemed incredible. I used to dream
-that it had happened, and dream that I was dreaming--that I was to wake
-and find it wasn't true. And the eternity of delay, the postponements,
-one after another! And then, when we felt worn out with waiting, the
-night that we jolted to the show in an omnibus, and sat breathless in
-the fauteuils de balcon! I remember the first laugh of approval that
-the audience gave, her clutching my hand; and how she clung to me,
-sobbing and comforting, when we got home and knew that the piece had
-failed.
-
-"I had a short run the next autumn with _Successeur de Son Pere_, but
-my first hit, of course, was _Les Huit Jours de Leonie_. When that was
-produced, the fees came tumbling in.
-
-"Weren't we dazed at the beginning! And how important we felt to be
-taking a flat and going to a bureau de placement to engage a servant!
-We were like children playing with a doll's-house. The change was
-marvellous. And when I received an invitation from somebody or other
-who had been unapproachable only a year before--her exultance to
-see me go! The invitations to the author, you understand, did not
-always include his wife; and, unfortunately, those that ignored her
-were often those that it would have been unwise for me to decline. I
-found that rather pathetic; we had hoped together for so long, and now
-that success had come she wasn't getting her fair half of the fun. An
-elaborate evening gown that we had hurried expectantly to order for her
-was not needed, after all--it was out of fashion before she wore it.
-Still, as I say, she exulted to see me go--at first. And later Well,
-when I insisted on a refusal because she had not been asked, it grieved
-her that I neglected opportunities for her sake; and when I consented
-to go without her she was, not unnaturally, dull.
-
-"It was not very lively for her in the daytime, either. When my duties
-as a clerk had taken me from her, she, too, had had employment, but
-now, of course, her berth had been resigned, and while I wrote all
-day upstairs, she was alone. She was not used to leisure--all her
-life she had worked. We had no child to claim her time, to occupy her
-thoughts and yield the interests of maternity. Though she endeavoured
-to create distractions for herself, the flat that we had been so proud
-of was rather dreary for her, after its novelty faded. She sighed in it
-oftener than she laughed.
-
-"The very few women that she met were actresses, who talked of nothing
-but their careers--their genius, their wrongs, and their Press notices.
-What companion could she find among them, even had I wished her to
-seek their companionship? And the men who came to us also talked shop
-continuously, and directed themselves chiefly to _me_. No doubt they
-would have had enough, and too much, to say to her had I been absent,
-but, as it was, they often appeared to forget that she was there. As
-time went on, too, the theatre made more and more demands upon me--a
-comedy in rehearsal while another was being written; the telephone
-bell always ringing to call me away just when I had arranged to take a
-half-holiday with her. And when I left the theatre I could not dismiss
-the anxieties of a production from my mind as I had dismissed the
-affairs of the Magasins when I left my office stool--they were mine,
-and I brought them home with me. She grew bored, restless. She was
-nervy with solitude, and chagrined at feeling herself insignificant.
-She told me one day that she wanted me to put her on the stage.
-
-"Mon Dieu! To begin with, she had no gift for the stage--and if she had
-been ever so clever, did I want to see her there? I was aghast.
-
-"'But, mignonne,' I said, 'what makes you think, all of a sudden, you
-could act? Leaving everything else aside, what reason is there to
-suppose you would succeed? You have had no experience, you have never
-even shown the slightest tendency towards it.'
-
-"'I want something to do,' she said.
-
-"'But,' I said,' that isn't enough. And besides, you would not like
-it at all--you would find it odious. You sit in a box and you see
-a celebrated woman bringing the house down, and to be an actress
-looks to you very fine. But she has been half a lifetime arriving at
-celebrity--there is nothing fine about the journey to it. You would
-feel that you had given up a good deal, I assure you--a dramatist's
-wife in the box is a much more dignified figure than a dramatist's wife
-rehearsing a trivial part and being corrected by the stage-manager.'
-
-"'I did not mean trivial parts,' she said disconsolately--and I
-realised for the first time that she had been dreaming of a debut in
-the principal role. But she let the discussion drop, and I half thought
-I had convinced her.
-
-"I was very much mistaken. A few weeks later she referred to it again,
-and more urgently. She seemed to imagine that her project was a
-perfectly simple matter for me to arrange, that the only obstacle in
-the way was my personal objection to it. 'What you say about trivial
-parts is quite true,' she acknowledged, with an air of being extremely
-reasonable, 'but in one of your own pieces you could easily get me
-lead. Everybody wants plays from you now; you would only have to say
-that you wished me to be engaged. Of course, I should study; I should
-go to a professor of diction and take lessons.'
-
-"Well, I tried to explain the commercial aspect of the case to her.
-I told her that, for one thing, the managers would see my plays in
-Jericho before they agreed to entrust the leading part to a novice.
-And I told her that, supposing for an instant I did find a manager
-reckless enough to consent, I should be ruining my own property.
-
-"'Ah,' she said, 'you make up your mind in advance that I have no
-dramatic instinct?'
-
-"I said: 'It is not even a question whether you have any dramatic
-instinct; it is enough that you haven't any renown. You have heard too
-much of the business by this time not to know that everybody tries to
-secure the most popular artists that he can. For me to put up a play
-with an absolutely unknown name, instead of a star's, would be asking
-for a failure.'
-
-"'If I were billed as "madame Aribaud" the name would not be unknown,'"
-she argued.
-
-"'Whether you were billed as "madame Aribaud," or as anybody else,' I
-said, 'the point would be how good you were in the part. The public
-would not pay to see an indifferent performance because you were madame
-Aribaud.'
-
-"'Ah, then you admit it--that is it, after all!' she cried; 'you
-declare beforehand that I have no ability. Why should you say such a
-thing? It isn't right of you.'
-
-"I said: 'I declare beforehand that you have had no training! I declare
-beforehand that you could not master, in a few weeks or months, a
-technique that other women acquire only after years. And on top of all
-that, I declare that I don't want to see you in the profession. Why
-do you become dissatisfied after we have got on? Why can't you be as
-content as you used to be when we had nothing?'
-
-"'The days are longer than they used to be; I want something to do,'
-she insisted.
-
-"Oh, I understood! But I need hardly tell you that this fever of hers
-didn't make for bliss. The theatre became a bone of contention between
-us--the position that I had dreamed of and yearned for was dividing me
-from my wife. It got worse every year. I no longer dared to mention
-business in my home. We were on affectionate terms only in the hours
-when the theatre was forgotten. One day I would hold her in my arms,
-and on the next some chance allusion would estrange us. If I happened
-to come across a little actress who was suitable to a more conspicuous
-part than those that she had had hitherto, my casting her for it
-was a domestic tragedy--I 'made opportunities for every woman but
-one!' I have been told that strangers who pestered me for theatrical
-engagements complained that I was unsympathetic--they little guessed
-how I was pestered for engagements on my own hearth!
-
-"The aunt at Sevres also had something to say. She had managed to get
-on a semi-friendly footing with us when _Les Huit Jours_ was running,
-and now she had the effrontery to take the tone of a mother-in-law with
-me. She 'knew I was devoted to her niece, but I was not being fair to
-her--I ought to realise that she had a right to a career, too.' What
-audacity!--a woman who had given nothing but phrases when her niece was
-penniless! I did not wrap up my answer in silver paper--and I fancy the
-aunt's influence was responsible for a good deal; I think she revenged
-herself by offering all the encouragement possible behind my back.
-
-"Anyhow, my wife announced to me at last that she had determined to go
-her own road without my help. It was as if she had struck me.
-
-"She meant to seek an opening in some minor company in the
-provinces--in the obscurest of the theatres ambulants, if she could do
-no better. It sounded so mad that at first I could hardly believe she
-was in earnest. The doggedness of her air soon convinced me; I would
-have welcomed the wildest hysteria in preference. Since I refused to
-further her ambition, she must resign herself to beginning in the
-humblest way, she told me quietly; she 'regretted to defy my wishes,
-but she was a woman, and I had been wrong to expect from her the blind
-obedience of a child--she could not consent to remain a nonentity any
-longer!' She dumfounded me. It meant actual separation, it meant the
-end of our life together--and she was telling me this composedly,
-coolly, as if our life together were the merest trifle, compared with
-the fascination of the footlights. I cursed the footlights and the day
-I first wrote for them. I swear I wished myself back in the Magasins
-du Louvre. My excitement was so violent that I could not articulate; I
-stuttered and stood mute. I went from her overwhelmed, asking myself
-what I was to do.
-
-"There is one course that never fails to remedy marital unhappiness
-and bring husband and wife together again--on the stage. It is when
-he leads her to an ottoman, and, standing a pace or two behind her,
-proceeds with tender gravity to recite a catalogue of her defects. He
-contrasts them pathetically with the virtues that endeared her to him
-in the springtime of their union--and the wife, moved to tears, becomes
-immediately and for ever afterwards the girl that she used to be. The
-situation is pretty, it is popular, and it is quite untrue, for in real
-life one cannot recreate a character by making a speech. However, I was
-a dramatist, and more credulous than I am now, and I tried.
-
-"For days I pondered what I should say. Arguments were plentiful, but
-the problem was how to present them forcefully enough to show her the
-wildness of her plan, and yet gently enough to avoid incensing her.
-Our future hung upon the scene, and I prayed to Heaven that not a
-tactless word should escape me. I knew that we had reached the crisis,
-that a mistaken adjective, even an impatient gesture, might be fatal.
-I considered and reconsidered that appeal with more tireless fervour
-than any lines that I have ever put into the mouth of a leading man.
-I thought about it so much that sometimes I was enraged to find the
-things I meant to say falling mentally into sentences too rhythmic and
-rounded, as if I had indeed been writing for the stage, and I damned
-my metier anew. You are an author yourself, my friend--you should
-understand: I longed to open my heart to her with all simplicity--never
-had any one sought to pour his heart out more earnestly, more freely,
-more unaffectedly than I--and it seemed to me in these moments that the
-artifices of the theatre were fighting against me to the very end. It
-was as if its influence were unconquerable--it had surmounted her love
-for me, and now it threatened even to mock my plea!
-
-"Enfin, the opportunity came. She sat down on the couch--the ottoman
-of the stage situation--and I began to speak, with all the tenderness
-and gravity of the stage husband. Struggle as I would to banish the
-thought, I could not help being conscious of our resemblance to the
-hero and heroine of a thousand comedies in the last act. I say that I
-'began' to speak, and that I felt constrained by a shoal of theatrical
-reminiscences, but our likeness to the hero and heroine was brief. She
-interrupted me, she defied the dramatic convention. In lieu of being
-moved to tears, she replied, with a world of dignity, that the faults
-were mine. She advised me, for my own sake, to try to attain a more
-unselfish view. With a flow of impromptu eloquence that I envied, she
-warned me that, though I was not intentionally unjust, I was allowing
-'prejudice and egotism to warp my better nature.' Before I knew what
-had happened, I stood listening to a homily. The situation that meant
-my last hope had come out upside down!"
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Aribaud paused again. On the little lawn the child had left the swing;
-the most devoted of wives and mothers was playing _chat perche_ with
-him now. They made a pretty picture, but my thoughts were with her
-predecessor; I was mourning the love-story that had begun like an
-idyll, and that seemed to have had so bad an end.
-
-The man's voice brought me back. "Yes, the infallible situation had
-failed," he repeated. "What do you suppose was the sequel?"
-
-"I suppose," I sighed, "she had her way?"
-
-"No," said Aribaud; "she had her baby." He waved a triumphant hand
-towards the garden. "And from the first promise of that God-sent gift,
-the glamour of the theatre faded from her mind and me talked only of
-her home. From that day to this we have been as happy together as you
-see us now."
-
-My exclamation was cut short by the hostess whose history I had been
-hearing.
-
-"Messieurs, are you really sure we aren't laughing too much for you?"
-she pealed up to us again.
-
-"Sure, sure! It is well--it is as it should be--we come to join you,"
-shouted Aribaud. "Laugh loud, my love--laugh on!"
-
-
-
-
-III
-
-THAT VILLAIN HER FATHER
-
-
-Henri Vauquelin was a widower with one daughter, to whom he had denied
-nothing from the time she used to whimper for his watch and drop it on
-the floor. So, after she left the convent where she had been educated,
-and told him how much she was missing her friend Georgette, he said
-gaily, "Mais, ma petite, invite mademoiselle--whatever her name may be,
-to come to Paris and stay with us for a month."
-
-His gaiety was a trifle forced, however. Though he was happy to
-give his daughter a companion, he was pained to learn that his own
-companionship hadn't been enough. "For I have done all I could," he
-mused. "The fact is, that though I feel fairly young, I am elderly.
-That's the trouble. To a girl of twenty-one, a father of forty-five
-is an ancient for the chimney corner. I must see about finding her a
-husband--I shall have to talk to madame Daudenarde about her son the
-first time I am in the neighbourhood." And after Blanche had flung her
-arms round his neck, and darted forth to send the invitation to her
-friend, he surveyed his reflection in a glass pensively, and noted that
-his moustache was much greyer than he had thought.
-
-When the indispensable Georgette arrived, in a costume that became her
-admirably, and sat at dinner, in a dress that became her more admirably
-still, replying to him with composure and point, he was surprised at
-the girls' attraction for each other--and his surprise did not diminish
-as the days passed. Though not actually more than two or three years
-older than Blanche, mademoiselle Paumelle was in tone much older.
-Blanche was an ingenue; Georgette was a woman. Excepting in moments,
-when she romped like a schoolgirl, all spontaneity and high spirits.
-
-"She is a queer compound, your chum," he remarked when she had been
-with them for a fortnight. "Alternately thirty, and thirteen!"
-
-"You don't like her, papa?"
-
-"Oh, yes, she is well enough, and not bad-looking. I am relieved she
-did not turn out to be ugly--that would have depressed me. But it is a
-trifle confusing to be uncertain whether I am about to be addressed by
-a woman of the world or a madcap from a nursery."
-
-"She used always to be a madcap till she lost her mother--you see,
-there are only her stepfather and his two sisters now. It is that that
-has changed her so dreadfully."
-
-"I find nothing 'dreadful' about her," said Vauquelin a shade sharply.
-"On the contrary, it--I suppose some people might find it rather
-fascinating. I merely observe that she is different from any other girl
-that I have met. What's the matter with her stepfather?"
-
-"She tells me he never stops talking."
-
-"His topics must be pretty catholic. This jeune fille from the country
-appears to know more of politics, finance, society, and sport than I,
-who have lived in Paris forty-five years."
-
-"How you do exaggerate, papa!" rippled Blanche reprovingly.
-
-"At any rate, I do not exaggerate the years," sighed Vauquelin. "Well,
-if she is not happy at home, why not ask her to stay with us for _two_
-months? She is not in my way, you know."
-
-But mademoiselle Paumelle declared that it would be impossible for her
-to prolong her visit. Blanche reported this to him with wistful lips,
-and he said, "I'll see if _I_ can persuade her--I will speak to her
-about it in the morning when you go to take your music-lesson."
-
-On the morrow, "Blanche tells me that she is greatly disappointed," he
-began. "She will miss you terribly when you leave us, mademoiselle. I
-wish you would think over your objection."
-
-"It is infinitely kind of you, monsieur Vauquelin. I fear that a month
-is the very most I can manage."
-
-"Even to do us a service?"
-
-"Ah, a 'service'!" She smiled. "You will find plenty of people ready to
-do you such services."
-
-"Not plenty of mesdemoiselles Paumelle. I am in earnest. It is dull
-here for Blanche, alone with me. I have done my best for her, I am
-not consciously selfish--I have sat at home when I wanted to go out,
-and gone out when I wanted to stop at home. I have taken her to the
-Francais and pretended to enjoy myself, though I could have yawned my
-head off, and the question of her clothes has absorbed me more than the
-affairs of France. But I am old. All my tenderness for her cannot alter
-that."
-
-"You do not seem to me old," said mademoiselle Paumelle.
-
-"Don't I?" said Vauquelin, regarding her gratefully. "Look how grey my
-moustache is getting. And yet, do you know, when we're all laughing
-together I feel as young as ever I was."
-
-"Your manner _is_ young. The face alters ever so long before the
-manner."
-
-"I am forty-f--er--over forty, and Blanche is twenty-one. What will
-you? I must get her married soon. It is my paramount desire. I rather
-fancy that Daudenarde and she may not dislike each other--the gentleman
-you saw the other evening."
-
-"She was doing her hair from seven o'clock till eight, and he sighed
-when he handed her the lemonade."
-
-"Your observation is invaluable. I must have a chat with his mother
-soon. It would be an excellent match. In the meantime she stands in
-need of the companionship and counsel of a young lady like you; she
-needs it most urgently. If your stepfather can spare you----"
-
-"Ah, my stepfather could spare me for ever," she put in; "there are
-others to listen to him."
-
-"And if you are not bored here----"
-
-"Bored? I am having the time of my life."
-
-"Eh bien? Remain for two months, I beg. Be merciful to us. I need
-your advice, myself. There is a matter that is harassing me: I cannot
-determine whether her new jumper should be beaded, silk-broidered, or
-fringed."
-
-"If it is telling on your health----" Her eyes laughed into his.
-
-"You yield?"
-
-"I weakly wobble."
-
-"There is, further, the consuming question of a simple evening
-dress--what it should be made of."
-
-"I succumb. Tulle would be all right, or Georgette."
-
-"It shall be Georgette--we shall not lose you so utterly when you go."
-
-"Oh, you _are_--priceless!" she pealed.
-
-Vauquelin reflected, "She has three sterling qualities, this girl--she
-is pretty, she is nice, and she looks at me as if I were a young man."
-
-During the next six weeks Vauquelin developed a zest for the Francais
-that was astonishing. And not for the Francais only, or for the Opera
-Comique, and concerts, and kinemas. Blanche had never applauded
-her papa so ardently. He would be seized with captivating whims
-for expeditions, and picnics, and moonlight runs in the car. His
-frolicsomeness passed belief.
-
-Not till the six weeks were over and mademoiselle Paumelle had
-departed, bearing Blanche with her, did his spirits fall. And then
-there would have been no buyers. The middle-aged gentleman was plunged
-into melancholy, the worse to bear from the fact that he was conscious
-of being comic. Trying to throw dust in his own eyes, "It is frightful
-how I miss Blanche," he would soliloquise at the elegiac dinner-table.
-But the eyes were fixed sentimentally on the place that had been
-Georgette's. And as the date approached for Blanche to return, and his
-heart sank before the necessity for resuming his capers, "It is clear,"
-he told himself, "that the affection I entertained for that Georgette
-Paumelle was almost parental!"
-
-The fatherliness of his feelings for her, however, did not avert
-increased regrets at the greying moustache; and he abandoned his
-shaving mirror, because it magnified the lines about his nose and mouth.
-
-Blanche, on his knee again, had plenty to tell. She described the
-stepfather as a "trial," and his maiden sisters as "cats." She had
-enjoyed herself, because Georgette and she had been together all day,
-but it must be hideous there for Georgette alone. "She isn't going to
-stick it much longer. She is miserable with them."
-
-"How distressing that is!" said Vauquelin. "To whom does she go?"
-
-"Well, she has money of her own, you know--she can live where she
-likes."
-
-"_Mais--Comment donc_? She cannot live by herself--une jeune fille,
-bien elevee! What an idea! Her people would never sanction it."
-
-"I think they would be rather glad to get rid of her," said Blanche,
-choosing a chocolate with deliberation.
-
-"But--but it is monstrous! To live like a bohemian, _she_! It is
-unheard of, terrible. Is she out of her mind? Listen, ma cherie, if her
-plight upsets you so violently, she can make her home with us."
-
-"Ah, papa!" cried Blanche in ecstasy. "It is the very thing I thought
-of, but I was afraid it was too much to ask you."
-
-"Now, when did I ever refuse you anything?"
-
-"But such an enormous favour!"
-
-"Not at all, not at all. I shall adapt myself to the arrangement well
-enough."
-
-"But, papa, it might get on your nerves in time."
-
-"Not at all, not at all. There is my study for me to retire to--I shall
-not see more of her than I want to."
-
-"You promise that?"
-
-"I can swear it."
-
-"Oh, it will be adorable! I only wonder if I am being selfish to let
-you do it."
-
-"I insist," said Vauquelin, with a noble gesture. "Say we entreat her
-to agree, that we shall be wounded if she declines. Say our flat is her
-home for as long as she will honour us--the longer, the better. _I_
-will write a few lines to her, too. Be tranquil, my sweet child--I do
-not sacrifice myself. Is it not my highest joy to indulge you?"
-
-After many letters had been indited to her, mademoiselle Paumelle was
-prevailed upon to come; and after many remonstrances had been made to
-her, she ceased to speak of going. But for the fact that her gifts
-to the girl were expensive, it was as if she were a member of the
-family. Blanche was relieved to note that her papa was not driven to
-the seclusion of his study often; and never did he withdraw to it when
-Blanche was absent, to take her music-lesson. As he had predicted,
-Vauquelin adapted himself to the arrangement plastically. He approved
-it so much, especially the tete-a-tete during the music-lessons, that
-when six months had flashed by, he resented an incident which reminded
-him that it couldn't be permanent. A monsieur Brigard, an old comrade,
-arrived to advocate nothing less than that Blanche should espouse
-Brigard's boy.
-
-"My friend, I have other views for my daughter," replied Vauquelin
-firmly.
-
-But the arrival dejected him, in the knowledge that when Blanche
-should marry, Georgette would have to go. And in their next hour alone
-together, Georgette asked him what his worry was.
-
-"Nothing. I am a little--we must all think of the future, our
-children's future. A father has responsibilities."
-
-"A propos de--what? Am I inquisitive?"
-
-"Do I not confide everything to you? Some pest has made matrimonial
-overtures about his son. Preposterous."
-
-"The young man's position is not good enough?"
-
-"Ah, his position is first rate. I say nothing against his position."
-
-"It is his character that displeases you?"
-
-"No. As for that, he is steady, and not unamiable."
-
-"But what do you complain of?"
-
-Vauquelin waved his hand vaguely. "The proposal does not accord with my
-ideas. I have different intentions for her."
-
-"Ah, yes, that monsieur Daudenarde! I thought perhaps that affair had
-faded out."
-
-"By no means," affirmed Vauquelin, clutching at the excuse. "Precisely.
-I wish her to marry monsieur Daudenarde. And that is a sound and
-laudable reason why I should resent being badgered by Brigard. I find
-such intrusions on my routine very offensive. Daudenarde's mother and I
-are going to have a little talk together some time or other."
-
-"But----"
-
-"What?"
-
-"You decided to have a little talk with her nine or ten months ago."
-
-"I must avoid precipitance. In such matters a father cannot act with
-too much caution."
-
-"Blanche is a darling. But there are other girls in Paris. If you
-desire the match, be careful you don't let him slip."
-
-"Have no misgiving," said Vauquelin irritably. "I am quite content.
-Madame Daudenarde will receive a visit from me--when Blanche is older.
-And we shall see what we shall see."
-
-The captivating Georgette looked thoughtful. The more so after a chat
-with Blanche had drawn forth the nervous confession that she "thought
-monsieur Daudenarde very nice."
-
-And then, when the volatile father had banished the menace of the
-future from his mind, and was again basking in the sunshine of the
-present, what should happen but that madame Daudenarde inconsiderately
-broached the matter to him, instead of waiting for him to approach her.
-
-"Dear lady, my daughter is too young," replied Vauquelin promptly.
-
-"How, too young?" demurred madame Daudenarde. "She is one-and-twenty. I
-was but nineteen when I married."
-
-"Yes," said Vauquelin, "but my sainted mother did not marry till she
-was thirty-two, and she always impressed upon me that it was the best
-age."
-
-"Thirty-two?" cried madame Daudenarde shrilly. "Do you ask me to
-adjourn our conference for eleven years?"
-
-"My honoured friend, I do not make it a hard-and-fast condition,"
-stammered the unhappy man, struggling for coherence. "It is possible
-there may be something to be said against it. But your gratifying
-proposal is so sudden--I had not contemplated the alliance--I need time
-to balance my parental duties against my reverence for my mother's
-views."
-
-Now, Georgette, who could put two and two together as accurately as
-the Minister of Finance, had not failed to remark that the interview
-took place privately in the study, and noted that her host was evasive
-when Blanche inquired why madame Daudenarde had "called at such a funny
-time." Feelers during the next music-lesson found him evasive also.
-In the days that followed, when Blanche developed a tendency to sigh
-plaintively, and turned against chocolates, it grew clear to Georgette
-that this father must be shown the error of his ways.
-
-"May I say that I hope that conversation with madame Daudenarde
-contented you?" she ventured.
-
-"Hein?" said Vauquelin, starting.
-
-"That the engagement will soon be announced?"
-
-"Mon Dieu, is it not extraordinary how people seek to rob me of my
-child?" he moaned.
-
-"Does that mean that nothing is arranged yet?"
-
-"Why not leave well alone? Are we not all comfortable as we are? I have
-made no definite reply to madame Daudenarde--I cannot be bustled. Have
-you ever thought that when I part from Blanche, I shall be left here by
-myself?"
-
-"Yes. It has even occurred to me that you have thought of it, too."
-
-"Naturally. It is not strange that I should tremble at such a prospect.
-To be solitary is a sad thing."
-
-"It is for your own sake, then, not hers, that you delay?"
-
-"For the first time I find you lacking!" he broke out. "You do not seem
-to comprehend the workings of a father's heart."
-
-"I have never had one."
-
-"Don't split straws! When I lose her I shall be alone. You do not
-require to be a father to know that."
-
-"You could always go to see her."
-
-"Flute!"
-
-"And your grandchildren. Respectful grandchildren that clustered at
-your knee."
-
-"I will not anticipate grandchildren--I am not a hundred!" exclaimed
-Vauquelin angrily. "I repeat that the present conditions are entirely
-to my taste, and I desire to prolong them."
-
-"It is also possible you might re-marry."
-
-"At my age? Who would have me? Some ripe and ruddled widow."
-
-"Girls, quite young, marry men much older than you."
-
-"But not for love. Tell me, what would you put me down at? Without
-flattery."
-
-"I should call you in the prime of life."
-
-"The friendly phrase for 'senile.' Depend upon it, people said that
-to Methuselah. Supposing--a man is never too old to make a fool
-of himself, you know--supposing, for the sake of argument, I felt
-a tenderness, a devotion for a girl scarcely older than Blanche: a
-devotion which I strove to think platonic, even while I sighed under
-her window, and which revived in me unsought, the emotions--all the
-sentiment, the throes, the absurdities--of the youth that had gone
-from me before I knew how divine it was. Would it--could it--is it
-imaginable that she might not laugh?"
-
-"She would not laugh if she were worth it all."
-
-"To marry me for love--a girl? To see me romantic without thinking me
-ridiculous--to melt to my tears, not shrink from the crows'-feet round
-my eyes? I wonder!"
-
-"If you choose wisely, you will not wonder."
-
-"In love, who _chooses_? Fate decides. What would you call 'wisely'?
-She should be--how old?"
-
-"Old enough to know her mind. Young enough to attract you."
-
-"For the rest?"
-
-"She should have means, that you might never fear it had been yours
-that won her. She should have affection for your child, that she might
-know no jealousy of yours. She should take interest in your child's
-future, that, if you were wilful, she might guide you.... To revert to
-madame Daudenarde, I counsel you to write to-day that you consent."
-
-Vauquelin stood gazing at her incredulously.
-
-"Georgette! Georgette!" he panted. "Do you know you have given me your
-own portrait?"
-
-"With my love," she told him, smiling.
-
-
-
-
-IV
-
-THE STATUE
-
-
-In the Square d'Iena, which teems with little Parisians in charge of
-English nurses, Vera Simpson wheeled the baby-carriage to a bench on
-fine mornings, and exchanged patriotic sentiments with her compeers.
-When disparagement of France flagged, Vera Simpson occasionally
-observed. So as she always entered the square at the same end and
-nearly always chose the same bench, she observed the eccentric
-proceedings of a young man who took to coming every morning to stare at
-the statue on the opposite grass plot. After standing before it as if
-he were glued there, the young man would reverse one of the chairs that
-faced the path in an orderly line, and then sit mooning at the statue,
-with his back to everybody, for nearly an hour. It was, Miss Simpson
-surmised, a statue to a departed Frenchy. She had never approached it
-to ascertain what name it bore, and could see nothing about the thing
-to account for the fellow's taking such stock of it. Some time before
-he had appeared for nine days in succession, she and her circle had
-nicknamed him the "rum 'un."
-
-On the tenth day, instead of the young man, a woman went to the statue,
-and stood before it just as stupidly and as long as the man had done.
-The most comical bit was that, when she turned away at last, it was
-seen that the statue had been making the woman cry. After that, neither
-of the funny pair came back to the Square d'Iena; but as Vera Simpson
-chooses the same bench still, she sometimes recalls their queerness
-and, before her mind wanders, tries again to guess their game. This was
-the game that Vera Simpson tries to guess.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Gaby Dupuy was wishing that the summer were over; she was a model. Not
-one of the wretched models that wait at the corner of the boulevards
-Raspail and Montparnasse on Mondays, to crave the vote of students in
-academies; she went by appointment to the ateliers of the successful.
-But now the painters and the sculptors were all at the seaside, and her
-appointment book had shown no sitting for ever so long.
-
-Gaby's qualities had never placed her among the stars of her
-profession. Nobody had ever said of her, as a great man said of one
-of the most celebrated of models, that he had only to reproduce her
-faithfully; still less could it be asserted that she had the genius to
-penetrate an artist's purport and present the pose that was eluding
-him. But if she had neither the beauty of a Sarah Brown, nor the
-intuition of a Dubosc, her face possessed a certain attractiveness,
-and she could achieve the expression demanded of her when it was
-laboriously explained.
-
-Once upon a time her face had been more attractive still; Gaby wasn't
-so young as she used to be.
-
-While the woman was regretting that her scanty provision for the
-dreaded summer would not allow her a more adequate menu, she received
-a letter. A stranger, who signed himself Jacques Launay, earnestly
-desired an interview. He wrote that, being unfamiliar with Paris, he
-had had great difficulty in ascertaining her address, and added that,
-as his stay in the capital was drawing to a close, he would deeply
-appreciate the favour of an early reply. Her eyebrows climbed as she
-saw that, in lieu of requiring her to betake herself to his studio,
-he "begged for the privilege of calling upon her at any hour that she
-might find convenient." Probably, though, as a provincial, he hadn't
-got a studio here. Still, what deference! he had written to her as if
-she were of the ancienne noblesse.
-
-But if he hadn't a studio, where did he expect her to pose? Did he want
-her to go to him in the country? Yes, that must be it. Flute! Gaby
-didn't think it would be good enough--the end of the dead season was in
-sight at last, and in Paris she would often be booked for two studios a
-day. Nevertheless she was eager to hear what he had to say for himself.
-She answered that he could see her at seven o'clock the following
-evening at the Paradis des Artistes, round the corner. To meet him at a
-restaurant, she reflected, would at least ensure his asking her to have
-something to drink; and as the tables would be laid, by seven o'clock,
-he might even spring to a meal.
-
-The Paradis des Artistes was a small establishment where, for three
-francs, one found a homely dinner, inclusive of wine, and a cripple
-who wore a red jacket, to look like a Tzigane, and chanted to a
-mandoline. The "artistes" were chiefly models, and the lesser lights
-of a cafe-concert. As most of the company knew one another, and the
-proprietress called many of the ladies by their Christian names, and
-played piquet with them between midnight and 2 a.m., the tone of the
-restaurant was as informal as a family party. When Gaby arrived,
-the only person present whom she had never seen there before was a
-young man, who sat at a table near the door, solitary and seemingly
-expectant. Their gaze met, but although he looked undecided, he did not
-salute her. Then, as she was greeted by acquaintances, somebody cried,
-"Gaby, comment va?" and the young man's head was turned again. If he
-was her correspondent, it was rather odd that he didn't know her when
-he saw her. But she gave him another opportunity.... He approached with
-marked hesitation.
-
-"Mademoiselle Gabrielle Dupuy?"
-
-"Mais oui, monsieur," she said, smiling graciously. "It is monsieur
-Launay?"
-
-"Oh, mademoiselle, it is most kind of you!" faltered the stranger. His
-confusion was extraordinary, considering his age, for he could not have
-been less than eight- or nine-and-twenty. They stood mute for some
-seconds. As he remained too much embarrassed to suggest her taking a
-seat at his table, "I hope I have not kept you waiting?" she asked,
-carelessly moving towards it.
-
-They sat down now, and the waitress, whose tone was informal too,
-whisked over with, "And for mademoiselle Dupuy?"
-
-"Give me a glass of madere, Louise," she said.
-
-Still the young man seemed unable to find his tongue, and she went on:
-
-"I am afraid this place was rather out of the way for you? But I have
-got into the habit of dropping in here about this time; and it is cosy
-and one can talk."
-
-"Yes," he assented. He stole a timid glance at her, and looked quickly
-away. "Oh yes."
-
-"Who was it who gave you my address at last, monsieur?"
-
-"I do not know," he said awkwardly. "It was a man who heard me
-inquiring. I had immense trouble to find it out."
-
-"It is not a dead secret, however."
-
-"I suppose not--no--but I have no friends in Paris; I have never been
-in Paris before. And at the start I did not even know who you were."
-
-"You did not know who I was? Oh, you had seen something I had posed
-for?"
-
-"Yes, it was like that. I was anxious to find you, but I did not
-know your name. And I had no one to help me," he stammered; "it was
-enormously difficult."
-
-"You are a painter, monsieur Launay?"
-
-"No, mademoiselle."
-
-"Ah, a sculptor! That interests me still more."
-
-"I am not a sculptor either, mademoiselle," he admitted. "I am a
-composer."
-
-"A composer?" she echoed. "But--but a composer does not employ models."
-
-"No, mademoiselle, but I beg you not to think my motive impudent,"
-exclaimed the young man, with the first touch of spontaneity that he
-had shown yet.
-
-"Mysterious merely," she smiled. Her expression offered him
-encouragement to elucidate the mystery, but nervousness seemed to
-overcome him again. He was boring her. She exchanged remarks across the
-room with a lady who wore one of the figured veils then in vogue, under
-which the victim of fashion appeared to have lost portions of her face.
-
-"Going to feed, Gaby?"
-
-"Yes, my dear, in a minute," she answered.
-
-She saw her correspondent regard the announcement "DINER 3 Fr." His
-invitation was constrained, and her acceptance listless.
-
-It no doubt surprised the young man to discover that the veiled lady
-was his guest as well; he must have wondered how it had happened. Also
-it may have startled him, when he made to fill Gaby's glass from one of
-the little decanters that stood before them, to learn that she "did not
-take it" and to see a bottle labelled "Pouilly Fuisse" display itself
-before he could say "Why?" for he had not heard it ordered. He heard no
-order given for the second bottle that he beheld, nor for the tarte aux
-cerises that graced their repast--a delicacy that was not a feature
-of the other people's. But though these incidents may have caused
-him disquietude, since he was far from having an air of wealth, he
-manifested no objection to them. Gaby allowed that that was _gentil_.
-A singularly taciturn host, but an amenable one. And, briefly as he
-spoke, he yielded continuous attention to her prattle to the lady with
-the veil. It was queer that the more she prattled, the more despondent
-he grew. She found him piquing her curiosity.
-
-When a bill for twenty-nine francs fifty was presented to him, after
-the cafe filtre and Egyptian cigarettes, Gaby put out her hand for it
-and knocked off four francs without discussion. "I don't let them make
-their little mistakes with friends of mine," she told him languidly,
-rising. "I am going home to get my coat--you can come with me." He
-accepted her invitation with as scant enthusiasm as she had shown for
-his own; and by way of a hint, forgetful of her earlier statement, she
-added, "This place is rotten--it's so noisy and one can't talk."
-
-But he proved no more talkative in the street. One might almost have
-imagined that the task of explaining his petition for the interview was
-a duty that he sought to escape.
-
-Her lodging was so close that the doorway took him aback. He followed
-her up the stairs submissively. She was not impatient for the coat.
-After lighting the lamp, she lit another of the cigarettes, and sat.
-The young man stood staring from the window.
-
-"Well, chatterbox?" she said.
-
-He swung round with unexpected vehemence. "I know I look a hopeless
-idiot," he cried.
-
-"But ... what an idea!" Her gesture was all surprised denial.
-
-"I prayed to see you--I said nothing all the evening, I stand like a
-dummy here. I must tell you why I wrote. But--but it is not so easy as
-I thought it would be."
-
-"You make me curious."
-
-"Listen," he exclaimed. "I had had two passions in my life--music, and
-the poetry of Richardiere! No other poet has meant half--a tithe--so
-much to me as he. His work inspired me when I was a boy; if I had had
-the means, I would have taken the journey to Paris just to wait on the
-pavement and see his face when he went out. When he died----Of course
-all France mourned his loss, but none but his dearest friends, I think,
-could have felt as I did. Well, since I have been a man I have made an
-opera of his _Arizath_, and I came to Paris last week because there was
-a prospect of its being produced. Five minutes after I had found a room
-at an hotel, I was asking my way to the Square d'Iena to see the statue
-to him. I knew nothing about it excepting that it had been erected
-there--and as I approached it my heart sank: I had always pictured a
-statue of the man, and I saw merely a bust of him--the statue was of a
-woman, recalling a verse."
-
-She nodded. "I know. Beauvais kept me posing for three hours and a half
-without budging, and I had a chilblain that itched like mad on the
-finger inside the book."
-
-"The disappointment was keen. I almost wished I had not come, for it
-had been a long walk, and I was very tired. And then, after I had stood
-looking at the bust, noting how handsome he had been, and thinking
-of his genius, I looked down at the statue of the woman, and I felt
-that it would have been worth coming simply to see that. It was so
-wonderful, so real! The naturalness of the attitude, the perfection of
-the toilette--I had never realised that the sculptor's art could do
-such things; I think I looked for minutes at the slippers. I admired
-the sleeves, the sweep of the gown, that seemed as if it must be soft
-to touch; I was amazed by a thousand trifles before my glance lingered
-on the face. And after my glance lingered on the face I saw nothing
-else; I could not even move to look at it in profile--it held me fixed."
-
-"It is Beauvais' masterpiece," said Gaby; "they all say it is the
-finest thing he has done."
-
-"It is a masterpiece, yes. But I was not thinking of the sculptor and
-his art any more--I was thinking of the face, without remembering how
-it had come about. It was as if a beautiful mind were really pondering
-behind that brow. The character of the mouth and chin impressed me as
-if the marble had been flesh and blood; the abstracted eyes couldn't
-have stirred me to more reverence if they had had sight. And while
-I looked at them, they seemed, by an optical illusion, to meet my
-own. Not with interest; with an unconsciousness that mortified
-me--they seemed to gaze through my insignificance into the greatness
-of Richardiere. I blinked, I suppose, for the next instant they had
-been averted. I wanted them to come back, to realise my presence. I
-concentrated all my will upon the effort to trick myself once more--and
-I could have sworn they turned. Now, too, they seemed to notice me;
-there was a smile in them, an ironical smile--they smiled at the
-presumption of my linking an immortal poet's work with mine! Insane?
-But I felt it, I shrank from the derision. Again I raised my head to
-Richardiere, and for the first time I remarked that his expression was
-a poor acknowledgment of the figure's homage. It was consequential
-and impertinent. A tinge of cruelty in it, even. He had an air of
-sensualism, of one who held women very light. I could imagine his
-having said horrible things to women. He was not worthy of the look in
-the statue's eyes....
-
-"I went there the next day, after vowing that I would not go. The eyes
-discerned me sooner this time, and I contrived to fancy that their gaze
-was gentler. I was happy in the fancy that their gaze was gentler. When
-the eyes wandered from me I was humbled, and when they looked in mine
-I held my breath. I persuaded myself--no, I did not 'persuade myself,'
-the thought was born--that there was comprehension in the gaze, that
-my worship, though undesired, was understood. In the afternoon I had
-a business appointment that I had been thinking about for weeks, but
-instead of being excited by its nearness, I regretted that it obliged
-me to leave the Square d'Iena. When I kept the appointment, the bad
-news that there had been a delay in the arrangements hardly troubled
-me--I was impatient only to be outside. Originally my plan had been to
-see the Louvre as soon as the business was over--now my one desire was
-to return to the statue. It was a delight to hasten to it; people must
-have thought me bound for a rendezvous, as I strode smiling through
-the streets. Not once did I regard the arrogance of Richardiere on the
-pedestal, but it was only in moments that the musing figure ceased
-to remind me that her god was there. Though I never looked at it,
-an intense repugnance to the face of Richardiere was in my blood--a
-jealousy, if you will! It possessed me while I was away--while I was
-reiterating that I had made my last visit to the square, knowing
-nevertheless that on the morrow I should yield again. The jealousy
-persisted when I turned the pages of my opera now, and the magic of
-the master's poetry was gone. I could not forget his domination of the
-figure--I wanted to think of the beautiful statue freed, aloof from
-him!"
-
-He had left the window, and was moving restlessly about the room.
-Intent, her face propped by her hands, the model for the statue sat and
-watched him. The cigarette between her lips was out.
-
-"The fact that there must have been a model for it was borne upon me
-quite suddenly. It had the thrill of a revelation, and nearly dazed
-me. This woman lived! Somewhere in the world she was walking, speaking!
-It was as if a miracle had happened, as if the statue had come to life.
-I repeated breathlessly that it was true, but it appeared fabulous. I
-had attributed emotions to the marble figure with ease--to grasp the
-simple truth of the woman's existence was inconceivably difficult. I
-trembled with the marvel of it; Pygmalion was not more stupefied than
-I. When my heart left off pounding so hard, I began to question how
-long it would take me to discover who she was. I did not even know the
-way to set about it. But I knew that if she was in France I meant to
-find her.... I need not talk about the rest."
-
-After a silence Gaby stirred and spoke:
-
-"It was a triumph to pose for the statue--your story makes me very
-proud."
-
-"I could not avoid telling it to you," answered the young man drearily.
-
-"But how you say it--as if you had done wrong! Shall I tell you what
-would have been wrong? Not to let me know. That would have been
-pathetic. Mon Dieu! it would be atrocious for a woman to have done all
-that and never to hear. And to think that at the beginning I fancied
-you were----You were so quiet while we dined."
-
-"I was listening to you," he sighed.
-
-"That's true. You were entitled to it by then--you had done much to get
-the chance!"
-
-"Yes, I had done much to get the chance."
-
-"It was beautiful of you. I mean it. Because you have spoken earnestly,
-from your heart, and I could see--I could see very well that what you
-were saying was true, that you were not exaggerating to please me. Oh,
-I am moved, believe me, I am really moved!" She put out her hand to him
-impulsively, and he took it, as in duty bound. But he did not raise it
-to his lips. Her body stiffened a little as the hand drooped slowly to
-her lap. A shade of apprehension aged her face. Again there was silence.
-
-"Well?" she murmured.
-
-"Well?"
-
-"Enfin, when you sought the chance, when you wrote to me at last, you
-foresaw--what?"
-
-"Infinitely less than you have granted, mademoiselle," he returned,
-with an obvious effort. "A briefer meeting, a more formal one. I thank
-you most gratefully for your patience, your kindness, the honour you
-have done me."
-
-She gave a harsh laugh. "And now you 'regret that you must say good
-night'?"
-
-"It is a fact that I have to see my man again this evening," he
-acknowledged hurriedly, glancing at his watch. "I had forgotten the
-time."
-
-"Yes," said the woman, "you had forgotten the time--you had forgotten
-that the statue was modelled eleven years ago.... So you did not find
-her, after all! You began your search too late."
-
-"It is not that!" he cried, distressed.
-
-"Ah!" She had sprung to her feet, and stood panting. "Why lie to me? I
-am sorry for you, in a way--you haven't been a brute consciously."
-
-"A brute?"
-
-"What do you imagine you have been? A fool, you think, to yourself: I
-have changed, and you should have known I must have changed; it would
-have spared you the bother of seeking me, the disillusion when we
-met--there are no wrinkles creeping on the statue. Oh, it has been a
-fraud for you, I realise the sell! But you are not the only sufferer by
-your folly. A man can't talk to a woman as you have talked to me and
-leave her cold. He can't say, 'I felt all this for you before I saw
-you--now, good-bye,' and leave her proud; he can't adore her in the
-marble and disdain her in the flesh without her being ashamed. You have
-degraded me, jeered at me--you have taunted me with every blemish on my
-skin!"
-
-"It isn't that!" he cried again. "I was a fool, I own it--a brute, if
-you choose to call me one--but it isn't that."
-
-"What then? Is it my frock that alters me? I am poor, I can't afford
-such gowns as Beauvais put on me for the statue. Is it the way my hair
-is dressed? I can dress it like the statue again. The brow? You liked
-the brow. Well, look! time hasn't been so rough on me there--the brow
-is young. And you need not be jealous of my thoughts of Richardiere,
-for I have never read a single word he wrote. What is there lacking in
-me? Tell me what you miss."
-
-"I can't tell you," he groaned. But he had started.
-
-"You _have_ told me," she said, shrinking. "I know now. My face is
-ignorant--the statue has more _mind_ than I!"
-
-He no longer said, "It isn't that." He drooped before her, dumb,
-contrite.
-
-After a long pause she quavered, dabbing at her eyes:
-
-"Well, I'm not an idiot--I should improve."
-
-"Is it an imbecile like me who could teach you?"
-
-"I should be content."
-
-"Never in a single hour! I fell in love with an ideal and went to look
-for it--failure was ordained. It is I who lack sense, not you."
-
-A ghost of a smile twitched her lips. "It was all the fault of that
-Beauvais; he stuck an expression on me, with the clothes. I did look
-like that in his studio, though the chilblain was itching. But even
-if I made myself look like it now, it wouldn't take you in, would it?
-Don't look so frightened of me, I shan't go on at you again. Poor boy,
-you have had a deuce of an evening!... Well, I suppose you are right,
-failure was ordained--and it is wise to cut one's failures short. You
-may go. And don't flatter yourself that you have hurt me so much as I
-said--my vanity was stung for a minute, that's all; to-morrow I shall
-have forgotten all about you.... You can find your way downstairs?"
-
-He hesitated--and took an irresolute step towards her, with half-opened
-arms.
-
-"Good night," she said, not moving. "Good-bye."
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-On the tenth day, instead of the young man, a woman went to the statue,
-and stood before it just as stupidly and as long as he had done. The
-most comical bit was that, when she turned away at last, it was seen
-that the statue had been making the woman cry. After that, neither of
-the funny pair came back to the Square d'Iena; but as Vera Simpson
-chooses the same bench still, she sometimes recalls their queerness
-and, before her mind wanders, tries again to guess their game. This was
-the game that an English nursemaid tries to guess.
-
-
-
-
-V
-
-THE CELEBRITY AT HOME
-
-
-Before boarding-houses in London were all called Hotels and while
-snobbery had advanced no further than to call them Establishments,
-there was one in a London square where two of the "visitors"--which is
-boarding-house English for "boarders"--were a girl and a young man.
-Irene Barton was a humble journalist, who wrote stories when she would
-have been wiser to go to bed, and yearned to be an admired author. Jack
-Humphreys was an athletic clerk, who was renouncing clerkships for
-Canada and foresaw himself prospering in a world of wheat. The young
-man and the girl used to confide their plans to each other--when they
-weren't saying how detestable all the other boarders were--and before
-the time came for him to sail they had complicated matters by falling
-in love.
-
-When he had begged her to wait for him and she had explained that
-matrimony did not enter into her scheme of things, Miss Barton was
-miserable. But she did not let him guess that she was miserable, and
-she didn't change her mind. She had dreamed of being a celebrated
-novelist from the days when she wrote stories, in penny exercise
-books, at the nursery table, and his appeal amounted to asking her
-to sacrifice her aspirations and remain a nobody. She had scoffed too
-often at women who "ruined their careers for sickly sentiment" to
-be guilty of the same blunder. Still, she had had no suspicion that
-sentiment could lure so hard, and she viewed the women more leniently
-now.
-
-She reflected that the experience of sickly sentiment at first hand
-should be of benefit to her fiction, but the thought failed to
-encourage her so much as she would have expected of it. "They learn
-in suffering what they teach in song," she reminded herself--and an
-old-fashioned instinct, which she rebuked, whispered, "But isn't it
-better to be happy than to teach?"
-
-Because Jack Humphreys persisted they discussed the subject more than
-once. Sauntering round the garden of the square in the twilight, she
-expounded her philosophy to him.
-
-"I am not," she insisted, "the least bit the kind of girl you ought to
-care for. It'll be five years at the very least before you can marry,
-and in five years' time I shall have written books, and--well, I hope
-I shall have done something worth while. Do you suppose I could be
-satisfied to give it all up? I know myself, I couldn't do it. Or, if I
-did do it, I should be wretched--and make you wretched too."
-
-"But why should you give it all up?" he said miserably. "Don't
-you think I should be interested in it? Haven't I been interested
-here--have you found me so wooden? I don't know much about it, but Oh,
-my dear, I'm so fond of you! Whatever interested _you_ would be bound
-to interest _me_. You could write novels as my wife--I'd never put any
-difficulties in your way, heaven knows I wouldn't!"
-
-She shook her head.
-
-"You think all that now, but you'd know better then. You won't want
-a wife to write novels--you'll want one to bake the bread and feed
-the chickens and make herself useful. You'll want the domesticated
-article--and I'm an artist. I should be an encumbrance, not a wife.
-Besides, I should hate it all. Oh, I know I'm hurting you, but it's
-true! I should bore myself to death. To write, I need to live among men
-and women, to live in London, Paris, among other writers. I want to
-see pictures, and hear music--real music, not Verdi and that kind of
-treacle--and be in the movement. Perhaps by the time you wanted me to
-come to you I _should_ be in the movement--five years is a long while,
-and I'm going to work hard. And you fancy I could turn my back on it
-all! Oh, Mr. Humphreys, don't let us talk about it any more!"
-
-Trying to steady his voice, the young man asked:
-
-"May I write to you sometimes, as a friend?"
-
-"I think you had better not," she said, though her heart had jumped at
-the suggestion.
-
-"I haven't any people who'd care much about hearing from me," he
-pleaded; "I shall be pretty humped over there at the start. I'd
-promise faithfully not to--er--I'd write to you just as I might write
-to any other chum, if I had one."
-
-"Very well," she assented. "Write to me like that and I'll answer."
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-He did not write quite like that, but he suppressed two-thirds of
-what he wanted to say, and signed himself "Yours sincerely." Nobody
-could have found any definite endearment to object to in the pages.
-Though she checked the impulse to reply by the next mail, she replied
-at considerable length. She told him the latest details of the
-boarding-house---that Mrs. Usher was looking seriously ill because
-she couldn't find out why Mrs. Dunphy received so many telegrams; and
-that because Mrs. Kenyon's husband wasn't able to come to England yet,
-Mrs. Wykes was suggesting that she hadn't a husband at all. She told
-him that she had "had enough of these awful people" and that he was
-to direct his next letter elsewhere. And always his next letter was
-awaited more eagerly than was consistent of a young woman who was quite
-sure that she preferred celebrity to love.
-
-So, although they did not write to each other more than twice or
-thrice a year, they were still corresponding after both had made some
-progress. The homestead was the man's own property at last, and the
-woman had had a novel published. She sent a copy of it to him, with
-two or three of the best reviews. It had been reviewed very highly,
-and if the ex-clerk had sometimes questioned whether she mightn't be
-exaggerating her prospects, his doubt was banished when he read the
-compliments that the critics paid her.
-
-He grinned a little wryly in the solitude of the homestead. Yes, it
-would have been a queer kind of life here for a woman of her talent!
-"I should bore myself to death." Like a knife through him when she
-said it. Of course, he had not grasped then what the life would be.
-If he had thoroughly divined----Looking back, he wondered whether he
-would have found the pluck to tackle it himself. That first awful year,
-when he had ploughed a bit of wilderness, craving in every hour for
-the sight of a girl in England!... Well, time worked wonders, and his
-labours interested him now. He pulled, and viewed proudly, a few heads
-of the wheat he had sown with his own hands. Jolly colour they were!
-Better than a clerkship; no more London for _him_. Irene Barton was
-finding it a Tom Tiddler's ground, he supposed. Good luck to her! Oh,
-of course, she had done the sensible thing in refusing him--and, heaven
-be praised, he wasn't broken up about it any longer. One could get over
-any blow.
-
-By way of thanks for the book, he scribbled a friendly letter, in which
-there was no endearment, definite or indefinite, to object to. It
-implied that her choice had been a wise one, and he congratulated her
-very cordially. The letter was sincere; he felt that it would give her
-pleasure. And when it reached her and she read between the lines, the
-woman's heart sank, and tears crept down her face.
-
-He wondered mildly why he didn't hear from her any more.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The novel that the papers praised so warmly had enriched her by the sum
-of ten pounds; and when she was five years older than she had been on
-the day she said good-bye to him, she was writing in a boarding-house
-much like the one where he had met her. She remembered wistfully that
-within five years she had foreseen herself rejoicing in Upper Bohemia.
-
-She wrote well. She did not think as well as she wrote, of course--her
-horizon was clouded by myths, like those that have it that Scots are
-all skinflints, and Jews are all rogues--but her work had beauty; and
-critics saw it, and she made a reputation. But the general public
-did not see it, or, seeing the beauty, were a Channel's width from
-perceiving that it was beautiful, so she did not make money. And
-without money she found a literary reputation was less ecstatic than
-she had presumed. It did not mean congenial society, because she could
-not afford to join the clubs where congenial society might be supposed
-to exist. It did not mean concerts, or picture-galleries, or less
-physical discomfort, or a breath of sea air when she was sick for it;
-it did not mean a single amelioration of her life's asperities, because
-Press notices were not to be tendered in lieu of cash. Even those who
-lauded her fiction remained strangers to her. Only for a few weeks
-after each book was issued, she read, in her boarding-house attic,
-that she was a "distinguished novelist," and then she was again ignored.
-
-And meanwhile her youth was fading, and her eyes were dimming, and she
-looked in the glass and mourned. In the emptiness of her "distinction"
-she longed for laughter and a home. Desperate at last, she did join a
-club of professional women; but nominal as the fees were, considering
-the splendour of the place, it was an annual effort for her to pay
-the subscription. And she did not go there often enough to make any
-intimate friends, because she was generally too tired.
-
-And every year she grew more tired still.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-When she had been growing tired for sixteen years she was in a dreary
-lodging, in a dingy street, toiling at a novel, between the fashion
-articles by which she earned her daily bread. Mr. Humphreys, in easy
-circumstances by this time, was in London too, though when memories
-awoke in her she pictured him in Manitoba. He was indulging in a trip,
-and had been in England three weeks. One afternoon, in the hall of the
-new and expensive hotel, he picked up a book and came upon her name
-among the publisher's advertisements. It was an advertisement of one of
-her shattered hopes, but Mr. Humphreys didn't know that--he merely saw
-her referred to as a "distinguished novelist." She was, at the moment,
-trudging from a modiste's to a milliner's, to gather something to say
-in her inevitable article. It was raining, and she had a headache, and
-she would have to hammer out a sprightly column about Paris models
-before she could lie down. His holiday was proving rather dull, and he
-wondered idly whether it would be a foolish impulse to recall himself
-to such a prominent woman.
-
-His formal note, re-directed by the publisher's clerk, and re-directed
-again, reached her some days later. "If you have not quite forgotten
-our old friendship, I should be glad of an opportunity to call and
-congratulate you on your triumphs." She read that line many times. Her
-face was white, and her eyes were wide. She looked again at the name
-of the expensive hotel, and stared at the sordid parlour in which she
-sat--the pitiable parlour with its atrocious oleographs on drab walls,
-and two mottled vases, from the tea-grocer's, on the dirty mantelpiece.
-He would be "glad to congratulate her"!
-
-She remembered the unaffected cheeriness of the previous
-congratulations, the letter that had shown her his love was dead. She
-had fancied that nothing could hurt more deeply than that letter, but
-she had been wrong--to expose her mistake to him would be bitterer
-still. The humiliation of it, the punishment! All the arrogance of
-her rejection, all the boasts of her girlhood thronged back upon her
-tauntingly. God! if she could have seen ahead--if only she could have
-her life again.
-
-She debated her reply. To say that she was leaving town would sound
-ungracious. The alternative was to receive him at the club. Almost for
-the first time she was devoutly thankful to be a member--the club would
-spare her the ignominy of revealing her parlour; the stationery would
-avert the need for betraying her address.
-
-On the imposing stationery she wrote that she would be "pleased to
-see him here on either Wednesday or Thursday next." Her clothes, she
-supposed, wouldn't give her away, as he was a man.
-
-Was he married? There was no hint of a wife in his letter. How much
-changed would she find him? Would the change in herself shock him
-greatly? There were women as old as she who were still spoken of as
-"young," but their lives had run on smoother lines than hers--and when
-he saw her last she had been twenty-two and sanguine. It seemed to her
-that he would meet a stranger. She trembled in the club on Wednesday
-afternoon, and began to hope that his choice would fall on "Thursday."
-
-She was told that he had come. She rose with an effort. A big man, with
-greying hair, approached her uncertainly. She smiled with stiff lips.
-"Mr. Humphreys," she faltered. And a voice that she didn't remember, a
-new deep voice that wasn't like Jack's at all, was saying, "Why, Miss
-Barton! This is very kind of you."
-
-"How d'ye do? So glad to see you again," she murmured. "Let--let us go
-and sit down." Her heart was thumping, and she felt a little deaf.
-
-"So--er Well, how does London look to you after such a long time? Are
-you home for good?"
-
-"No, about a couple of months. My home is on the other side now. Well,
-this is a real pleasure! I never expected--I was rather nervous about
-writing, but----"
-
-"It would have been too bad if you hadn't," she said.
-
-"Well, I thought I'd take my chance. Er--yes, London looks rather
-different. I managed to get lost in it the other day; I had to find a
-taxi to take me back. No taxis when I was here before!"
-
-"You take tea?"
-
-The alcove was very comfortable, and the long room was exquisite in all
-its tones. The beauty of the carpet, she felt, more than repaid her for
-that annual effort. And how deferential was the service!
-
-"A fine place," said Mr. Humphreys admiringly.
-
-"Yes, it's rather decent," she drawled; "they do one very well here. A
-club is one of the necessaries of life."
-
-"I suppose so." He was remembering the way her tea had been served in
-the boarding-house. "Wealth buys more in the old country than over
-there--you get more for your money than I do."
-
-"Do you have to rough it very badly?" Her tone was gentler. "Are you
-still in the same place?"
-
-"Well, I haven't known I was roughing it of recent years, but I don't
-see luxury like this in Manitoba. Not bad. And I've got a gramophone.
-Pretty rotten records, I'm afraid. Verdi is about the most classical of
-them."
-
-"Isn't it lovely, how Verdi reminds one?" she said. "If I hear Verdi,
-I'm about ten years old again, and--it's funny--I'm always in the same
-bow window, and it's always a summer's afternoon, though I suppose
-the organs used to come in the winter, too. Just as, if I hear that
-hymn with 'pilgrims of the night' in it, it's always the nursery, and
-the gas over the mantelpiece is lighted. Verdi gives me my childhood
-back. I hope to hear Verdi in heaven. You've nothing very dreadful to
-complain of, then? You aren't sorry you went?"
-
-"Well, no--I'm glad I went. It has panned out all right. It has been a
-funny thing to walk down the Strand again and remember that the last
-time I was in it I was short of sixpences. The other day I looked in
-at the office where I used to clerk. Two of the boys I had known were
-there still--grown round-shouldered and pigeon-chested. I suppose
-they've had a rise of about fifty pounds a year in the meantime. They
-came round to dinner at the hotel last night, and it made me melancholy
-to hear them talk. I used to want them to chuck the office and go out
-to Canada with me--they'd got the stamina once--but they hadn't got
-the grit. Now it's too late.... You know, it's capital to see you
-flourishing like this! You're about the only survivor of the old days
-that it hasn't given me the hump to meet. You always _were_ sure you'd
-get on, weren't you?"
-
-"I was," she said. "Yes, I used to say so."
-
-"Do you remember the people in that house? And how we used to groan
-about the extras in the bills?"
-
-"It was a bad time for us both," she stammered.
-
-"But it's good to look back on now it's over. Helps one to appreciate.
-When you're feeling dull now, you can drive round here and have a chat
-with a friend, and say, 'Well, it used to be much worse--I used to be
-poor.' Isn't that so?"
-
-She nodded helplessly. Her mind was strained to find another subject.
-
-"I wish _you'd_ come round to dinner with me one evening, if you've
-nothing better to do?"
-
-"I'm not going out very much just now," she demurred. "I---"
-
-"It'd be a charity, I'm all alone, and--by the way, I don't know if
-'Miss Barton' is just your literary name now? If there is a lucky man,
-I hope he will give me the pleasure, too?"
-
-"No, I'm not married," she said.
-
-"Like me, you've been too busy. You know, I really think our victories
-should be feted. It'd be friendly of you to come. You can find one
-evening free before I go back?"
-
-"I suppose," she said, trying to laugh, "I'm not so full of engagements
-that I can't do that!"
-
-And, though neither of them had foreseen the invitation, she was
-pledged to dine with him. Heavily she reflected that, when the dinner
-finished, she would be obliged to ask him to send for a taxi and that
-it would probably cost her a half-crown.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-She went by train. That her solitary evening gown was wrong, having
-been bought three years since, did not worry her, though as "Lady
-Veronica," in her _The Autocrat at the Toilet-Table_ column, she
-wrote of things being "hopelessly last season's" when their vogue had
-been declining for a week; but she was embarrassed by her lack of
-evening shoes. At the table she bore herself bravely, supported by the
-knowledge that the epoch of her sleeves was unsuspected by him, but
-when she rose she found it difficult to conceal her feet.
-
-Yet, if it had not been that the shame of failure poisoned each
-mouthful that she took, the evening would have had its fascination.
-When she led him to speak of his early blunders on the homestead, while
-he told her how he had shrunk dismayed from the first bleak sight of
-that patch of prairie, she forgot she was pretending, and forgot to
-feel abased. In moments she even forgot to feel old. The story of his
-struggles bore her back. As she heard these things, the greying man
-became to her again the boy that had loved her--and as the woman leant
-listening, the man caught glimpses of the girl that she had been.
-
-His trip was proving queerly unlike his forecast of it on the farm.
-When he packed his bags he had had no idea of seeing her, but he
-had looked for emotions that he hadn't obtained. The strangeness of
-sauntering on the London pavements as a prosperous man had been less
-exhilarating than his anticipation of it. To drive to a fashionable
-tailor's and order clothes had failed to induce a burst of high
-spirits, though on the way he had laudably reminded himself that once
-it would have been the day of his life. He was, in fact, feeling
-solitary, and to loll in stalls at the theatres, instead of being
-jammed in the pit, would have seemed livelier to him if he had had
-a companion. In the circumstances, it was not astonishing that he
-proposed to take Irene Barton to the theatre a night or two later--and
-as he insisted a good deal, she compromised with a matinee.
-
-Somehow or other he was having tea with her, at the club again, the day
-afterwards. And on the day after that, there was something else.
-
-They had always found much to say to each other in the old days--they
-found much to say now, when the constraint wore off. The man told
-himself that he felt a calm friendship for the woman whom he had once
-wanted for his wife. And the woman told herself that, since he would
-soon be gone, she'd snatch happy hours with the man she loved while
-he was here. Her philosophy had changed since she expounded it in the
-garden of the square.
-
-And then--the claims of _The Autocrat at the Toilet-Table_ had
-compelled her to break an appointment--it manifested itself to Mr.
-Humphreys that his feelings were not so calm as he had thought.
-Irritable in the hotel hall, he perceived that this "friendship"
-threatened his holiday with a disastrous end. He wanted no second
-experience of fevering in Canada for a face in England. Grimly he
-decided that the acquaintance must be dropped. If it came to that, why
-remain in England any longer? It was time for him to go.
-
-On the morrow, in another charming corner of the familiar club, he
-told her his intention, and she tried to disguise how much it startled
-her. When she had "hoped that he hadn't received bad news" and he had
-said briefly that he hadn't, there was a pause. In his endeavour to be
-casual he had been curt, and both were conscious of it. He wondered
-if he had hurt her. Perhaps he should have offered an excuse for his
-sudden leave-taking? He began to invent one--and she politely dismissed
-it. He was certain now that he had hurt her. After all, why not be
-candid?
-
-He leant forward, and spoke in a lowered tone:
-
-"Do you know why I'm going? I'm going because, if I stopped, I should
-make a fool of myself again."
-
-The cup in her hand jerked. She felt suffocating, voiceless. Not a word
-came from her.
-
-"I'm remembering that discretion is the better part of valour, Miss
-Barton."
-
-"How do you mean?" she faltered.
-
-"I'm running away in time. You see, I--I made a mistake: I reckoned you
-wouldn't be dangerous to me any more, and I was wrong.... So you won't
-think me ungrateful for going, will you? You've given me some very
-happy hours; I don't want you to think I didn't appreciate them. But I
-appreciate, too, the fact that you're a successful woman and that I've
-even less to hope for now than I had before. I went through hell about
-you once, dear--I couldn't stick it twice."
-
-Her hand was passed across her eyes, and she trailed it on her skirt.
-
-"Are you running away from--from my success? If I cared for you, do you
-think my success would matter?"
-
-"Do you care for me?" His voice shook, like hers. He hated the
-chattering groups about them, as he bent conventionally over the
-tea-table. "Do you mean you could give your position up to be my wife?"
-
-She rose. Her lips twitched before her answer came. It came in a
-whisper:
-
-"You've never seen my rooms. Will you drive me there?"
-
-And on the way she was very quiet.
-
-The taxi stopped. In a dingy street she took a latchkey from her
-pocket, and opened a door, from which a milk-can hung. Perplexed, he
-followed. She led him to a parlour--a pitiable parlour, with atrocious
-oleographs on drab walls, and two mottled vases on a dirty mantelpiece.
-
-"This," she said dryly, "is where I live. You see the celebrity at
-home."
-
-He tried to take her to him, and she drew swiftly back.
-
-"I have failed," she cried; "no one has read my books; I'm as poor
-as when you knew me first. I've spent years in holes like this! I've
-shammed to you because I was ashamed. My talk of people I know, of
-places I go to has been lies--I know no one, I go nowhere. I refused
-to marry you, when I was a girl, because I didn't think it good
-enough for me; before you stoop to ask me again, go away and think
-whether it's good enough for _you_. I've lost my hopes, my youth, my
-looks--you'd be giving me everything, and I should bring you nothing in
-return!"
-
-His arms were quick now, and they held her fast.
-
-"Nothing?" he demanded. His eyes challenged her. "Nothing, Irene?"
-
-"Oh, my dearest," she wept, smiling, "if my love's enough----?"
-
-
-
-
-VI
-
-PICQ PLAYS THE HERO
-
-
-When he had made his choice of a career, when in spite of remonstrances
-he had become an actor, his father had felt disgraced. His father was
-the hatter in the rue de la Paroisse. The shop was not prosperous--in
-Ville-Nogent people made their hats last a long while--but it was at
-least a shop, and the old man wished his son to be respectable. This,
-you see, was France. The little French hatter had not heard that,
-across the Channel, the scions of noble houses turned actors, and he
-would not have believed it if he had been told.
-
-Once, the son of a little French tradesman humiliated his father by
-going on the stage and became the admiration of the world; but this
-tradesman's son did not distinguish himself like that. Indeed, he did
-not distinguish himself at all. Many years later the hatter patted the
-artist's hand, and said feebly: "After I am gone, take a hat, my poor
-Olivier. Heaven knows thou needest one!" A hat, and his blessing were
-well-nigh all he had to give by this time.
-
-In his youthful dreams--day-dreams behind the counter--Olivier Picq had
-seen himself a leading man in Paris, making impassioned love in the
-limelight to famous actresses. His engagements had proved so different
-from his dreams that not once had he attained to the hero's part,
-even in the least significant of provincial holes. No manager could
-be induced to regard him as a hero. By slow degrees he had ceased to
-expect it. By still slower degrees he ceased to expect even parts of
-prominence. He was the fatuous valet, who came on, with the laughing
-chambermaid, to explain what the characters that mattered had been
-doing between the acts; he was the gaby that made inane remarks, in
-order that the low comedian might reply with something funny; he was
-the moody defaulter that committed suicide early in the piece--and
-he changed his wig (alas! not his voice) to become the uninteresting
-figure that broke the tragic tidings to the widow.
-
-"Ah," says the reader, "he wasn't clever. That's why he didn't get on."
-
-Well, it is not pretended that Picq had genius; for such parts as fell
-to him he had not even marked ability. But the truth is, that in the
-role of romantic hero, which he had not had a chance to play, he would
-have been good. The laughing chambermaid used to say he would have been
-splendid. Often they grieved over the bad luck that had attended him,
-as they reviewed the years of struggle, hand in hand. He had married
-the chambermaid.
-
-"Oh, I can guess the end of this story already!" says the reader. "He
-became a leading man in Paris, after all."
-
-So he did, madam. But not quite so felicitously as you may think. Picq,
-dizzied by the sudden transformation, was promoted to be the hero--a
-gallant, dashing boy--in a revival on a Paris stage, one winter when
-he was subject to lumbago, and fifty-eight years old. You see, most of
-the actors of military age that still lived were either in the line
-or the hospitals, while many of the popular actresses were nursing. A
-manager who had the temerity to cast a play now was in no position to
-be fastidious, and playgoers were indulgent. They accepted the elderly
-man as the gallant boy. He was applauded. And while he declaimed
-bombast across the footlights--those turgid love appeals to which he
-had aspired, behind the counter, forty years ago--it was with a heart
-torn with anxiety for his own boy, who was in the trenches.
-
-When Jean had slept as a baby, the utility actor and the chambermaid
-had sat by the cradle and talked in low tones of the fine things he was
-to do when he grew up. Not on the stage--both had outlived its glamour;
-he was to be an advocate. "It is so refined, dearest," said the
-chambermaid. "And there is money in it, my love," agreed the father.
-And for half a lifetime unflinchingly they had scraped and hoarded, to
-realise that ambition for him. Their salaries were not vast, and there
-were numerous vacations in which there was no salary at all; often the
-sum that they had garnered during one tour would melt before the next;
-but every hundred francs that they could stick to looked a milestone
-on the journey. Only one annual extravagance did they allow themselves.
-On Jean's birthday it was Picq's custom to take home a bottle of cheap
-champagne. The dinner might be meagre, the vacation might be long, but
-on Jean's birthday they must be joyous. And in a shabby lodging-house
-bedroom--a parlour was beyond the means of poor players who pinched to
-make their son an advocate--the pair would festively clink glasses to
-his future.
-
-"We have not been unhappy together all these years, Nanette, my little
-wife, though you did throw yourself away in marrying me, hein?" Picq
-would say tenderly, embracing her. And Nanette, who still looked almost
-as young sometimes as she had looked at the wedding breakfast--at
-any rate, Picq thought so--would answer, with a catch in her voice:
-"Sweetheart, I have thanked the good God on my knees every night for
-that 'throwing myself away.'"
-
-"All the same, it is possible that, without me, you would have got on
-far better--even have made a name."
-
-"Silly! It is more likely _I_ who have held _you_ back; perhaps alone
-you would have gone to the top. Ah, no, I cannot bear to think it; I
-cannot bear to think I have been a hindrance to you!"
-
-Then Picq, denying it vigorously, would cry: "But a fig for the stage!
-Ma foi, have we not each other, and our Jean? It is wealth enough. I
-tell you he is going to be a famous man one day, our Jean--he has the
-brow."
-
-By rare good fortune, when he was old enough to have ideas of his
-own on the subject of a career, Jean had not opposed their plan; he
-did not, as night easily have been the case, inherit a craving to be
-the hero. He had long been a student in Paris, and they were playing
-in a rural district remote from him on the day of the mobilisation.
-Never while life lasted would they forget that day--that beating on a
-tocsin, and the glare of a blue sky that turned suddenly black to them;
-the deathly silence that spread; and then the shrill voice of a child,
-the first to speak--"_C'est la guerre_!" The shaking of their limbs
-held the father and mother apart; only their gaze rushed to each other.
-"Jean!" she had moaned.
-
-And Jean fought for France still, and already it seemed to them that
-the war was eternal. Twice--on two anniversaries since that terrible
-Saturday--they had raised trembling glasses to a photograph on the
-wall and pretended to be gay, and a third anniversary was approaching.
-"Be confident, be brave," he wrote to them; "we are going to win." But
-the thoughts that crowded on his little mother, in the dark, after she
-went to bed kept her awake for hours; and marking the change that the
-war had wrought in her, Picq's misgivings for his wife were sometimes
-hardly less acute than his anxieties for his boy. The laughing
-chambermaid, who had retained girlishness of disposition for two
-decades after girlhood was past, seemed to him all at once middle-aged.
-Ever the first formerly to propose trudging a long distance to save a
-tram fare, she was now fatigued after an hour's stroll. By the time
-they came to Paris, too, she was subject to spells of some internal
-trouble, which the doctor had failed to banish permanently. There could
-be no question of her seeking an engagement.
-
-"It _is_ a shame, when the double salary would have been so nice," she
-repined, one evening. The trouble had recurred, and a new doctor had
-been no more definite than his predecessor. "We might have lived on my
-money, and put the whole of yours aside every week. It _is_ a shame
-that you should have an invalid for a wife."
-
-"An invalid!" laughed Picq, affecting great amusement. "Now, is not
-that absurd? To hear you talk, one would imagine it was some terrible
-malady, instead of a little derangement of the system that will pass
-and be forgotten. Very likely you will be in a show again before Jean's
-birthday. And it shall be a good part, also, parbleu! There are not so
-many stars available to-day that they can afford to put on an artist
-like you to flick the furniture with a feather-brush. Listen, Nanette,
-my best beloved, if it were anything serious that you had the matter
-with you, it would not right itself as it does from time to time--it
-would be always the same. The fact that you are sometimes as well as
-ever shows that it is nothing organic. Have not both doctors said so?
-Did not the other man tell us so again and again?"
-
-She nodded, forcing a smile. Her smile was girlish still, and somehow
-it looked to him strangely poignant on her altered face. His gaze was
-blurred, as he muffled himself in his shabby cloak, and set forth
-through the sleet, to be the dashing hero. A child came towards him,
-calling papers, and he thought, "If only the news were that Germany
-sued for peace! That would be the best medicine for her."
-
-And on the morning before the birthday she was _not_ "in a show again;"
-she was feeling so much worse that she clung to Picq, alarmed. Picq was
-alarmed, too, though he tried to hide it.
-
-"Look here, I tell you what!" he exclaimed, in the most confident
-tone that he could summon. "We are going to call in a big man and get
-you cured without any more delay! That's what we're going to do. This
-chap is too slow for me. I dare say his medicines might do the trick
-eventually, but it does not suit me to wait so long. No, it does not
-suit me. I am not going to see you worried like this while he potters
-about as if time were no object. We shall call in a big man and put an
-end to the nuisance at once. I wish to heaven I had done it before. I
-am going now. I am going to the chap's house to tell him plainly I am
-not content."
-
-"Mais non, mais non!" demurred Nanette piteously. "It would cost such a
-lot, cheri--what are you thinking about? I shall get all right without
-that. You mustn't take any notice of me; I am a coward--I have never
-been used to feeling ill, you see--but I shall get all right without
-that."
-
-"I care nothing what it costs. That is my intention," declared Picq.
-"And it will not cost such a great sum either. Anyhow, whether it is
-forty francs or five hundred, my mind is made up. I am going to him
-this moment to tell him I want the highest authority in Paris. Now, be
-tranquil, mignonne. Try to sleep. We have chosen the shortest course at
-last--we were bien betes not to take it at the start--and in a week at
-the outside you will be yourself again."
-
-Never in her life had Nanette contemplated spending forty francs all
-at once on a physician. She knew she would be unable to sleep for the
-awfulness of such expense. But, if his prescription cured her promptly
-and she could earn a salary again soon----
-
-"What a weight I have become to thee, my little husband!" she faltered,
-stroking his hand.
-
-"Hush! Thou _wilt_ sleep while I am away, pauvrette?" asked Picq
-tenderly.
-
-She closed her eyes, smiling--to lie and grieve over the "weight
-she had become to him" when he had gone; and Picq went apace to the
-doctor's.
-
-When the motive for the inopportune call was explained, the doctor
-evidently resented the suggestion that his own treatment of the patient
-could be bettered.
-
-"Another opinion, monsieur? Parfaitement--if you desire it." His shrug
-was eloquent. "But your wife has only to continue with the medicine I
-have prescribed----"
-
-"She has continued," stammered Picq; "she has continued. There it
-is--she has continued for a long time. I grow anxious. No doubt it is
-unreasonable of me, but----" Truth to tell, the veteran of the boards,
-who faced a crowded auditorium without a tremor, found himself nervous
-in the room of the dignified practitioner.
-
-"One must not expect miracles. I am not a magician. In such cases----"
-
-"Mais enfin, another opinion would ease my mind. If you would do me the
-great kindness to indicate a specialist, monsieur--the best? Such a one
-as you would recommend if it were--I do not know what it _could_ be, I;
-but such a one as you would recommend if you feared something grave? I
-should be thankful. I know nothing of these things. If you would be so
-very kind as to communicate with someone for me----" He with-drew, after
-five minutes, clumsily, relieved to be able to tell Nanette that, with
-luck, they might receive a visit from a specialist on the morrow.
-
-"And his charge--how much?" panted Nanette, who feared that such
-celerity might cost more still.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-When the specialist had been, on the morrow--when Picq had closed the
-street door after him, and stumbled up the stairs, in his hurry to
-rejoin Nanette, and sat down on the bed, with his cheek resting against
-hers--they did not speak for some seconds.
-
-"Well, well," he brought forth at last, "after all, it is not so bad,
-what? It is a shock, of course--I own it is a shock; but really, when
-one comes to think it over----"
-
-She moaned--a child afraid.
-
-"Don't--_don't_! An operation!"
-
-"Yes, yes, it is a shock; we were hoping for an easy cure. But when
-all is said, we have learnt there _is_ a cure. If he had told us there
-was nothing to be done? There _is_ a cure! And you will feel nothing,
-mignonne--you will feel no pain at all. And afterwards, when you lie
-there at peace--so comfortable in the knowledge that all the misery is
-over--I shall come every day and bring you flowers. And every day I
-shall find you brighter and stronger. Upon my word, I would not mind
-making a bet that, in looking back at it, you remember it as a happy
-time."
-
-Big tears were on her frightened face.
-
-"And it is Jean's birthday," she wailed.
-
-"Yes, it is unfortunate. It cannot be helped. Well, we shall have our
-fete when you come home instead, and--listen, listen! We will drink
-his health at a restaurant--we will make up for the delay. To the
-devil with the cost! When you come home cured, we will have a swagger
-supper out, to celebrate the double event. Nanette--it is useless to
-expostulate--I register a vow that this time we will squander a couple
-of louis on a supper on the Boulevard. And you shall put on your pink
-silk dress!"
-
-"Petit bonhomme, wilt thou do me a favour?" she whimpered.
-
-"Now thou art going to say something foolish."
-
-"No; we will have that supper on the Boulevard. After the awful expense
-I shall have been, two louis more or less----But let us fete Jean the
-same as usual to-night. We must. We've never missed doing it once since
-he was a baby; I couldn't bear to let the day go by without our doing
-that. Think of the danger he is in. Get champagne as you always do.
-If it would be bad for me, I won't take any; but get it! My illness
-mustn't spoil the birthday altogether. Get it, and we'll forget about
-me for an hour. Cheri, I shall go into the hospital braver in the
-morning for having had our fete."
-
-"Agreed, agreed," said Picq chokingly. "But it will be a poor treat to
-me, if I am to drink it alone. I shall ask if you may take a sip."
-
-He rang up the specialist, to inquire, on the way to the theatre in the
-evening. "It is our boy's birthday, monsieur," he pleaded--"our boy who
-is in the war. You see, it is his birthday!"
-
-"One glass of champagne? Yes. It will do no harm," said the
-authoritative voice. "But no excitement, you understand. And no solid
-food. To-morrow and the next day they will see to her diet--and the day
-after that, we shall operate."
-
-That word "operate," booming from the receiver, struck horror to Picq
-afresh. He marvelled that anyone could be capable of uttering it so
-cheerfully, as he went out into the streets again. A child came towards
-him, calling papers, and he sighed, "If they but announced that Germany
-sued for peace! She would not be thinking so much about the operation
-then."
-
-During the performance, the bottle of paltry wine stood among the
-articles of make-up on the table of his dressing-room; and in his wait
-in the last act, he sat staring at it, and thinking of the days when
-his boy in the 120ieme Regiment Territorial had been a tiny child, and
-the wife who was so ill had been all sunshine and laughter. It had
-not been withheld from him, on the doorstep, in the morning, that the
-operation would be a serious one, and he felt sick in contemplating
-the next three days' suspense. How would Nanette contrive to bear
-it, he wondered, away from him, among strangers in a hospital? When
-the fearful moment came for her to be carried from the ward to the
-operating table! Cold sweat burst out on him. As he sat huddled there,
-in the garish dressing-room, Picq prayed to Heaven to give her courage.
-His chin was sunk on his chest; he rocked to and fro.
-
-There was a sudden rap at the door.
-
-"Entrez!" said Picq, and somebody brought him a telegram.
-
-He read: "I have the pain of informing you of the death on the field of
-honour of your son Jean Picq." It was from the War Office.
-
-"Better hurry up, Picq--you haven't too long!" called a colleague,
-carelessly, looking in. "Good God!" And he sprang towards him.
-
-Picq staggered, from his colleague's arms, up the crazy staircase
-to the wings--and straightened his back to be dashing. He entered
-upon the scene in time. And he delivered his lines, and struck his
-attitudes, and paused, by force of habit, when a round of applause
-was due. At the climax of a tirade, when he took a step back and
-mechanically raised his gaze to the first circle, nobody would have
-supposed that, with his mind's eye he looked, through the tier of
-faces, on the mangled body of his son.
-
-The curtain fell again. The play was over, and he tottered back to the
-room. The bottle of champagne on the dressing-table, among the litter
-of make-up, was the first thing he noticed. "My wife!" gasped Picq, and
-broke down. He was shaken by sobs.
-
-Some of the players had followed. Sympathy surrounded him.
-
-"I see her face when I tell her--I see her face! How to keep it from
-her? To-night she mustn't know--it would kill her; but to keep it from
-her for weeks till she has recovered--is it possible?"
-
-"Poor chap! Be brave. Time----" They mumbled useless words.
-
-"To have to pretend to her every time I go, for weeks, perhaps months!
-And then, when she is so happy at being well again, to have to strike
-her down with the blow! Ah, I know I am not the only father to lose his
-son--she is not the only mother, but----"
-
-"You don't think it might be best to break it to her now?" someone
-suggested.
-
-He shook his head impatiently, the throbbing head from which the jeune
-premier's curls were not removed yet.
-
-"It would be murder. I am warned she is to avoid excitement. And this
-evening, when she tries to be bright, to go in and say, 'He is killed'!
-I mustn't tell her till she is well--quite, quite well. I must keep her
-cheerful; I must be in good spirits, but--I haven't the courage to go
-home."
-
-It was the truth: he had not the courage to go home.
-
-"She is waiting for me--I must make haste to change," he faltered more
-than once; but even when he had "changed" at last, his soul cowered
-before the thought of the ordeal, and he lingered nerveless in the
-chair.
-
-"She is waiting for me--I must go," he kept repeating while the lights
-in the theatre went out. "I must go," he said again, and rose. They
-had called a cab for him, and his legs felt so unreliable that he
-offered no protest, though a cab seemed a terrible extravagance. Yes,
-he would take one; it was certain he could not walk fast enough to make
-up for the delay, and Nanette mustn't be allowed to grow anxious. He
-lay back in the cab dizzily, a hand round the neck of the bottle on
-his knees. "In good spirits--in good spirits!" he cautioned himself.
-"But her instinct is so strong. If she suspects?" On the rattling
-course, imagination wrung him with the moment of her suspicion--the
-horror in her dilating eyes, the impuissance of his agony.... "Dead!"
-He perceived with a shock that he had not understood that Jean was
-dead--that he still did not understand. "Dead." Jean, who seemed so
-vividly alive, was only a memory. His eagerness, his laughter, his
-allusions, all the intimate realities that represented Jean had been
-blown out. It was inconceivable; his mind would not grasp it. Where,
-then, did comprehension he, that he was stricken?... The cab startled
-him by stopping.
-
-As he had said, she was trying to be bright. She had not cast her fears
-aside, but she meant to hide them. She welcomed him with a smile.
-"Champagne _and_ a cab? What next?"
-
-"Yes, what do you think of it? I was in a hurry to get back. How has it
-been with you, cherie--has the evening seemed very long? Well, there is
-good news--you may have a glass."
-
-"He was sure?"
-
-"He said 'Yes' at once. Oh, I wouldn't have tried to persuade him--that
-would have been folly. I told him the reason, but I did not try to
-persuade him."
-
-"How tired you look! How did it go?"
-
-"It was a good audience--what there was of it. Three calls after the
-third act. What an appetite I've got--and what a thirst! I can't wait
-to take my boots off. The spread attracts me. What? I declare I see my
-favourite sausage!"
-
-"I couldn't go out for any flowers this year, and I forgot to remind
-you," she said. "But you'll find enough to eat."
-
-"And you--what is there for _you_? Let me put the pillow behind you,
-mignonne. And now to open the bottle! I am not an expert at the game,
-but--ah! it is coming. Prepare yourself for the bang.... Tiens, it
-is of a gentle disposition. But no doubt it will taste just as good.
-Sapristi, how it sparkles!"
-
-He bore a glassful to her side, and their gaze turned together to the
-likeness on the wall.
-
-"Well, little wife, the usual toast. To our boy, our darling Jean! May
-God bless him."
-
-"May God bless him," breathed the mother. They looked at the photograph
-silently for a moment. "I wonder if he is thinking of us?" she
-murmured. "Perhaps he is fancying us like this?"
-
-"I venture to say so," replied Picq. "He knows we should never forget
-his birthday; he knows that."
-
-"If--he is alive," she said in a whisper.
-
-"Ah, why should we doubt it?" His arm encouraged her. "How often we
-have alarmed ourselves! And always he _was_ alive. Take another sip,
-mignonne. It is a sound wine, hein? I should not be surprised if on the
-Boulevard they charge fifteen francs for such a wine."
-
-"You must go and sit down now and have your supper."
-
-"Not for a minute or two. The bouquet is so excellent I can't take my
-nose out of the glass. And I think I am more thirsty than hungry, after
-all."
-
-"Petit bonhomme, petit bonhomme," she faltered pitifully.
-
-"And why 'petit bonhomme' like that--what are you making so much of me
-about?"
-
-"Do you think I am blind? Do you suppose you can hide it from me? Your
-hands tremble and your eyes are red. As soon as you came in I saw. You
-have been tormenting yourself about the operation all the evening."
-
-"Mais non, mais non! If I worry, it is not about the operation,
-because it is a simple thing, though it sounds so big to _us_. They
-tell me it is an everyday affair, like having out a tooth; that was
-his very expression: 'Monsieur, it is no more dangerous than having
-out a tooth.' I worry, if I worry at all, in thinking that you are
-frightened. If I could only make you believe that there is nothing to
-be frightened of!"
-
-"I know I am a coward. I told you so. It is from _you_ that he gets his
-courage."
-
-"What an illusion! A fine fire-eater _I_ am! Old stick-in-the-mud!"
-
-"Ah, yes. I'm ashamed. When I think of what he is going through--how
-splendidly he bears it! And here am I, afraid of everything. He has no
-heroine for a mother."
-
-"I forbid thee to say it. He knows it is not true."
-
-"He loves me just the same. Don't you, Jean--you don't love your
-little mother any less?" The photograph hung too high for her. "Take
-it down," she pleaded. "If I could change places with thee, my son! I
-would find the courage for that, though I died of terror in the first
-hour. Ah, my little baby, my little baby! And I was so glad he was a
-boy!"
-
-"You are not to upset yourself," quavered Picq. "I cannot stand it.
-Will you be sorry he was a boy when he gets the Croix de Guerre? I make
-you a bet they give him that at the very least. I see you polishing
-it all day. Pick up your glass. To tell the truth, I have a strong
-presentiment, and I am not given to foolish fancies, that he comes home
-'Captain.' What triumph for us--hale and hearty and a captain. Imagine
-it. At his age! Nanette, pick up your glass. We will paint the town red
-that night, and you will say you were 'always sure of it.' When I chaff
-you about your tremors you will declare you never had any. Mind you, I
-am putting it down very low; it is quite on the cards that he becomes
-'Colonel.' Nanette, I entreat thee, pick up thy glass! Again a toast.
-Good luck, my son! We drink to your future. A bumper to our next merry
-meeting!"
-
-That toast reverberated to Picq when she lay sleeping and Picq was
-sleepless. But, at any rate, she had no suspicion so far.
-
-She remained without suspicion when he visited her at the hospital,
-during the following week, but always she remained a prey to fear. Not
-for herself now--they said the operation had been successful; it was
-the thought of Jean's peril that haunted her. As she was wakened in the
-early morning, the burden of dread rolled upon her. Through the long
-monotonous day her mind was in the blood-soaked line more often than
-in the ward. They hinted to Picq that her anxiety was detrimental, and
-he tried to reason with her once; but it seemed to do more harm than
-good, for she burst out, "If he should be killed!" and wrung her hands
-on the quilt. "He has everything before him, he's so fond of life. If
-he should be killed!"
-
-"He will not be killed. Is not my love for him as great as yours? And
-you see I am confident. I swear to you I am confident! I implore you,
-don't dwell on these thoughts. Make haste and get well." And again he
-asked himself, "How am I to break it to her when she _is_ well?"
-
-Then there was a morning when they sent him away for a while, stupefied
-by the announcement that never would she be well. "The conditions had
-changed;" he must be "prepared for the worst." She, too, had been
-prepared, before he was admitted. He had foreseen her speechless with
-fright; but, strange to say, the "coward" who had been so timorous of
-an operation, had spoken of her approaching death quite calmly. Her
-terror for Jean it was, increasingly her terror for Jean, that tortured
-her last hours. "Petit bonhomme, it is like being on the rack," she had
-gasped. "If only I were sure he would be spared!"
-
-"God of heaven, it is 'like being on the rack' for her," shuddered
-Picq, sobbing in the street; "it is for her 'like being on the rack'!
-And there is nothing I can do."
-
-And a child came towards him, calling papers.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-It was with the connivance of the nurses that he brought joy and
-thanksgiving to her heart during the hours that remained to her. He
-pretended to her that Germany sued for peace. If he was condemned to
-affect the tones of hysterical rejoicing, he had no need to counterfeit
-the tears. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, as he feigned to fight
-for mastery of a whirlwind of exultance, and panted to her that the war
-was won.
-
-"I return with good news--the greatest; but I implore thee, keep
-still--they forbid thee to sit up. Nanette, my loved one, our boy is
-safe. The danger is all over--he will soon be home. The Boches are
-beaten. I rush back to tell thee. They cave in. Paris has gone mad. The
-boulevards are impassable for crowds. I am deaf with the cheers. They
-cave in! They have been on the verge of it for months. Bluff, it has
-all been bluff for a long time, and now America has called their hand.
-They collapse, the Boches. An armistice is arranged. It is certain
-they restore Alsace-Lorraine. I have cried like a child. Glory to God.
-France has conquered. Vive la France!"
-
-"Jean safe!" she breathed, smiling.
-
-She seemed to grow younger during the afternoon, before she died.
-
-"And though she knows now it was a he," said Picq, when they had
-crossed her hands on her breast, "it is no disappointment to her, since
-she has him with her now."
-
-
-
-
-VII
-
-A FLAT TO SPARE
-
-
-At the corner of the rue Baba stands the Maison Severin, with its board
-announcing furnished flats to let. One December evening a journalist
-went to call upon a colleague there. As he climbed the last flight
-of stairs, a door was opened violently and a gesticulating female
-appeared. She shrieked defiance over her shoulder, pulled down her
-sleeves, and descended with such precipitance that she nearly butted
-Jobic over the banisters.
-
-Dodging her by a miracle, Jobic entered unannounced.
-
-"Your domestic seems to be perturbed, my dear Pariset," he remarked.
-
-"Tiens, you?" said the young widower, panting. "Yes, she has 'returned
-her apron,' she has resigned the situation, that devil--a situation
-that offered unsurpassed opportunities for pillage. I am left with the
-dinner unprepared, and the twins to put to bed--and I ought to be at
-Batignolles by eight o'clock!"
-
-"You should marry again," said Jobic.
-
-"I cannot do it in the time. Mon Dieu, just because I mentioned that it
-was unintelligent of her always to keep the empty wine bottles among
-the full ones! It took me a quarter of an hour to get hold of anything
-to drink. You may tell a bonne that she is an inveterate liar without
-disturbing her in the least; you may say that she is an habitual thief,
-and she will accept the truism placidly; but insinuate that she is a
-fool, and her vanity is in arms at once! What has brought you here?"
-
-"I come to borrow a louis."
-
-"Visionary!"
-
-"Spendthrift! What do you do with your salary, then? The fact is, your
-rent is an extravagance, and you spend far too much in dressing up your
-babies; for some time I have had the intention of remonstrating with
-you on the subject. If you exercised reasonable economy you would be in
-a position to lend me a louis on your head."
-
-"I am. But the monotonous fatigues me. To attain the charm of variety
-I propose to lend you nothing at all. I tell you what, however--I can
-provide you with a job."
-
-"For putting twins to bed my lowest figure is five francs. I will cook
-the dinner for forty sous, and an invitation to share it."
-
-"The tenders are declined. Listen; you may go to Batignolles and write
-a column around a communist meeting for me. The kiddies are too young
-for me to leave them by themselves, and I have been counting on this
-affair to supply material for my causerie in to-morrow's _Echo_."
-
-"Communist meeting?" exclaimed Jobic, with distaste; "I do not believe
-I could borrow any more money under communism than I can now."
-
-"Are we discussing your beliefs? Has your welfare the remotest interest
-for me? All I ask of you is to fill a column. Bring the stuff for me to
-sign before you sleep, and I will pay you your own price for it."
-
-"Cash?"
-
-"Cash."
-
-"It's a deal," said Jobic. "Some sprightly copy is as good as on your
-desk. Your editor will not fail to note a vast improvement in your
-literary style."
-
-It was in these circumstances that _L'Echo du Quartier_ contained a
-column, over Pariset's pen name of "Valentin Vance," that drove the
-prettiest communist in Paris to tears of fury. For not only did the
-writer burlesque her impassioned speech, not only did he poke fun at
-her theories, and deride her elocution--he actually made unflattering
-comments upon her personal appearance.
-
-Not since she embraced the Cause six months ago had Suzanne Duvivier
-read anything to compare with it.
-
-"If I were a married woman," she raged, "my husband should call the
-monster out for such insults!" And then, since she was an accomplished
-pupil at one of the best-known salles for instructing the fair
-Parisienne to fence, it occurred to her that the lack of a husband was
-no drawback.
-
-Though there were pressing domestic matters to claim her this morning,
-she betook herself to kindred spirits, and burst in upon them to demand
-their services.
-
-"Mais, ma chere," gasped mademoiselle Tisserand and mademoiselle
-Lagarde, "we have never acted as seconds in a duel, never! We implore
-you to dismiss the notion; we counsel you to treat the abuse with the
-silent scorn that it deserves. The man might run you through your
-valiant heart."
-
-"Do we shirk danger, we communists?" cried Suzanne.
-
-"Dear comrade, the Cause cannot spare you. Moreover, every novel with
-a duel in it that we have ever read makes it clear that it is the
-privilege of the party challenged to choose the weapons. This monsieur
-Vance might choose pistols. The novels, again, indicate that it
-devolves upon the seconds to load the pistols, and we have never done
-such a thing in our lives. It may also be that you have never handled
-one yourself?"
-
-For a moment Suzanne Duvivier quailed--she was only twenty-five, and
-normally no swash-buckler. If monsieur Vance did choose pistols, she
-knew very well she would have to shut her eyes as she fired. Then the
-obloquy of the column overwhelmed her anew, and she flung timidity to
-the winds.
-
-"We must hope for the best, girls," she said, resolutely. "If you are
-my pals you will not desert me in this hour. I fight for the Cause
-far more than for myself. I do not know precisely what phrases you
-should employ--consult the novels!--but the first thing to be done is
-for you to present yourselves to the man and desire him to name the
-day. You had better not say 'name the day,' because that has another
-association, but he must fix the date. If you can contrive to suggest
-that I hanker after pistols, perhaps he will say 'swords.' Au revoir,
-my friends. Bear yourselves firmly--look as if you were used to it.
-Wear serious hats."
-
-She departed to put in half an hour's practice at the fencing school,
-and mademoiselle Lagarde moaned to mademoiselle Tisserand, "It is
-terrible, is it not? However, we need not make frumps of ourselves, I
-suppose. I wonder if my toque would be inappropriate?"
-
-"Not the least in the world," said mademoiselle Tisserand. "What do
-you think of my hat with the bird of paradise? She is right as regards
-our demeanour, though--we must be deadly calm. Let us remember that
-the dignity of communism is at stake. The brute must not be allowed to
-guess that we are afraid."
-
-A couple of hours later, Pariset, after struggling with a fire that
-refused to be lit, and breakfasting without any coffee, and dressing
-his twins with some of their underlinen back in front, gave the
-concierge a tip to let him leave them in her loge, and went forth to
-the _Echo_ building, anathematising his ex-domestic with continuous
-fervour on the way. Arrived there, he found two young women strenuously
-inquiring for the address of "monsieur Valentin Vance."
-
-"You behold him, mesdemoiselles," said Pariset. "What can I have the
-honour of doing for you?"
-
-The young women looked embarrassed.
-
-"It is you who are the author of this article, monsieur--this infamous
-calumny?" queried the plumper of the two.
-
-"Oh!" exclaimed Pariset, taken aback. "Oh ... I am speaking to
-mademoiselle Suzanne Duvivier?"
-
-"No, monsieur, I am not mademoiselle Duvivier. Neither of us is
-mademoiselle Duvivier. But we inquire if you are the monsieur Vance who
-is the author of this article?"
-
-"Well--er--yes, certainly, I am the author of it."
-
-The pair conferred a moment in undertones. The one in the toque gave
-the one with the bird of paradise a slight push.
-
-"Then, monsieur, I have the honour to inform you that we are the
-bearers of a challenge from the lady you have slandered."
-
-"A challenge?" stammered Pariset. "What do you say? Is this a joke?"
-
-"You will find it very far from a joke," put in mademoiselle Lagarde,
-strategically; "our principal is a crack shot."
-
-"In that case you may be sure I shall not choose pistols," said Pariset
-with a smile.
-
-"Ah!" breathed the girl, dissembling her elation. "You choose swords.
-No matter."
-
-"No," demurred Pariset. "I do not choose swords, either."
-
-"But--not swords, either? What, then?"
-
-"I choose roses. I am a champion with roses, and I have the right to
-avail myself of my skill."
-
-"Monsieur," cried her companion, peremptorily, "we shall not be patient
-with pleasantries!"
-
-"Nor I with hysteria, mademoiselle. _Comment?_ Do you figure yourself I
-am going to fight a woman? You must be demented."
-
-"You refuse to meet her?"
-
-"Point-blank."
-
-"On the pretext of convention?"
-
-"On the score of manhood."
-
-"Your manhood did not restrain you from attacking her."
-
-"Was it so bad, the attack?" faltered Pariset, who had not done much
-more than glance at Jobic's masterpiece.
-
-"Pshaw!" sneered both the girls, as nearly as their ejaculation can be
-spelt. "Shame! How perfectly disgusting! You insult a lady, and then
-refuse her satisfaction. It is the act of a coward. Ah! Oh!"
-
-"Listen!" volleyed Pariset. "I will not meet her if you go on saying
-'Ah! 'and 'Oh!' till you are black in the face. But, to cut it short,
-she shall have her satisfaction. I will cross swords with any man
-that she appoints as her deputy. All is said. I await the gentleman's
-representatives. Mesdemoiselles, bonjour."
-
-"And now I have got a duel on my hands, as well as two babies in my
-arms!" he reflected. "Jobic is an imbecile. Why did I trust him? That
-sacree bonne! her desertion is giving me a fine time. I should like to
-wring her neck." He spent a feverish afternoon at registry offices.
-Suzanne was exasperated too. The news of the demand for a deputy was
-a heavy blow, for she couldn't think of anybody likely to oblige her.
-Vainly she reviewed the list of her male acquaintances; none seemed to
-possess all the necessary qualities. Ineligible herself, and unable to
-find a substitute--what a dilemma! The more provoking because scattered
-throughout France must breathe several heroic spirits who would have
-been willing to fight for a nice girl and the guerdon of her gratitude.
-But she was reluctant to advertise "Duellist wanted," with a portrait
-of her attractions.
-
-She was removing on the morrow to a furnished flat, and it had been her
-intention to supervise the removal of some of its dust this morning.
-Late in the afternoon she ran round to see how matters had progressed
-without her. A damsel from a registry office in the quarter had
-undertaken to commence the work punctually at 8 a.m. The flat was in
-the Maison Severin. All unconscious that she was to dwell beneath the
-same roof as the villain she had challenged, Suzanne ascended, sanguine
-of seeing the clean curtains up.
-
-The damsel hadn't put in an appearance. Either she had received an
-offer more to her taste, or she had decided to prolong her vacation;
-there had been no message to explain her caprice.
-
-Suzanne sped to the registry office tumultuously.
-
-The _Bureau de Placement des Deux Sexes_ was presided over by a very
-large woman at a very small table. Three of the four employers present
-were excited ladies, complaining of bonnes who had arranged to take
-service with them, but who had neither arrived nor written. The fourth
-was a personable gentleman, awaiting his turn in an attitude of the
-deepest despondence. Suzanne sat on the bench, by the gentleman's side,
-while the fat woman strove to appease the three ladies.
-
-"Next, please," she said, eventually. "Monsieur desires?"
-
-Suzanne heard that monsieur desired a capable bonne a tout faire at
-once, and that by "at once" he did not mean a fortnight hence, or even
-the following day--he meant "now."
-
-The proprietress said mechanically that she would see what could be
-done, and asked for five francs.
-
-"Don't you believe it!" said the gentleman, "am a widower and know
-the ropes--I might part with five francs and remain servantless for a
-month. Produce a servant. Trot one of your treasures out. Let me get a
-grip of it and take it away with me, and I will pay you ten--fifteen
-francs."
-
-"But it happens that there is no servant on the premises this
-afternoon. Monsieur is not reasonable. He should comprehend that I
-cannot show him what I have not got."
-
-"It is equally comprehensible, madame, that I cannot pay for what I do
-not see."
-
-"Next, please," said the fat woman, shrugging her shoulders.
-
-"Madame," began Suzanne, vehemently, "I must ask you to find another
-femme-de-menage for me immediately, if you please--your Angelique that
-I settled with here has never turned up!"
-
-"There you are!" cried Pariset. "Everybody says the same thing."
-
-"Mais, monsieur!" snorted the proprietress. "Your affair is
-finished--the business of mademoiselle does not concern you."
-
-"Pardon, madame, my affair is not finished; on the contrary, my need is
-dire. I have offspring who clamour for female ministrations, voyons.
-Mademoiselle will accept my apologies?"
-
-"They are superfluous, monsieur," said Suzanne, acknowledging his bow.
-"But, madame, my case is urgent! I go into my new appartement in the
-morning, and there is nobody there yet to shake a mat or light a fire."
-
-"And what a job it is to light a fire!" put in Pariset, with fellow
-feeling.
-
-"The life they lead us, these bonnes!" responded Suzanne.
-
-"Above all, mademoiselle, when one has two little children and is
-without experience. Figure yourself my confusion!"
-
-"Dreadful, monsieur! I can imagine it."
-
-"What do you expect me to say to you, you two?" shouted the fat woman,
-banging the table. "I tell you that there is no bonne waiting just
-now. Am I le bon Dieu to create model domestics out of the dust on the
-office floor?"
-
-And at this instant the door opened, and there entered briskly a comely
-wench, wearing an apron, and no hat.
-
-"Ah!" gasped Pariset and Suzanne together.
-
-"Ah!" exclaimed the fat woman, jubilant. "Everything arranges itself!
-Now I know this one. I recommend her. You can take a place to-day,
-Marceline? Good! It is forty francs a month, as usual, and you sleep
-in, hein?"
-
-"Fifty. And I sleep out--with my aunt," said Marceline, promptly,
-seizing the circumstances.
-
-"I agree," announced the eager clients, in a duet.
-
-"Mais, monsieur----" remonstrated Suzanne, dismayed.
-
-"Mais, mademoiselle----" expostulated Pariset.
-
-"Enfin, take her! I yield her to you. My children pine for her care,
-but we will suffer!"
-
-"I am averse from appearing selfish, monsieur----"
-
-"Ah, chivalry forbids that I wrench this unique boon from your arms,
-mademoiselle."
-
-"No! She is for monsieur," said Suzanne, in a burst of magnanimity.
-
-The proprietress picked up her pen. "Monsieur resides----?"
-
-"No matter. I renounce my claim in favour of mademoiselle."
-
-The proprietress dipped the pen in the inkpot: "Mademoiselle goes to
-the Maison Severin, n'est ce pas?"
-
-"What?" cried Pariset. "The Maison Severin? It is at the Maison Severin
-you have taken a flat, mademoiselle? Why, that is my address, too! What
-storey are you on?"
-
-"The fourth."
-
-"And I! Listen, an idea, a compromise. If you would be so generous,
-might you not lend her to me now and then?"
-
-"But everything arranges itself," repeated the fat woman, joyously.
-"Mademoiselle and monsieur can share her to perfection. Marceline, you
-would render service in two little appartements on the same floor?"
-
-"That is worth more money," said Marceline; and proceeded to estimate
-the suggestion at a monstrous figure.
-
-However, her views were modified at last. The fat woman made entries in
-a tattered book. Suzanne heard the gentleman give his name as "monsieur
-Henri Pariset." Pariset did not hear the lady give her name, because
-the proprietress, of course, knew it already. Far from suspecting each
-other's identity, the Challenger and the Challenged exchanged cheerful
-smiles. Then Marceline was prevailed upon to fetch her box forthwith,
-and the elated journalist and the charming girl who thirsted for his
-blood bore their domestic gaily to the rue Baba together.
-
-"How things happen!" said Pariset, as they went along.
-
-"N'est ce pas?" said she. "All the same, my flat cannot be got ready by
-the morning now."
-
-"I don't see why not; my own share of her this evening will be slight.
-Let her put my babies to bed at once, and then you can have all you
-want of her. As to my dinner, I will eat at a restaurant."
-
-"Ah, mais non, if it is not your custom!" said Suzanne. "She can manage
-your dinner all right--she will have no cooking to do for me. I am at
-a pension de famille till to-morrow."
-
-And as they reached the house, the concierge remarked, by way of
-welcome: "It is not unfortunate that you have returned, monsieur. Your
-twins have been disturbing the whole district."
-
-"But they are adorable, your twins!" exclaimed Suzanne, with genuine
-admiration, for now they were tranquil and beamed. "I cannot pretend
-to know whether they are big or small for four years old, but they are
-darlings."
-
-"Not bad," said Pariset, who thought the world of them himself.
-"Well, then, when Marceline has tucked them up she shall come to you
-straightway, and it is agreed that you are to monopolise her as long as
-you like."
-
-Half an hour passed.
-
-"Monsieur!" cried Marceline, reappearing.
-
-"Eh, bien--you cannot find the children's night-gowns?"
-
-"Si, si. The little ones sleep. But the compliments of mademoiselle,
-and would monsieur be so amiable as to lend her the feather-brush from
-his broom-cupboard?"
-
-"Take all she wants. How goes it opposite?"
-
-"There is enough for two persons to do!"
-
-"I don't doubt it," said Pariset. "Inquire of mademoiselle whether I
-can be of any assistance."
-
-But on second thoughts he was prompted to put the question himself.
-
-In a long blue apron, with her sleeves rolled up, she told him that he
-couldn't. And he took off his coat and got to work. What a sweeping and
-a polishing there was! Nine o'clock had struck when he began to hang
-the curtains, and the dinner at the pension de famille was a thing of
-the past.
-
-"Evidently, mademoiselle," he said, from the top of a step-ladder, "you
-also will have to dine out this evening. What do you say to leaving
-Marceline to put the finishing touches now, and taking nourishment in
-my company?"
-
-"Monsieur," returned Suzanne, "you dizzy me with your neighbourly
-kindness. If you can turn round without risking your neck, however, you
-will note that Marceline is absent. She is engaged in improvising a
-meal for us, and I beg you to accept my invitation."
-
-"Enchanted. Only, as you are still somewhat at sixes and sevens here,
-may I propose that you invite me to my own flat, instead of yours?"
-
-So it befell that the bouillon, brought hot in a can from the little
-greengrocer's across the road, was served at Pariset's table. And
-Marceline's omelette, created while the cutlets were frizzling on the
-grille, proved to be delicious.
-
-"Our bonne," remarked the widower, complacently, "might be worse, hein?"
-
-"I was thinking the same thing," assented Suzanne. "It seems to me that
-we have done very well for ourselves."
-
-"You smoke a cigarette?"
-
-"It is one of my consolations."
-
-"I hope that I may be privileged to see you console yourself here
-often."
-
-"And if you ever have leisure to call upon me cor _le feeve o'clock_,
-monsieur, I shall be charmed. You can hardly excuse yourself on the
-plea that my address is too remote."
-
-"Believe me," said Pariset, "I warmly felicitate myself on the address;
-if I may say so, I am daring to foresee a friendship. And it would be
-very welcome, for I lead a lonely life."
-
-"I, too," she sighed. "I am a painter, I am a communist, but all the
-same, I am alone."
-
-"Ah, you are a painter, and communist, hein? We shall have subjects to
-talk about."
-
-"You are surprised?"
-
-"I am, above all, surprised to hear that you are alone. It is difficult
-to realise how that can be."
-
-"It is true, I assure you. Only to-day I had the strongest need of a
-man's arm to render me a service, and I could think of no one to ask."
-
-"There are a couple of arms here," announced Pariset, displaying them
-in an heroic gesture.
-
-"And doughty deeds they have just accomplished for me!" she laughed.
-
-"No, but seriously----" he urged.
-
-"Oh, seriously, the service that I speak of is far too big for even the
-best of new friends."
-
-"You are wrong. Without having heard it, I venture to pronounce it just
-the right size."
-
-"How sincere you are! And how I appreciate your earnestness!" she
-exclaimed. "But it is out of the question."
-
-"I have not yet proved myself worthy of your confidence," he regretted
-sentimentally. "I understand."
-
-"If you imagine it is _that_"--deep reproach was in her gaze--"I must
-explain. Have you heard of a journalist called 'Valentin Vance'?"
-
-"Yes."
-
-"Well, I sent him a challenge to-day, and he answered that I must find
-a deputy."
-
-Pariset sat dumfounded. Twice he essayed to articulate, without
-producing so much as a mono-syllable.
-
-At last he stuttered:
-
-"You are mademoiselle Suzanne Duvivier? I had no idea."
-
-"How stupid of me. You have read his article?"
-
-"Well--er--I have still not had time to read it very attentively. But I
-have heard a good deal about it."
-
-"Ah! Then you do not wonder at my resentment?" she cried. And, though
-the twins forbade her to jeopardise his life, she hoped to hear him
-gallantly offer to fight monsieur Vance.
-
-This was just what Pariset could not do. After his boasted avidity
-to execute the service, he must wear an air of funking it. His
-embarrassment was intense; constraint fell upon them both. Disillusion
-clouded her eyes. She had begun to like him so much, it grieved her to
-see him turn tail.
-
-After some very painful seconds he faltered:
-
-"You are disappointed in me?"
-
-"Disappointed?"
-
-"Oh, yes. I seem to you a braggart who has backed out of his boast. Yet
-I assure you I am not to blame. You seek the one service in the world
-that I am utterly unable to perform."
-
-"Monsieur," replied the girl coldly, "your parental duties are so
-obviously paramount that it is unnecessary to remind me of them."
-
-"Oh, as to that, one does not expect more than a scratch in a duel,
-so it is not from parental reasons that I say it can't be done. The
-reasons are physical. I cannot meet monsieur Vance because ... I shall
-sink lower in your esteem with every word ... I cannot meet him because
-... enfin, Valentin Vance is I!"
-
-"You?" She had started to her feet.
-
-"My pen name."
-
-The silence was awful. She leant on the back of the chair for support.
-Then, with a dignity that he felt to be superb, she said:
-
-"Monsieur, as a tenant I thank you for your co-operation; as a
-communist, I ask permission to retire."
-
-"Ah, I implore you to listen!" raved Pariset.
-
-"It is strange," she added, more spontaneously, "that, since you found
-me so hideous on the lecture platform, you put yourself out to be so
-agreeable to me at the registry office."
-
-"I? I find you hideous?" vociferated Pariset. "It was not I who wrote
-it; not a single word was mine, believe me! My bonne flounced off
-last night, and the twins kept me at home. I entrusted the job to a
-dunderheaded confrere. Ah, mon Dieu, 'since I found you hideous'! The
-spirituality of your face is an inspiration. I admire you with all
-my heart. Yes, I shall confess it, with all my heart! I love you! Do
-not condemn me for a column that I did not perpetrate--be merciful,
-be tender! I will write others that you shall approve. You shall
-instruct me--I will gather wisdom from your lips. Yes, at your feet,
-on our hearth, I will learn from you. I will become a disciple of
-communism--the mouthpiece of your Cause; I will consecrate my pen to
-your service. My pen shall annihilate your opponents, though my sword
-could not chasten monsieur Vance." His arms entreated her. "Suzanne----"
-
-"The appartement of mademoiselle is completely ready!" proclaimed
-Marceline. She rushed in, and out again, triumphant.
-
-"It appears to me I shall not need it long," smiled Suzanne,
-surrendering to his embrace.
-
-
-
-
-VIII
-
-A PORTRAIT OF A COWARD
-
-
-Every Sunday Mrs. Findon went with her two stepdaughters to the
-cemetery and put flowers on the grave. Every Sunday since her husband's
-death she had done so--every Sunday for four years, excepting during
-the month of August, which was passed in the unattractive village where
-his widowed sister lived. When the melancholy walk was over and they
-had returned to the house, the Misses Findon used to sit on either
-side of the fireplace, moist-eyed, and slightly pink about the noses,
-speaking at long intervals in subdued tones; and their young stepmother
-would gaze from the window, wondering whether the pretence of mourning
-a husband she had not loved was to be her lot for life.
-
-When she was twenty her father had said to her, "Belle, Mr. Findon
-wants to marry you. Don't look like that. He is much older than you
-are, of course, and it isn't the ideal, but what have you got to look
-forward to? I'm a pauper, and we both know I can't last much longer,
-and when I've gone you'll be all alone. How are you to live? You'll be
-left with about fifty pounds, and waste some of that on crape. It's a
-ghastly thing for me to lie here and know you'll soon be destitute.
-He's decent enough in a dull way, and if you were to marry him I should
-feel I had a right to die."
-
-So she had married him; and Mr. Findon had endeavoured to mould her
-disposition to his requirements. He moulded so much that it seemed to
-her he must lament that she wasn't an entirely different person, and
-she wondered why he had asked her to be his wife. The provincial town
-to which he took her was depressing, and the furniture and ornaments of
-his house made her want to shriek, and the people who paid her visits
-never mentioned any subject that had any interest for her.
-
-More dejecting than the visitors were her step-children. To the two
-colourless schoolgirls--Amy, fourteen years of age, Mildred nearly
-sixteen--she had turned eagerly; turned achingly, because no child
-of her own came to lighten the gloom; and for long she had striven to
-believe that the slowness of their minds was due to their environment.
-"They need waking up," she would think, and exhausted herself in
-efforts to make them fluent. But she found that nothing that was done
-could make them fluent. And as they grew older, she found that nothing
-that was said could make them laugh. They laughed only when the wind
-blew somebody's hat off.
-
-They were sandy, undemonstrative girls, and they had manifested no
-great affection for their father till he died suddenly five years
-after the marriage. Then, however, the words "dear father" were for
-ever on their lips, and a strain of unsuspected sentiment in their
-nature had opposed itself morbidly to the slightest departure from any
-domestic arrangement that he had desired. She still remembered Amy's
-pained stare, and Mildred's startled "I don't think dear father would
-have liked that!" when she had diffidently proposed to transfer a
-huge photograph of his mother from the drawing-room wall to the spare
-bedroom. She still reproached herself for her compliant "Oh, I won't,
-then, of course." It was among the first of the concessions that had
-made the house seem to her a sepulchre. By her stepdaughters' wish,
-nothing had been altered in his study--not the position of an armchair,
-or of the footstool. Even to the pipes on the table, and a gum-bottle
-on the mantelpiece, the room, which was never used now, remained as he
-had left it last. And every morning for four years she had accompanied
-Mildred and Amy solemnly to the threshold, and regarded the armchair
-and the pipes with an air of reverence; and afterwards sat down to
-breakfast, thinking that the girls looked as if they had been to the
-funeral over again. At the beginning, if she had not shrunk from
-wounding them, she might have hinted that that piece of hypocrisy was
-horrible to her. Now she could do so no more than she could hint that
-she did not want to feign bereavement in the cemetery every Sunday,
-or to take an annual change that was made doleful by the triteness
-of Aunt Harriet, and the presence of her invalid son. At the age of
-five-and-twenty, the gentleness and weakness of the woman had committed
-her to act a lie. At the age of twenty-nine, the woman reflected
-miserably that, unless her stepdaughters married, she would have to act
-the lie for life.
-
-The oppressive thought was no new one--and she had asked stupid people
-to dinner, and accepted invitations to wearisome households. She
-had urged Mildred and Amy to join the golf and tennis clubs, though
-they were apathetic about golf and tennis, and she usually took them
-to London to buy their frocks, instead of to the local High Street.
-But girls less becomingly dressed had got married, and no young man
-had paid any attentions to Mildred or Amy. Though Mildred was but
-twenty-five, and Amy only twenty-three, both had already the air of
-girls destined for spinsterhood. Sometimes, as she regarded their
-premature primness, she found it impossible to suppose that proposals
-would ever come to them, impossible to picture either of the staid,
-angular figures in a man's arms. Timidly, once, when her dread of a
-lifetime spent in Beckenhampton had grown unbearable, she had nerved
-herself to suggesting a removal. "Don't you think we should find it
-brighter to live somewhere else?" she had pleaded. "In London we should
-have concerts, and pictures and things."
-
-"London?" Amy had faltered, with dismay. "Oh, no, I shouldn't like that
-at all."
-
-"Well, it needn't be London, then; but there are nicer towns than
-this. What do _you_ think, Mildred?"
-
-"I'm sure we could, none of us, be as happy as we are at home," said
-Mildred in a shocked voice. "It would seem dreadful to leave the home
-where dear father used to be with us."
-
-And the little stepmother, her hope extinguished, had found herself
-murmuring, "Yes, of course, there _is_ that, I know." The terms of
-their father's will had made the house more theirs than hers; it seemed
-to her that she lacked the right to persist, even if she could have
-felt sanguine of persistence prevailing. But what she lacked most of
-all, of course, was courage. She was good-natured, she was charming,
-she had some beautiful qualities, but she was without the force of mind
-to oppose anybody. She was a tender, lovable, and exasperating coward.
-That is to say, she would have been exasperating if there had been
-anyone to regret her cowardice, anyone to care much whether she was
-miserable or not.
-
-And then, one summer, after Mildred had influenza, the doctor
-recommended Harrogate, instead of the dismal village--and the
-possibility of Harrogate yielding husbands to the girls quickened the
-woman's heart. In the season there, among so many men--mightn't there
-be two to find Mildred and Amy congenial?
-
-It was she, not they, who pondered so carefully and paid so much for
-the morning, afternoon, and evening dresses in which they lagged about
-a fashionable hydro a fortnight later. It was she, not they, who knew
-a throb of hope when either of them danced twice, monosyllabically,
-with the same partner, and who welcomed their opportunity to play in an
-amateur performance, with its attraction of daily rehearsals.
-
-"I don't think we care much for acting," Amy demurred. "I think we
-would rather look on, like you."
-
-"Dr. Roberts said that Mildred needed to be taken out of herself; if
-_you_ don't go in for it, _she_ won't. Oh, I should say yes. It is sure
-to be a lot of fun, you know."
-
-"I don't think that Mildred and I care much for fun," demurred Amy.
-
-However, the Misses Findon attended the rehearsals--with the dramatic
-instinct possessed by pasteboard figures on a toy stage. And blankly
-their stepmother noted that, though young men were ambitious of
-"polishing their scenes" in alcoves, at various hours, with other
-girls, no young man's histrionic fervour urged him to any spontaneous
-polishing with Mildred or Amy.
-
-The thing that did happen at Harrogate was unlooked-for: a man
-displayed considerable interest in Mrs. Findon herself.
-
-They had spoken first in the hall, where he was sitting when she came
-out of the breakfast-room with the girls one morning; and on subsequent
-mornings they had all loitered for ten minutes in the hall; and then,
-when the rehearsals prevented Mildred and Amy from loitering, she had
-paused awhile without them. One day, when the rehearsal took place
-after luncheon, she was surprised to find that she had sat talking to
-him the whole afternoon. But though their tone had long since grown
-informal and they talked spontaneously, though he had told her he
-was in the last fortnight of his leave from India and spoken of his
-prospects of a judgeship there, she did not realise how far their
-acquaintance had progressed until he said to her, "You don't look like
-a happy woman, and yet it doesn't sound to me as if your husband had
-been all the world to you. If it isn't the loss of your husband that's
-weighing on you, what's the matter?"
-
-She gazed at him, startled. And still stranger to her than the boldness
-of his question, was the intimacy of her reply, after she had made it.
-"Mr. Murray, I'm _not_ a happy woman."
-
-From that moment they were not acquaintances--they were friends.
-Piecemeal he learnt her story, and perceived the weakness of her
-character. And their confidences were more frequent and prolonged
-after a hurried letter from Aunt Harriet, saying that "her dear boy
-had passed away, and that it would help her to bear her cross if dear
-Mildred and Amy would go to her for two or three days." A week slid by,
-and they were with her still. And meanwhile Mr. Murray and Mrs. Findon
-fell in love with each other.
-
-It was her first breath of romance. A father's ailments, encompassing
-her girlhood, had excluded sentimental episodes. To marriage she had
-been moved by nothing but docility. She would soon be thirty--and for
-the first time she found a strange pulsating promise in the birds'
-twittering when she woke; lingered at a looking-glass, and turned back
-to it, that a man might approve. She eyed intently time's touches on
-her face, noting with new sensitiveness that it showed her age. She
-knew, for the first time, restlessness if one man was absent; and if he
-was present, knew impatience of all others who were present too. And
-she sparkled at her own blitheness; and but for the recurring thought
-that it would all be over soon, she lived in Eden for a week.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-They had been speaking of her stepdaughters, and he had said, "The
-first time I saw you with them I wondered what the relationship was.
-You can't have much in common with them? You must have hoped to see
-them marry, haven't you?"
-
-"Do you think they will?" she asked.
-
-"Oh, I don't know. It doesn't follow, because one finds no charm in
-a girl oneself, that nobody else will find any. I've known men crazy
-about women that I wouldn't have turned my head to look at--and men
-that were by no means fools. Isn't there anybody in Beckenhampton?"
-
-"There aren't many chances for a girl in Beckenhampton. Besides, they
-don't care for young men's society--that's one of the reasons why men
-don't find much to say to them, I think. I hoped something might come
-of their staying here, but----"
-
-"But a man has wanted to talk to _you_, instead."
-
-Could she control her voice? "Oh, that's a different thing."
-
-"Why is it a different thing?"
-
-"I meant that I hoped it might lead to something for them--I wasn't
-thinking of friendship."
-
-"_I'm_ not thinking of friendship; your friendship wouldn't be much use
-to me out there. I want you to be my wife. Will you?"
-
-They were in the garden, after dinner. From the ladies' orchestra in
-the hall came the barcarolle from _The Tales of Hoffmann_. In sentiment
-she was in her teens.
-
-"I can't," she said, in a whisper.
-
-"I'm so fond of you. Do you know I've never heard your name?"
-
-She told him her name.
-
-"Belle, I'd be so good to you. Don't you like me?"
-
-She turned to him. No one could see them. The first kiss of her first
-love--moonlight, and the barcarolle. Though she did not recognise it,
-there was a single instant in which she was capable of any weakness.
-But she was not capable of strength.
-
-"I can't," she repeated. "How can I? To marry again! I couldn't say
-such a thing to them. What would they--I couldn't do it."
-
-"I don't understand. You 'can't marry me' because they wouldn't like
-it? You don't mean that? Or is it because you don't think you ought to
-leave them?"
-
-"Both."
-
-"But--good heavens!... Besides, there's this aunt they've gone to--they
-could live with her. You aren't telling me--you can't mean you won't
-marry me because you imagine it's your duty to sacrifice our happiness
-for the sake of two young women you don't care about? You know you
-don't care about them! It's mad! I need you more than they do; I can
-make you happier than they do. I shall never be a millionaire, but I
-shall come into a bit by and by, and I can make things bright for you
-at home, one day. You'd have rather a good time out there, for that
-matter. I _want_ to make things bright for you--I want to see you what
-you were meant to be. You've never had your youth yet, you've been done
-out of it; I want to give it to you, I want you to forget what it means
-to feel depressed. That'd be just my loveliest joy, to see you in high
-spirits, laughing, waking up younger instead of older, growing more
-like a girl every day.... People'd begin to take me for your father!
-That'd be rough on me, wouldn't it?"
-
-She looked, misty-eyed and smiling, at this man who had transfigured
-life for her.
-
-"I know it sounds silly of me."
-
-"That's meek," he laughed. "Very well, then. As soon as they come back
-we'll tell them. Perhaps they won't mind as much as you think--they
-aren't so devoted to you, are they?"
-
-"It isn't that. Their father's memory means so much to them--they'll
-think it so awful of me. And----"
-
-"And what?"
-
-"You don't know everything--I haven't told you all about it. It sounds
-hideous, I know, but I couldn't help it--I drifted into it. I--I've
-had to pretend so much. Pretend to miss him, I mean. All the time.
-Every day. I----To tell them that it wasn't true----How can I?"
-
-"You wouldn't be the only woman who had loved twice; other women have
-cared for their husbands, and married again."
-
-"It has been all the time," she muttered, shame-faced. "Even since we
-have been here I've had to----Just before they went, we sent flowers
-to the cemetery and I was supposed to--I mean, I had to pretend to be
-sorry we couldn't take them ourselves. What a hypocrite I shall seem!
-What'll they say?"
-
-He grasped her hands, and held her tight, and told her what _he_ would
-be willing to do for _her_--and though he was older than she, and
-looked it, he talked like a boy. "Do you disbelieve me?" he asked. "And
-if you don't disbelieve me, won't _you_ face a little awkwardness for
-_me_? If it comes to that, _I_ can speak to them first. Once the news
-is broken, the worst'll be over for you. What a baby you are, darling!
-May I call you a baby the moment I'm engaged to you, Mrs. Findon,
-madam? Oh, you little timid, foolish, sweetest soul, fancy talking
-about missing all our happiness for life, to avoid a bad half-hour!
-It'd be a funny choice, wouldn't it, Belle my Belle?"
-
-She nodded, radiant; and aglow with the courage he had communicated,
-she thought she could have proclaimed her intention straightway, if the
-young women had returned then.
-
-They did not, however, return at all. Next morning the post brought
-from them the news that they felt too sad to find Harrogate congenial
-now, and that they would rather be at home. They were going back to
-Beckenhampton the "day after to-morrow."
-
-It meant that her precious hours here were numbered. She showed the
-letter disconsolately to Murray.
-
-"I shall have to go this afternoon," she said.
-
-"I don't see what for--I don't see why you should be dragged away at a
-minute's notice. You're not a child to be 'sent for.'"
-
-"Oh, I must go," she sighed; "I _must_ get there before them, to see to
-things."
-
-They stood together in the hall--the hall that he knew would look so
-pathetically blank to him this afternoon.
-
-"We haven't had long, have we?" he said. "How I'm going to hate
-everybody in this hydro when you've gone!--the people that mention
-you, and the people that don't mention you; every single one of them;
-because I shall be missing you in every second and they'll all be
-chattering and scandalmongering just the same. When shall I hear from
-you? You'll tell them as soon as you see them--you won't put it off,
-even for an hour? Oh, my darling, don't think I'm not alive to all
-that's beautiful in you, but"--he tried to smile--"you _are_ a little
-bit of a coward where they're concerned, aren't you? Keep remembering
-you're free to do as you like. If they aren't pleased, they can be
-displeased. You haven't got to ask their permission. It's a perfectly
-simple statement-you're' going to marry me.' They haven't a shadow
-of right to complain. If you'll remind yourself of that, it'll make
-it smoother for you.... I wish we could have had a day together
-first--away from all this crew, I mean. Couldn't you make it to-morrow
-instead? We'd have a car and go somewhere. Couldn't you, Belle?"
-
-"I can't," she said wistfully. "It'd be heavenly. But I can't. I ought
-to go upstairs and pack now."
-
-"All right, little woman," said he; "I don't want to make it worse for
-you. Go along, then. I may see you off, mayn't I? And I'll 'phone at
-once about your passage on the boat. And I'll come to Beckenhampton the
-instant you send for me. And we're to be married by special licence
-next week. Oh, isn't it great! And then your new life begins--the
-laughter life, the girl life. I'm going to wipe out that troubled look
-they've put in your eyes--I'm going to make you self-willed, make you
-tyrannise over me."
-
-"Tyrannise over the Judge! Wouldn't it be a shame?" she laughed. "What
-a reward for you!"
-
-"I don't know," he said; "I believe I'd like it--it's time you did
-a little tyrannising. I can't kiss you, darling, because somebody's
-coming down the stairs, but look at me and let's pretend!"
-
-Downcast as she felt, as the train bore her from him, she felt firm.
-She could not view the ordeal before her as lightly as he--he did not
-understand, she told herself; it was natural that he shouldn't--but
-she was resolved to meet it without delay, and to be bold in the face
-of the consternation she foresaw. How easy it would have been but for
-the insincerities she had been guilty of, the craven insincerities! It
-was her own horrible hypocrisy, not her stepdaughters' disapproval,
-chat made the task so difficult. As she dwelt upon the difficulties,
-as she realised the almost incredible shock she was about to deal, the
-fortitude within her faded, and during the latter half of the journey
-it was with thankfulness she reflected that she would not have to
-confront the situation that day.
-
-It should be directly they arrived, though! She vowed it.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-She had watched tremulously till nearly three o'clock, when a cab
-rumbled to the house at last; and her heart turned sicker still as she
-saw that her stepdaughters were accompanied by their aunt.
-
-"We persuaded her to come."
-
-"I'm afraid I shall be a sad visitor for you, my dear."
-
-"They were quite right. The change will do you good."
-
-They explained that they had lunched early, and they sat awhile in
-the drawing-room, with their hats and coats on--her sister-in-law
-oppressive with much crape; the young women also wearing black dresses,
-very badly made.
-
-"A glass of wine, Harriet? You must be tired after the journey." She
-rang the bell.
-
-Sipping the port, and alternately nibbling a biscuit, and flicking
-crumbs from her lap, Aunt Harriet was taciturn and tearful. And she had
-little to say between tea and dinner, excepting when she spoke huskily
-of her son's last hours. But in the evening her thoughts reverted to
-the "happy days she had spent in the house when her dear brother was
-alive," and she discoursed on them, remarking how "sadly different it
-seemed now."
-
-"It was a terrible loss for you, Belle," she moaned. "But the parting
-is only for this life. That's all, my dear, only for this life. You'll
-meet again where there are no partings. You must keep thinking of that.
-It's only faith that helps us all to bear up."
-
-And the hypocrite, loathing her hypocrisy, heard herself answer, "Oh, I
-know! Oh yes!"
-
-At Harrogate the orchestra would be playing now, and he was wondering
-if she had told them yet! She gazed before her helplessly. She would
-have to put it off till to-morrow.
-
-Said Mildred, "I daresay Aunt would like to go to bed early."
-
-"If you'll all excuse me, dear, I think I should."
-
-"I think we're all of us ready, aren't we?" murmured Mrs. Findon.
-
-And as they got up and filed from the room, Amy said in sacerdotal
-tones, "There's one thing we want to do, isn't there, before we go
-upstairs to-night?" And, like one who performs a rite, she opened the
-study door; and on the threshold they drooped devoutly.
-
-"O God, forgive me, and help me to be truthful!" prayed the hypocrite
-when she was alone.
-
-The morrow was Sunday, and in the morning they went to church; and
-after service they walked dismally to the cemetery. At dinner she
-could scarcely swallow. She felt faint, and her hands trembled when
-the return to the drawing-room was made. It had to be now! Her
-sister-in-law was settling herself for a nap. Amy turned listlessly
-the pages of a book. Mildred, her shallow eyes upturned, and her head
-slightly sideways, wore an air of pious resignation to some unexpressed
-calamity. Turning from the window, with a gulp, the coward stammered:
-
-"Oh ... after you had gone from Harrogate, Mr. Murray asked me to marry
-him."
-
-The silence seemed to her to last for minutes.
-
-"To do _what_?" gasped Amy.
-
-"_Well_!" exclaimed Mildred. "It didn't take long to put _him_ in his
-place, I hope. What impudence!"
-
-"He had an impudent look," said Amy.
-
-"Some man who was staying at the hydro where you were?" inquired
-Aunt Harriet. "Fancy! That's the worst of those large places. But I
-shouldn't let it worry you, my dear. It isn't worth worrying about.
-Very likely he didn't mean any harm by it. He didn't understand,
-that's all--didn't know your heart was buried with him who's gone."
-
-"Disgusting, _I_ call it," said Mildred. "But Aunt's quite right--we
-needn't talk about it.... I thought this morning--I don't know if you
-noticed it--that the saxifrage on the grave had gone rather thin; there
-was a gap here and there. I think we'd better see the superintendent.
-It isn't what it ought to be, by any means."
-
-She stood struggling to say the rest--she struggled with all the puny
-will that was within her. And so unfit was she to struggle, that on
-surrendering, her paramount emotion was relief. She said, "Yes, we'll
-see him about it, and have some more."
-
-She had intended to write to Murray in time for the evening collection.
-But she could not write that she had kept her word, and she shrank from
-writing that she had paltered with it. She lay sleepless, crying with
-mortification. Once a desperate impulse to be done with her compliance
-then and there, pulled her up, and she thrust on her dressing-gown;
-but her mind quailed even as she reached the door, and she sank on to
-the edge of the bed, procrastinating--and then crept back between the
-sheets.
-
-She could not write that she had kept her word on the next day either,
-nor during the two days that followed. The just thing to them both
-would have been to write him exactly what had happened, but as she was
-a woman, the thing natural to her when she was to blame was to behave
-worse still by not writing at all. A feeble attempt she made, but ...
-what was there to say, excepting that she had failed? In every moment
-she was conscious of his waiting; she realised the glances that he cast
-at that letter-rack over the console table, and saw his mouth tighten
-at every disappointment that it dealt. And she was fond of him. Yet it
-was beyond her to sustain the effort to confess herself demeaned.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-He telegraphed: "Coming to you by the seven o'clock train to-morrow
-Friday morning."
-
-From her bedroom window, before breakfast, she saw the boy crossing
-the road with the message, and she darted downstairs and took it from
-him before the double knock could crash. No one was aware, when the
-family group made their matins to the study, that in her pocket she
-had a telegram from a lover. No one surmised, when she served the eggs
-and bacon, that she was questioning, terrified, how to keep his coming
-secret. If any of them were in, when the maid said that he was asking
-for her? She would be tongue-tied. And they--how insulting they'd be
-to him! It would be awful ... awful, unless she were to prepare them,
-unless she were to say now that she had heard from him and that they
-must receive him properly. She knew she wasn't going to say it, but
-she imagined the sensation if she said it: "Mr. Murray's calling this
-morning. You've made a mistake--I accepted him." She shivered at the
-mere notion, at fancying how horror would distort their faces. Just
-after she had been shamming in that room!... She would make an excuse
-to go out--she'd meet him at the station.
-
-It was going to be very painful--she wished he weren't coming. In love
-with him though she was, she knew that she wished he weren't coming.
-And in that moment it was borne upon her that her expectation of
-marrying him had died days ago. She could never go through with it! She
-would have to tell him so--and he wouldn't understand, wouldn't make
-allowances for her. He had not understood at Harrogate. He'd reproach
-her, tell her she had treated him badly. And she'd have to sit there,
-in the waiting-room, trying not to cry, with people looking on....
-
-If she could have been picked up in his arms and carried off this
-morning, without coming back to the house at all! That would be nice.
-The girls and Harriet might say what they chose, if she hadn't got to
-listen to it. But he wouldn't ask her to go like that; she would have
-to propose it herself. How could she? Besides, when she went out to
-meet him she couldn't even take a suit-case.... Oh, what good would it
-do to meet him? Pain for nothing. He thought he would be able to argue
-her into it, make her promise over again. Wretched. And very likely
-she _would_ promise--and then what was she going to do? She would feel
-worse then than she felt now. It would have been far better for them
-not to see each other. If she told the servant----She couldn't say "Not
-at home," that would sound dreadful.
-
-He might be here soon, she supposed, unless he had to wait long for the
-change of trains. If she did mean to go to the station, she ought to go
-directly she had given orders to the cook. Walking into misery with her
-eyes open! And walking back with her heart in her shoes. It wouldn't
-be any easier to say it to them later than it was at this minute--and
-she would know it even while he was wringing the promise from her. Oh,
-what was he coming for, to make things worse still? He might have known
-by her not having written to him----She pushed back her chair with
-vexation.
-
-After breakfast, when the beds were being made, Mrs. Findon said:
-
-"Doreen, if anybody calls this morning--a gentleman--say we're away
-from home for a few days. You understand? For a few days--all of us.
-Oh, and, Doreen, if he asks where we are, you don't know."
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-More than six years have gone by since Mrs. Findon peeped, breathless,
-as Mr. Murray got into a cab again and was driven out of her life. And
-now when she reads in her newspaper, every day, on one page or another,
-how sublimely mankind has progressed by relapsing into barbarism, and
-that the new human nature is purged of frailties that were inherent
-in men and women until the 4th August 1914, she vaguely wonders how
-it is that her household, and her social circle, and Beckenhampton at
-large, and she herself have not had their characters regenerated,
-like the rest of the world. For each morning she goes with the Misses
-Findon to gaze upon the study, and each Sunday she goes with them to
-gaze upon the grave; and on their return, while the Misses Findon
-sit by the fireplace, speaking at long intervals, in subdued tones,
-their stepmother stares from the window, knowing that her pretence
-of mourning a husband she did not love will continue as long as she
-lives. And when she looks back on her romance, she marvels--not at the
-recreancy of her submission, but that once she briefly dared to dream
-she would rebel.
-
-
-
-
-IX
-
-THE BOOM
-
-
-At this time of day I do not mind publishing the facts. It happened
-a few weeks after those pillars of the State--Thibaudin and
-Hazard--disappeared from Paris with a couple of million francs. They
-were leading the police a pretty dance, and people said, "Ah, they are
-probably at the world's end by this time!" I used to think to myself
-how securely a man who had a mind to do so might lie hidden within an
-hour's journey of the Grand Boulevard. It was really the disappearance
-of Thibaudin and Hazard that originated my Idea.
-
-I was manager at that period of the Theatre Supreme, where we were
-very soon to produce Beauregard's play, _Omphale_. I descried a way to
-attract additional attention to our project. I went to see Beauregard
-one October morning, and gave him a shock. He was breakfasting in bed.
-
-"Bonjour, maitre," I said. "Are you too much occupied to talk business?"
-
-"Panage," exclaimed the dramatist, "if you have come to demand any more
-mutilations of the manuscript, I tell you without parleying that no
-consideration on earth will induce me to yield. There is a limit; mon
-Dieu, there is a limit! Rather than cut another line, or substitute
-another syllable I will put the contract in the fire."
-
-"Dear friend, you have evidently slept ill and are testy this morning,"
-I said. "Compose yourself. I come to exhilarate you with a great
-scheme."
-
-He still eyed me apprehensively, and to pacify him I made haste to
-explain, "It has nothing to do with any alterations in the play."
-
-"Ah!" He breathed relief, and dipped his croissant in his cup.
-
-"It is a scheme for booming it."
-
-My host was forthwith genial. A smile suffused his munching face, and
-he offered me a cigarette.
-
-"I ask your pardon if I was abrupt," he said. "As you surmise, I passed
-a bad night. A boom? Well, you know my views on the subject of booming.
-The ordinary puff preliminary is played out. One needs something novel,
-Panage, something scholarly. 'Scholarly' is the word. For _Omphale,_ a
-play of pre-Hellenic times, one needs the boom scholarly, classical,
-and grandiose."
-
-"You voice my own sentiments," said I. "One needs nothing less than
-a production of 'unrivalled accuracy'--costumes 'copied from designs
-discovered in Crete and dating back to the dim days of the Minotaur.'
-That would look tasteful in print, would it not? Alors, what do you say
-to our going to Crete and discovering them?"
-
-"Crete?" stammered Beauregard. Have I mentioned that he was fat and
-indolent and had never travelled further than Trouville?
-
-"What think you of exploring the Minotaur's lair?" I questioned. "Of
-penetrating to the apartments of Phaedra? Of examining with your own
-eyes the labyrinth of Ariadne?"
-
-"I?" he ejaculated.
-
-"You and I together, my old one! Our adventures would make pretty
-reading, hein? Would not all Paris be chattering about your _Omphale?_
-What a fever of impatience for the first night! Think of the effect
-such paragraphs would have on the advance booking."
-
-The corpulent Beauregard lay back on the pillows, pale and mute. I had
-spoken too earnestly for him to suspect that I was pulling his leg, and
-I could see that he was very seriously perturbed. His mind was torn in
-halves between his longing for the advertisement and his horror of the
-exertion and expense. After a moment he sat up, perspiring, and wrung
-my hand.
-
-"Panage," he cried, "you are a man of genius! Your idea is most
-brilliant; I have never heard its equal. With all my heart I
-congratulate you. I, alas! cannot accompany you on account of my wife's
-ill-health, but _you_ are free. Go, mon ami! Your inspiration will
-crowd your theatre."
-
-His wife's health was offensively robust. I shook with laughter so
-unrestrained that the cigarette fell out of my mouth.
-
-"Let me be a trifle more explicit," I said. "It is not essential to my
-scheme that either you or I should actually go to Crete. It is only
-essential that we should be reported to have gone there. I propose that
-we should blazon our departure in all the journals--we might give them
-interviews in the midst of our packing--and that we should then retire
-for two or three months to some secluded spot near at hand where there
-will be nobody to recognise us. I shall confide only in Verdeille, my
-secretary; I can rely on him, and he will keep the Press well supplied
-with anecdotes of our vicissitudes during our absence. Mon Dieu! We
-will make Paris bubble and boil with anticipation."
-
-He was admiring, but timid. "Don't you think it would be very risky?"
-he demurred. "If our imposture were found out? It would be ruin. For
-example, what spot?"
-
-"Well, I am not prepared with spots at the instant; I came to you on
-the effervescence of the notion. But somewhere off the beaten track.
-One can hide very effectually without going far--I would not mind
-wagering that Thibaudin and Hazard are lying low in some hamlet. While
-the police are watching Marseilles and Havre, or picturing them already
-in South America, they are probably concealed within an easy run of the
-gare St. Lazare, waiting till the search is relaxed. What about one of
-the little seaside places in Normandy--have you ever stumbled on one
-of them a day after the season finished? There is nobody left but the
-garde-champetre."
-
-He shivered. "Three months of it?" he queried piteously.
-
-"Our investigations, which we undertake 'to complete the previous
-labours of the archaeologists,' ought to be thorough," I pointed out.
-
-"Is it not worth our while to suffer a little tedium for such an end?
-Lift your gaze to the cash that will accrue, Beauregard. Dwell upon the
-box-office besieged. Positively we shall double the value of your play.
-Also you can take plenty of exercise and improve your figure."
-
-"I abhor exercise," he murmured.
-
-"And you could keep early hours and prolong your life."
-
-"My life is a series of vexations--to prolong it would be fatuous."
-
-"Further, everybody will say what a conscientious artist you are; I
-don't mind asserting that your passion for accuracy is sweeping me to
-the Minotaur's lair against my will."
-
-"Well, I will think about it," he said heavily.
-
-He promised to write to me on the morrow.
-
-There was no difficulty about finding a summer resort forsaken enough
-in October--the difficulty was to find one sufficiently animated to
-boast an hotel that remained open; and at last I authorised Verdeille
-to provide us with a furnished chalet. Of these he had reported an
-unlimited choice everywhere. The resort finally approved for our
-purpose contained thirty furnished chalets, and they were all to
-be let with alacrity until the following July. We took ours until
-February. I had extracted Beauregard's consent, and a fortnight later
-I hustled him into a cab. He looked as if he were being removed for
-a kill-or-cure operation, and I am sure he had half a mind to break
-his word even when we were in the train. On the journey I perused with
-pleasure _Le Matin_, and the current issue of _L'Illustration_, in
-which the programme of our imaginary trip was set forth with a wealth
-of invention that did me credit. The deception, in fact, had been
-engineered so eloquently that at moments I had almost begun to fancy we
-were really bound for Crete.
-
-We travelled to Dieppe, and then a cab crawled into a void with us--the
-motor service, we learnt, was discontinued for the next nine months.
-The chalet was a high, gaunt house called "Les Myosotis." A peasant,
-who represented the agence de location, stood at her door to wonder at
-our arrival. A primitive bonne, whom Verdeille had engaged to attend
-upon us, appeared to entertain doubts of our sanity. We entered the
-scene as messieurs "Poupard," and "Bachelet." It was _my_ precaution to
-choose names beginning with a P and a B; I thought of the initials on
-our luggage, and our washing--the dramatist had overlooked that point.
-
-Well, I shall not pretend that I was in for a rollicking time. I have
-a high esteem for Beauregard in the theatre, but Beauregard in a
-village was unspeakable. His lamentations linger with me yet. We had
-nothing to do, except to walk in the mud and regard the shutters of
-the twenty-nine other chalets. At seven o'clock in the evening, the
-distant lighthouse, and the lamp in our own salon afforded the only
-lights discoverable for miles round. That fat Parisian's melancholy,
-his reproaches, his attitudes of despair, defy description. Even when
-the weather improved, he would perceive no virtue in it. I exclaimed
-once, "What a beautiful sky to-night!" He replied, "It _would_ be
-beautiful from the Place de la Concorde!" He had brought a cartload of
-novels--and before we had been in the place a week he was complaining
-that he had nothing to read.
-
-"I shall die if I remain any longer," he declared. "I shall be buried
-here, I foresee it. The climate doesn't agree with me. Honestly, I feel
-very unwell. I ought to return to Paris, it is my duty--I have my wife
-to consider."
-
-"You were never so well in your life," I remonstrated sharply.
-"Rubbish! there's no escape now, you've got to see it through.
-Foretaste the triumph of _Omphale_ and be blithe."
-
-"How much will a triumph be worth to me if I am dead?" he wailed. "Mon
-Dieu! what an existence, what demoniac desolation! I shudder when I
-wake in the morning; the thought of the terrible day before me weighs
-me down. I have scarcely the energy to put on my socks. To wash my
-neck exhausts me. Is there nothing, nothing to be done for an hour's
-respite--is there no entertainment within reasonable distance?"
-
-"My beloved 'Bachelet,'" I said, "you forget; at a place of
-entertainment we might be recognised. Besides, there isn't any."
-
-He threw up his arms. "It is like being in gaol, word of honour! Who
-directed you to this fatal hole, where a postman collects letters only
-when he pleases--this desert, where Monday's _Matin_ drifts by Tuesday
-night? By what perverse ingenuity did you contrive to find it? How long
-have we endured it now?"
-
-"Ten days," I told him cheerfully. "Why, we have only got about eighty
-more!"
-
-He groaned. "It seems like centuries. My misgiving, of course, is
-that it will drive me to intemperance: such ordeals as this develop
-the vice. The natives themselves are staggered by our presence;
-they whisper about me as I pass. Children follow me up the roads,
-marvelling; if the population sufficed, I should be followed by crowds.
-I tell you, we are objects of suspicion; we are a local mystery;
-they conclude we must have 'done something.' Also the laundress here
-is a violent savage--she is not a laundress at all. I had six new
-collars when we came, six collars absolutely new from the box--and
-this devil has frayed them already. I would never have believed it
-could be accomplished in the time, but she has managed it. Six collars
-absolutely new from the box!"
-
-Don't imagine that he had finished! don't suppose that it was merely
-a bad mood. It was the kind of thing I had to bear from him daily,
-hourly--from the early coffee to the latest cigarette.
-
-One afternoon, when I had gone for a stroll without him, a contretemps
-occurred. I had entered the outfitter's, and stationer's, and
-tobacconist's and provision merchant's--the miniature shop was
-the only one in the place that had not closed until the following
-summer--to obtain a pair of shoelaces. That the clod-hoppers cackled
-about our sojourn was a small matter to me, and I paid no more heed to
-the woman's curious stare to-day than usual. But I was to meet another
-stare!
-
-As I waited for my change, a shabby young man came in to ask for a copy
-of _Le Petit Journal_, and a toy for five sous. _Le Petit Journal_,
-which I had just read, contained the latest details of my explorations
-in Crete, and instinctively I looked round. His eyes widened. I did not
-know him from Adam; but it was evident that _he_ knew _me_, at least by
-sight! I turned hot and cold with confusion.
-
-Grabbing at my coppers, I hurried out, wondering what I had better do
-if he addressed me. Before I had time to solve the question I heard
-him striding at my heels. With a deprecating bow that told me he had
-favours to solicit, he exclaimed, "Monsieur Panage!"
-
-"You are mistaken," I said promptly.
-
-"Oh, monsieur, I beg you to hear me," he cried, "I entreat you! In the
-theatre you are for ever inaccessible--will you not spare an instant to
-me here?"
-
-He was so sure of my identity that I realised it would be indiscreet of
-me to deny it any longer. Since I could not deceive, my only course was
-to ingratiate him.
-
-"What do you want?" I asked, fuming.
-
-"Monsieur," he broke out, "I am an actor. I have been acting in the
-provinces since I was a boy. I have played every kind of part from
-farce to tragedy. I have talent, but I have no influence, and the stage
-doors of Paris are shut and barred against me! No manager will listen
-to me, because I am too obscure to obtain an introduction to him; no
-one will believe that I have ability, because I cannot get a chance to
-prove it. Oh, I know very well what a liberty I have taken in speaking
-to you, but I want to get on, I want to get on--I implore you to give
-me a trial!"
-
-He had me in a nice fix. Apparently he was unaware that I was believed
-to be in Crete, but he would soon learn it by the newspaper in his
-pocket, and if I snubbed him he would certainly give me away. He could
-hold me up to ridicule--I should be the laughing-stock of Paris. It was
-a fine situation for me. I, the director of the Theatre Supreme, was
-compelled to temporise with this provincial mummer!
-
-I scrutinised him in encouraging silence, as if mentally casting him
-for a part. I saw hope bounding in him.
-
-"Ah!" I said thoughtfully. "Y-e-s.... What is your favourite line?"
-
-"Character, monsieur," he panted. "And, of course, I would accept a
-very small salary, a very small salary indeed."
-
-I did not doubt it. I could picture him strutting and ranting on the
-boards of a booth for a louis a week, and holding himself lucky when he
-earned that.
-
-"Walk on a little way with me," I said graciously; "we can talk as we
-go along. I should have to see you do something before I could consider
-you, you know; I must be sure that you are capable. Even the gentleman
-who plays the servant at the Supreme and hasn't a single word to utter
-is an experienced comedian. You are not playing any-where in the
-neighbourhood? you are not in a travelling theatre about here?"
-
-"No, monsieur," he sighed, "I am out of an engagement; I am here
-because this is where I live."
-
-"Rather remote from the dramatic world?" I suggested, smiling;
-"something of a drawback, is it not?" His simplicity in crediting me
-with the notion of recruiting the Supreme from a travelling theatre
-tickled me nearly to death.
-
-"A grave drawback, monsieur," he agreed. "But I am not alone--I have a
-child, and she is too delicate to thrive in a city."
-
-"A good many delicate children have thriven in Paris," I remarked.
-
-"In thriving households, monsieur--in healthy quarters. Paris is dear,
-and I am poor--_my_ child would be condemned to a slum. I should see
-her lade away. Better to be a barnstormer all my life than lose my
-child. She is all I have left to love."
-
-"There is your art," I said, humbugging him.
-
-"My art?" He gave an hysterical laugh. A nervous, jumpy fellow, without
-a particle of repose. "Listen, monsieur, listen. I am an actor, and if
-I could demolish the barrier that keeps me out, I might be a great
-one; but I confess to you that I would abandon art and cast figures
-on an office stool, or break flints on a road, and thank God for
-the exchange, if it would buy my child a home! I want money. I want
-to give my child the comforts that other children have. That's _my_
-ambition. I have no loftier pose than fatherhood. My prayer is, not
-applause, and compliments, and notoriety, not the petty pleasure of
-hearing I have equalled one favourite or eclipsed another; my prayer
-is--to give things to my child! I want to buy her nourishing food, and
-a physician's advice, and the education of a gentlewoman. I want the
-money to send her to the South when it snows, and to the mountains
-when it's hot. I want to see her laughing in a garden, like the rich
-men's children in Paris that you spoke of. I stand and watch them
-sometimes--when I go there to beg at stage doors till an understrapper
-kicks me out."
-
-"Well, well, the sort of things you desire are not so expensive," I
-said suavely. "Some day your salary may provide them all."
-
-"You think it possible, monsieur? Really?" His haggard eyes devoured me.
-
-"You have only to make one success. After that, you will be grossly
-overpaid, like every other star."
-
-"If I could but do it!" he gasped. "If I could only convince a
-Paris manager that I have it in me! Year after year I've hoped, and
-tried, and failed to get a hearing. You may judge my desperation by
-my audacity in stopping you in the streets. What course is open to
-me--what steps can I take? Even now, when I am pouring out my heart to
-monsieur Panage himself, how much does it advance me?"
-
-He was not so simple as I had thought.
-
-"Enfin--by the way, what is your name?"
-
-"My name is Paul Manesse, monsieur."
-
-"Well, monsieur, you must surely understand that until I have seen you
-act I cannot be of any service to you?"
-
-"I could rehearse on approval," he pleaded.
-
-"Moreover," I added hastily, "all my arrangements are made for some
-time to come. Later on, when an opportunity arises, we shall see what
-we shall see." I halted. "Write to me during the run of _Omphale_. I
-shall not forget our little chat. A propos, I am starting to-morrow for
-Crete; I see the papers are reporting that I am already there, so you
-need not mention that you have met me--it is never policy to contradict
-the Press. Yes, I shall bear your name in mind, I assure you."
-
-He did not look assured, however; he stood silent, and his lips were
-trembling. Heaven knows what solid help my amiability had led him to
-expect, but it was plain that honeyed phrases were a meagre substitute.
-
-"You have been most courteous to me," he stammered, "you have done me
-a great honour--as long as I live I shall remember that I have talked
-with monsieur Panage; but you are leaving what you found, monsieur--a
-desperate man!"
-
-"Bah! who knows when an opening may occur?" I said, a shade
-embarrassed. "I may see a chance for you sooner than you think. When I
-want you I shall send for you."
-
-I little dreamt in what strange circumstances I was to send for him.
-
-Beauregard was snoring on the sofa when I burst into the room.
-
-"Well, you can bestir yourself and pack!" I volleyed. "The place is too
-hot to hold us; we have to get out!"
-
-"Hein?"
-
-"There is a pro here who knows me, confound him! I had to tell him we
-were leaving for Crete in the morning--he mustn't see me here again."
-
-The playwright shifted his slippered feet to the floor and sat up. "We
-go back to Paris?" he inquired, beaming.
-
-"How can that be? Of course not! We must discover another retreat."
-
-"Fugitives!" moaned Beauregard. "Nomads! Do you not think, Panage, that
-_I_ might go back to Paris--I could remain cautiously in the house? The
-truth is, my wife is of a very high-minded character, and it distresses
-her to have to address tender letters to a monsieur 'Bachelet': she
-feels that it is not correct."
-
-I was in no mood to be tolerant of his subterfuges. He wept.
-
-I determined to effect our departure the same evening while he was
-still intimidated--and if only I had been able to accelerate his
-movements, my change of intentions would have spared us much. His
-dilatoriness exposed us to a thunderbolt. We had pealed the bell in his
-bedroom for the lamp, and when the door was opened at last, I turned
-to utter a sharp complaint of the delay. To my surprise, I saw that a
-stranger was walking in. There was a fraction of a second in which I
-stared indignantly, waiting for an apology for his blunder. Then it was
-as if my heart slipped slowly to my stomach, and I felt catastrophe in
-the air, even before I heard his rustic, official tones. He arrested us
-as Thibaudin and Hazard!
-
-Behind me I heard Beauregard's dressing-case drop with a thud.
-
-Our eyes met, and we stood petrified, realising the impossibility of
-concealing our names. In my terror of the public scandal that was
-imminent, my clothes stuck to my skin. Curs, as well as criminals, we
-looked. I rather fancied that our provincial captor was relieved to see
-what knock-kneed miscreants he had to deal with.
-
-"You bungling idiot!" I gasped. "I am monsieur Panage, of the Theatre
-Supreme; this gentleman is monsieur Beauregard, of the Academie
-Francaise. You shall suffer for this outrage!"
-
-He shifted his feet slightly. It was the least bit in the world, but
-that motiveless movement betrayed misgiving; I deduced from it that, in
-his eagerness to distinguish himself, he had taken more responsibility
-upon his bucolic shoulders than sat quite comfortably on them. I flung
-my card to him. "Look!"
-
-"What of it?" he said surlily. "What evidence is this? I see you were
-preparing for flight. No violence!"--Beauregard had impotently wrung
-his hands--"I have men in the passage. You will offer your explanations
-in the proper quarter. Come!" He advanced upon me.
-
-"Now, listen to me," I cried, backing in a panic. "Put so much as a
-finger on us and you are ruined. Not only will I have you discharged
-from the Force, I will have you hounded out of any employment that you
-find to the end of your days. It is I who say it! You have no excuse:
-we bear no resemblance whatever to Thibaudin and Hazard. If you were of
-Paris you would know as much!"
-
-Again he faltered. Again he saw distinction within his grasp. The
-workings of a dull intelligence, a fool's passion for promotion,
-supplied a fascinating study, even in my fear. "Hollow cheeks, small
-grey moustache, slight stoop?" he recited, eyeing me. His sheep's gaze
-travelled to Beauregard. "Age forty, bald at crown. Fat."
-
-"Is he the only fat man in France, fool? We can call all Paris to prove
-who we are!"
-
-"Monsieur will have his opportunity to prove it elsewhere," he returned
-stubbornly. But the "monsieur" hinted that I was impressing him against
-his will.
-
-Beauregard began to collect his wits. "If we are compelled to prove it
-elsewhere, it will be the end of _you_!" he raged. "Better be convinced
-in time, I warn you. Hazard _is_ fat, yes; _I_ am, perhaps, a little
-plump."
-
-"What do you show me?" mumbled the fellow. "I see the card of monsieur
-Panage. That does not demonstrate that monsieur Panage is present."
-Complacence was in his gesture, he seemed vain of the brilliance of his
-reasoning. "All is said. I have no time for discussions."
-
-"Stop!" I cried, inspired. "What if we produce a resident of this very
-village, to say who I am?"
-
-"Mon Dieu! the man you met," roared Beauregard. "Saved!"
-
-"There is no such person--we have made our inquiries."
-
-"There is a gentleman well known, who has lived here with his daughter
-since--I don't know how long!"
-
-"Give me his name."
-
-"His name?" I said. "His name is----" I could not recall the name!--it
-had had no interest for me. I could remember saying, hypocritically, "I
-shall bear your name in mind "; but what it was I had no idea. I stood
-dazed. "His name----It escapes me for the moment."
-
-"Enough. The pretence is idle."
-
-"Morbleu!" thundered Beauregard. "Think, Panage, think!"
-
-"I am trying; but I paid no heed to it."
-
-Heavens! what a revenge for the mummer--the name that had fallen on
-careless ears was now my only chance of rescue. I thrashed my brains
-for it, sweating with funk.
-
-"The name----It evades me because I have met him only once in my life."
-
-"Or not so often! I am not to be duped."
-
-"Let me think; don't speak for a minute."
-
-"Farceur!"
-
-"His name----I--I nearly had it. Wait."
-
-"I have waited too long. Come! the pair of you."
-
-"His name--his name----" I sought it frantically. "His name is--_Paul
-Manesse!_"
-
-I mopped my neck. Our persecutor made a note.
-
-"Where is he to be found?"
-
-"How should I know that? It is not difficult for you to ascertain;
-doubtless any villager could direct you to him. Now, mark you, I have
-supplied the name of a resident in a position to correct your monstrous
-blunder! I advise you to bring him to identify me before the matter
-becomes more serious for you still. If you put us to public ignominy,
-apologies will not satisfy me when you discover your mistake. Here is
-your last chance to extricate yourself."
-
-He ruminated. "Enfin, I will send one of my men to inquire for him,"
-he said grudgingly. "If it turns out that this 'monsieur Manesse' is
-unknown, I warn you that you will suffer for your game."
-
-The room was about forty feet from the ground--I saw him attentively
-considering whether, in his absence, we were likely to walk out of the
-window. He marched into the corridor and gave a whistle. I heard two
-voices before he came in again.
-
-Uninvited, he sat, clasping his knees. None of us spoke any more.
-The lamp having still made no appearance, I lit the candles. I do not
-forget that long half-hour in Les Myosotis. The yokel himself grew
-restless at last--he rose and went into the corridor again.
-
-"Hark," exclaimed Beauregard suddenly, "the man has come back. Can you
-hear Manesse? Listen."
-
-"I cannot distinguish," I murmured, straining my ears to the door.
-
-Some minutes passed. To our dismay, our oppressor re-entered alone.
-Perplexity darkened his brow. He hesitated before he broke the
-suspensive hush.
-
-"Monsieur Manesse agrees that this afternoon he met monsieur Panage,"
-he announced. "_But_"--he raised a forensic forefinger--"that does not
-establish that either of _you_ is monsieur Panage. Monsieur Manesse
-is occupied in telling a fairy tale to his little daughter and cannot
-spare the time to come here to identify you. Enfin, you will accompany
-me to the commissaire de police, and you will obtain the evidence in
-due course."
-
-"Sacre tonnerre!" I screamed. It was the last straw. That strolling
-player declined to "spare the time," that mountebank neglected Me!
-
-I saw crimson. I paced the room, raving. "What did he say?" I
-spluttered. "What were the ruffian's words?"
-
-"My man reports that the gentleman replied, 'Monsieur Panage must have
-had immense difficulty in recollecting my name. He would not stir an
-inch to save my life--why should _I_ take a walk for _him_?'"
-
-I sat down. I felt dizzy. I feared I was going to be extremely ill. The
-man himself seemed moved by my collapse--or increasingly uncertain of
-his position. He said, "Perhaps a note might be effectual? Alors, if
-monsieur wishes to write, I will wait."
-
-"Give me your fountain-pen, Beauregard."
-
-"But"--again the forefinger was uplifted--"there must be no secret
-instructions. I must be satisfied there is no private meaning in the
-note."
-
-"Good heavens! What am I permitted to say?"
-
-He pondered. "'To monsieur Paul Manesse: Monsieur----' Has monsieur
-written 'Monsieur'?"
-
-"Yes, yes; go on!"
-
-"'I am now convinced that you can act. I hereby engage you, at the
-trifling salary of two hundred and fifty francs a week, for prominent
-parts in my next three productions at the Theatre Supreme.'"
-
-The silence was sensational.
-
-"Who the devil are you?" I stuttered, when I found my voice.
-
-"Paul Manesse, monsieur," he told me--"your new comedian, if you sign."
-
-I signed. You have heard how we boomed _Omphale_ and I found a star!
-That jolly little Manesse girl has a rich papa to-day.
-
-
-
-
-X
-
-PILAR NARANJO
-
-
-In one of the dullest towns of France, I sat with a Parisian at a
-variety show.
-
-A Frenchman, with a very grubby shirt-front, presented to the audience
-"Senorita Pilar Naranjo, the famous dancer of Madrid." My companion
-started dramatically, and whispered, "I pray you to pardon me--I shall
-adjourn to the bar till she has done."
-
-Of course, I followed him. "What's the matter?"
-
-"Do not ask me to watch her!"
-
-"Why?"
-
-"I could not support it."
-
-"She is so bad as all that?"
-
-"Bad? She is entrancing."
-
-"Oh! Did you see her when you were in Spain?"
-
-"In Paris, when I had come back. Have you read my _Sobs After
-Midnight_?"
-
-"No."
-
-"Buy it. It contains perhaps the most poignant poems that I have
-written--they are moans in metres for my loss of Pilar Naranjo."
-
-"You don't say so?"
-
-"She was the passion of my life." He struck an attitude. "Return to
-your seat alone, mon ami. For company I shall have my bitter thoughts."
-
-Civility forbade me to let him do all the acting, himself, and I said
-in solemn tones, "I shall remain by your side."
-
-He brooded heavily, with one eye on the past, and the other on the
-effect he was making. "In my nature," he informed me, "there is,
-mysteriously, some Castilian quality--no sooner had I arrived in Spain
-than I bore myself like a Spaniard. I spent fascinating months there,
-and when I came home, Paris appeared to me a foreign city. Absently I
-replied to people in Spanish; my fondest possession was a guitar that
-I had brought back. Though I could not play it, I derived exquisite
-pleasure from slinging it over my shoulder when I promenaded in the
-Garden of the Luxembourg. It may be that instinct warned my compatriots
-that now they were alien to me, for they seemed to avoid me, and I was
-alone."
-
-"I can understand it," I said.
-
-"One melancholy evening, as I wandered through the barren streets,
-pining for the magic of Granada, I noticed the name of 'Pilar Naranjo'
-on the bills of a minor musique 'all. Though it was a name unknown to
-me, its nationality was an appeal. I entered the musique 'all. I paid
-for a fauteuil, and received a pink ticket. What a crisis! Even to-day
-I cannot behold pink tickets without a shudder."
-
-To the strains of an exiguous orchestra, the provocation of the lady's
-castanets reached our ears gaily. Her victim writhed.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-"Very soon I gathered that she was popular there; but on the stage,
-to be a foreigner is to be a favourite, and I prepared myself to be
-disappointed when she appeared. Sapristi! I was spellbound. She danced,
-that night, the _habenera_ that she is dancing now. Ah, those cajoling
-arms, so irresistible! How imperial was her form, how Southern were her
-feet! And her face! the bewildering beauty of her face that haunts me
-still."
-
-I got up.
-
-"Sit down--I could not endure your looking at her without me!" he
-gasped. "When her turn finished, I had no thought but her; I was
-scarcely conscious of the monkeys that came next. In some fifteen
-minutes a girl had danced herself into my destiny--and I was swept to
-the stage door, like a leaf, on the gale of my emotions.
-
-"I could see nobody inside, to take a message. Ten minutes--a quarter
-of an hour passed. I waited in the gloomy little cul-de-sac, dreading,
-in every second, to hear the approaching footstep of a rival with an
-appointment. So tremendous was my agitation that Spanish tenses with
-which I was normally familiar evaded me, and my brain buzzed with the
-effort to compose a preliminary phrase.
-
-"The door opened. Before her features were visible in the darkness, the
-majesty of her deportment proclaimed that it was she. I advanced. I
-bowed, with all my grace.
-
-"'Senorita,' I said, 'I am a poet, and I adore you. Will you honour me
-by supping with me?'
-
-"It was not the overwhelming eloquence that I should have had in
-French, but I felt that the fervour of my voice should make amends;
-and I prayed that she would not be flippant in return. My sentiment
-demanded sweet, grave, contralto tones; a giggle would have been
-torture to me. Once more, a crisis--a spiritual crisis, in which my
-heart ceased to beat. Would she respond gravely, or would she giggle?
-
-"_She did neither one nor the other. As if I had not spoken, she went
-by._
-
-"_Comment done_? I had referred clearly to supper; I was well-dressed,
-young, handsome--and a dancer at a fifth-rate musique 'all, which was
-not precisely a college for decorum, refused to dispense with the
-ceremony of an introduction!
-
-"It was prodigious. And by degrees my anger at the affront subsided.
-So far from dismissing her from my mind, I paid homage to her virtue.
-Yes, my bosom was thrilled by deep esteem. On that sad walk home,
-the romantic passion for a danseuse was transmuted into a devout
-reverence for a noble woman. I condemned myself for approaching her
-so informally. There is, in my complex nature, a vein of humility,
-extremely winning. I resolved to write to her, confessing my fault,
-before I slept.
-
-"It was a long job, because I had to look up so many words in a
-dictionary, but I foresaw that she would be touched by the letter.
-In conclusion I said, 'The impulse that you scorned was born, not
-of disrespect, but of an admiration, that brooked no curb. If your
-vestal pride is not adamant to my remorse, grant me, I supplicate,
-an opportunity to express my penitence at the stage door to-morrow
-(Wednesday).'
-
-"Wednesday's sunshine already tinged the street when I dropped the
-missive in the boite-aux-lettres, but I was not conscious of fatigue.
-On the contrary, I regretted that I must kill eighteen hours in sleep,
-or some other banality, before the paradise of her presence was
-attained. How much had happened in a night! All that was frivolous
-in my disposition had passed away, and I realised that this girl had
-inspired in me a devotion profound, epoch-making, and supreme."
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-He paused. From the footlights, the Frenchman of the dirty shirt-front
-was to be heard in the capacity of interpreter: "Ladies and gentlemen,
-Senorita Pilar Naranjo desires me to translate to you her heartfelt
-gratitude for the enthusiasm of your applause. If you will graciously
-allow her a few moments for a change of costume, Senorita Naranjo will
-have the honour of presenting to you her sensational Toreador Dance."
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The poet groaned. "When I woke I hoped to find that I had slept well
-into the afternoon. With impatience I saw that it was only mid-day.
-However, in dressing, I recognised that I might profitably employ some
-of the time with the dictionary, and I prepared a score of burning
-declarations for the interview.
-
-"The remaining hours were intolerable. No sooner had the musique 'all
-opened than I took my seat, but the exasperating entertainment appeared
-to me to endure for aeons before her turn. The torments, inflicted on my
-suspense by a pair of cross-talk comedians, cannot be surpassed in hell.
-
-"At last I trembled in the cul-de-sac again. At last she came!
-
-"With an obeisance that consigned my career to her feet, I murmured, 'I
-am here to learn whether I am pardoned.'
-
-"_Not a syllable! As before, she passed me by._
-
-"Ah, mon Dieu! I cannot tell you how I reached my couch.
-
-"But my zeal survived even this. I was stricken, but indomitable. I
-said, 'Behold a saint worth winning!' I said 'Brace up, and demonstrate
-that you are worthy of her!'
-
-"My friend, every day for a month I thumbed that exhausting dictionary,
-and a Spanish Grammar, that I might send to her a sonnet every night.
-For thirty days on end I wrestled with synonyms and inversions in a
-foreign tongue, to create for her a nightly proof of my genius and my
-love.
-
-"And I waited for an answer vainly.
-
-"Long after despair had mastered me, I was with a good-for-nothing
-painter of my acquaintance. He said, 'I have a new flame--delicious.
-Have you heard of the Spanish dancer up at the Little Casino?'
-
-"By a superhuman effort I controlled myself. 'Your suit prospers?'
-
-"'It is going strong. And only a week since I first dropped in there
-and saw her!'
-
-"'You are a man of action! But since when have you talked Spanish?'
-
-"'Oh, that isn't necessary,' he laughed; 'she is Spanish only on the
-stage. Between ourselves, her name is really Marie Durand--she has
-never been out of France in her life.'
-
-"_She had not understood a single word that I had said, or written--and
-by the time I discovered it, she was another's_! He holds her
-still--you hear him now."
-
-The "interpreter" was speaking again: "Senorita Naranjo desires me to
-translate----"
-
-
-
-
-XI
-
-THE GIRL WHO WAS TIRED OF LOVE
-
-
-At the Opera Ball, a boy had danced half the night with a partner whose
-youthful tones were so delicious, whose tenderness was so attractive,
-that he implored her a hundred times to unmask. "If I do, you'll get up
-and go away," she gasped at last, fondling his hand. He vowed that it
-was her temperament that fascinated him, and she took the mask off--and
-he saw the sunken face of an old, old woman.
-
-Horrified, he left her.
-
-In the same season, another man supplicated to a girl for her love--a
-girl with a face so beautiful that it made him forget the strangeness
-of her voice, which was flat and feeble. And the girl, who looked no
-more than nineteen, replied with exhaustion: "I outlived such emotions
-long ago. To tell you the truth, the subject sounds to me ridiculous.
-All I want to-day is peace and quiet."
-
-Wearily she left him.
-
-These two incidents, peculiar as they are, were the outcome of an
-occurrence queerer still--an occurrence at the tragic epoch of a
-woman's life when her glass says: "Stop fooling yourself. You've
-crumpled to _that_!"
-
-Madame de Val Fleury had begun to combat the advance of age the day
-after she detected the first shadowy threat of crowsfeet, as she
-turned her perfect neck before the mirror. Her triumph was a fleeting
-one, and the later conquests were briefer yet. Scarcely had the enemy
-been driven from the glorious eyes when it crept about the chiselled
-nose and mouth; no sooner was its attack upon her face withheld than
-it showed greyly in her hair. But she never abandoned the contest,
-she fought with Time continuously. And although there were moods of
-depression, as measures more and more drastic were required, custom
-and vanity enabled her, year by year, decade by decade, to view her
-reflection with complacence. She beheld it through a haze of illusion,
-in applying the colour to her shrivelled cheeks. She did not note that
-the chestnut transformation that had looked so natural on a counter
-looked spurious on her head; did not see how piteously the perfect neck
-had sagged.
-
-But one May morning the mirror said: "Stop tooling yourself. You've
-crumpled to _that!"_ and madame de Val Fleury sat and saw her face
-withered as it was--and madame de Val Fleury wailed for her lost
-loveliness as she had never wailed for her dead husband and son.
-
-A dress that she was to wear for the first time, and that had cost five
-thousand francs, lay on the bed. She did not glance towards it. She
-leant her elbows on the toilet table and stared at the brutal glass.
-And beyond the glass she viewed the ghost of her empire, scenes where
-famous beauties had turned involuntarily at her entrance. It was
-the women's homage, the reluctant admiration of her own sex that she
-mourned for, as she brooded there. In her backward gaze she saw why, as
-the years sped, she had squandered more and more on her modistes--saw
-bitterly that she had struggled to prolong, by her clothes, the
-fast-waning jealousy of her face.
-
-And at Longchamp that day she knew herself to be only an old,
-unattractive woman, magnificently attired.
-
-Not more than a month after this, madame de Val Fleury had the
-annoyance to lose a pendant sapphire that she was wearing. A reward,
-not illiberal, was offered, and when she woke from her nap one
-afternoon she was relieved to learn that the stone had been picked up
-by a poor girl, who was waiting in the hall to see her.
-
-"If she is clean, I will see her here," said madame de Val Fleury.
-
-The young girl who entered, in a threadbare frock, had been dowered
-with beauty so extraordinary that all the lady's pleasure at recovering
-her jewel was swamped in envy. The eyes, the complexion, the exquisite
-modelling of the features held her mute for an instant.
-
-Subduing a sigh, she said: "I hear you have found my sapphire?"
-
-"Yes, madame."
-
-"Let me look. Where did you find it?
-
-"It was in the road, madame, just against the kerb, in the rue de
-Berri."
-
-"Ah, yes. I am glad you saw it. It was a piece of luck for you, too,
-hein?" She rose and opened her desk.
-
-"Yes, indeed, madame," said the girl, clasping her hands.
-
-"What are you--I mean, what do you do for a living?"
-
-"I work at madame Wilhelmine's, madame."
-
-"The milliner's? Why don't you go as mannequin somewhere?--you
-are--er--pretty."
-
-"They tell me my figure is not good enough, madame."
-
-"That's true. Your figure is bad," said the lady, more amiably. "Well,
-you could sit to artists for the face. You could earn more money that
-way than Wilhelmine pays you, I should think."
-
-"I know only one honest way to make as much money as I want, madame,"
-said the girl, in a low voice. "I want a good deal."
-
-"Tiens! The State lotteries, of course."
-
-"No, madame; a likelier way than that."
-
-"Oh! And what do you call a good deal?"
-
-"Madame understands that I am very poor. A trifle to madame would be a
-good deal to _me._ Say, a hundred thousand francs."
-
-"A hundred thousand francs! Such a sum is not a trifle to anybody. You
-know a way to make it?"
-
-"Thanks to this reward, I have a chance to make it," assented the girl,
-folding the bank notes that had been given to her.
-
-"And _not_ the lotteries?"
-
-"No, madame; a journey for which I lacked the fare. But I bore madame?"
-
-"No, no; go on."
-
-"Eh bien, I am sick of poverty; I would far rather part with my face
-and gain wealth than remain beautiful and a beggar."
-
-"You would far rather----What do you say?"
-
-"I am going to the Face Exchange, madame," said the girl resolutely.
-
-The old woman looked at her stupefied. "The what?" she asked in a
-whisper.
-
-"Madame has not heard of it? It is held once a year. Of course one may
-fail; one may not be able to strike a bargain--and even if one does,
-the miracle may not occur. But something tells me I shall be fortunate."
-
-Madame de Val Fleury shrank back on the couch, frightened--she could
-not doubt that the girl was insane. After a moment, nerving herself to
-approach the bell, she stammered, "Yes, yes, I remember now. I daresay
-it is the best thing you can do. Good afternoon to you. I wish you
-every success." And as she sniffed at the smelling salts brought by her
-maid, she murmured, trembling, "Mad. How terrible! Quite, quite mad."
-
-The incident did not fade from her mind. She thought of it in the
-night, and on the morrow, and when she took the sapphire and the
-snapped chain to her jeweller's. If the nonsense the poor creature
-talked had only been true! What ecstasy! And her tone had been
-perfectly sane. ... Oh, of course she was demented. Still--still,
-miracles did happen. Look at Lourdes! Every day madame de Val Fleury
-recalled the matter with a curiosity more intense, and regretted the
-alarm that had prevented her obtaining details.
-
-Before a week had gone by, the curiosity drove her to make a purchase
-at the milliner's the girl had mentioned.
-
-"You have a young person employed here who found a jewel that I lost,"
-she remarked. "I don't see her in the shop."
-
-"Yes, madame. No, madame--she is in the workroom. How fortunate that
-madame's sapphire was restored to her!"
-
-"Ah, the workroom. Have you had her long? Is she satisfactory?"
-
-"Ah yes, madame. About two years. I have no fault to find with her."
-
-"I fancied she was a little odd in her manner. You have not noticed
-anything of the kind?"
-
-"Mais non, madame. No doubt she was shy in madame's presence. No, she
-is quick to take a hint, that girl; she has all her wits about her."
-
-"You might tell her I should like to have a word with her," faltered
-madame de Val Fleury. And when the girl appeared, still more beautiful
-without a hat, she said, "Come to my flat again this evening about nine
-o'clock if you can. I will make it worth your while. I want to talk to
-you."
-
-As she passed out she felt breathless and dizzy.
-
-"Then, if she is not mad--" panted madame de Val Fleury, "then, if she
-is not mad----My God, can there be something in it?"
-
-She had been going to a neighbour's for a game of ecarte after
-dinner, and ecarte was a passion with her, but she knew no regrets
-in cancelling the engagement. A book by her favourite novelist, just
-published, lay to hand, and reading was another of her pet pleasures,
-but she did not open it, as she sat waiting for the hour to strike.
-Punctually at nine o'clock the bell rang. The girl was shown in.
-
-"Good evening," said madame de Val Fleury. "Sit down. No, no, not so
-far off. Come closer. Tell me. I have been wondering.... What you were
-speaking about the other afternoon. Is it really a fact?"
-
-"Madame means my intention?"
-
-"I mean the place itself. It actually exists?"
-
-"Ah, certainly it exists, madame!"
-
-"Where is it?"
-
-"In Brittany, madame. Near Pont Chouay."
-
-"But--it sounds incredible! I am sure you are sincere, but--how long
-have you known of it?"
-
-"I have known of it ever since the first miracle that happened there,
-madame, four years ago. I lived in the village then. The face of a
-little girl, the miller's child, was burnt--ah, it was frightful to
-see!--and her mother knelt and prayed, the whole night through, that
-she herself might bear the scars instead. And at dawn it _was_ so, and
-the child's face was as fair as ever."
-
-"It takes one's breath away! What is the village called?"
-
-"St. Pierre des Champs, madame. If madame goes there and inquires,
-everyone will confirm what I tell her."
-
-"And such miracles have happened again?"
-
-"At dawn on each seventh of September, madame. I assure madame I speak
-the truth."
-
-"Listen," said madame de Val Fleury. "I shall go and hear what they
-say. If I am satisfied, are you willing to--to exchange your face for
-mine? I will not haggle with you, I will pay what you want. It is a
-large amount, but you shall have it--a hundred thousand francs."
-
-"One would have to think over the price, madame," said the girl
-hesitatingly.
-
-"What? It is the figure you named."
-
-"Yes--for an exchange. But it is possible I might change with someone
-of my own years. Naturally I should prefer that."
-
-"You do not suppose a young girl would pay a hundred thousand francs?"
-cried madame de Val Fleury, wincing. "If she has youth already, what
-for?"
-
-"For beauty. There are many young girls who would be content to do so."
-
-"There will not be many living in a little village."
-
-"Ah, madame, people who know arrive from all parts. Besides, it might
-be better for me to take even fifty thousand francs with a young face
-than a hundred thousand with--with one more mature. Madame understands
-that I am human--I am not indifferent to the other sex. If I
-sacrifice all my prospects of admiration, sweethearts, husband, it is
-worth a great sum."
-
-"I shall go and hear what they say," repeated madame de Val Fleury,
-deeply mortified. "What is your name?"
-
-"Berthe Cheron, madame."
-
-"Put it down for me, and your private address. If what I hear convinces
-me perhaps we may come to terms."
-
-All night the old woman dreamt she was again of surpassing loveliness,
-the envy of all the women of her world.
-
-She went to Brittany the same week, and returned palpitating with the
-tales that had been told her. She agreed with mademoiselle Cheron to
-pay 120,000 francs if the metamorphosis occurred, and it was arranged
-that, when the time came, they should travel to St. Pierre des Champs
-together.
-
-In the meanwhile her rapturous reflections were not free from anxiety.
-If the dawning of the longed-for date should indeed yield her Berthe
-Cheron's face, she would be no longer recognised as madame de Val
-Fleury. Her social circle would not know her; monsieur Septfous,
-her banker--she banked at a private bank, and monsieur Septfous was
-practically her man of business--would not know her; her servants
-themselves would not know her when she came back to Paris. To explain
-would be to meet with perpetual embarrassments. On the whole, the best
-plan would be to change her name as well. It would mean relinquishing
-a few friendships that she valued, but----Again, she foresaw herself
-dazzlingly fair, and caught her breath. Her loveliness would compensate
-a million-fold.
-
-Her income was derived chiefly from Municipal Bonds and Metro shares.
-At the bank she had also a substantial sum on deposit. She told
-monsieur Septfous that she had decided to spend the rest of her life
-in the country, and she took a draft, payable to bearer, for the full
-amount of cash, and removed her box of securities.
-
-She determined to call herself madame de Beaulieu.
-
-Late on the evening of the 6th of September the old woman and the girl
-arrived at St. Pierre des Champs.
-
-They had expected to arrive earlier, but the train crept into Pont
-Chouay at 7.30 instead of 5.15, and thence they were dependent on the
-local fiacres, which were hard to find and slow to move. Madame de Val
-Fleury reached the village, impatient and fatigued.
-
-In the little moonlit market-place, with its vacant stalls, when they
-entered it at last, many figures circulated, scrutinising one another's
-features eagerly. Most of the men and women bore lanterns, and one
-of the stalls had evidently been sub-let for the evening; under the
-sign "Christophe: Cheese, Eggs, and Butter," a humpback had electric
-torches for sale. As the pair made their way, across the cobbles, to
-the shrine that had been erected beside the water-mill, no face of
-much beauty met their view. The sellers appeared to be chiefly buxom
-peasant girls, wholesome looking, but no more. Those who had come to
-buy were of types more various. Here, an old roue, fraudulently dyed
-and painted, peered avidly at the features of a youth, who raised his
-lantern and rebuffed him with a jeer. There, an individual with crafty
-lips and predatory eyes, obviously a sharper, was to be seen bargaining
-for the physiognomy of a simpleton. A man with a round humorous face
-darted each moment from one melancholy countenance to another, and a
-passer-by said, loud enough to be overheard: "Look at Jibily, the low
-comedian--he is crazy to play tragic parts!" Irritating and incessant
-was the shrill outcry of a female broker, hobbling with a file of
-maids-of-all-work at her heels. "Fine faces cheap!" clamoured the
-crone. "Fine faces cheap!"
-
-It became very cold beside the water-mill. As the laggard night wore
-by, madame de Val Fleury shivered distressfully. Alternately she prayed
-and despaired. More than once she glanced, tense with hope, at her
-companion, striving to detect some promise of the sought-for change,
-but the girl's face remained unaltered. In the serene radiance of the
-moon its fairness was exquisite beyond words, and the woman wrung her
-hands with the intensity of her desire.
-
-Slowly, slowly the moonlight faded. The pallor of dawn streaked
-the sky; and a hundred faces were upturned beseechingly, a hundred
-suppliants trembled. Wan and white grew the scene. A tremor and a
-rustling stirred the huddled figures. Suddenly, somewhere a woman
-wailed, "No use!" and burst into sobs. Berthe Cheron, fearful now the
-moment had come, of beholding herself gaunt-cheeked and wrinkled,
-bowed her head, shuddering, in her hands. Madame de Val Fleury, half
-dazed with exhaustion and suspense, bent to the shining surface of the
-pool. The pool receded. It became suddenly unreal. Next, her pounding
-heart was squeezed with terror--she didn't know if the reflection she
-beheld was her own, or Berthe Cheron's, from behind her. She nodded
-wildly at her reflection; she grimaced and gesticulated at it, like
-a madwoman.... It had happened! She thought she gave an ear-piercing
-shriek of joy, but she fainted, without a sound.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-After the money was paid she neither saw nor heard anything of Berthe
-Cheron. Aided by a lady whose birth gave her the passport to society,
-and whose income made her amenable to a financial offer, madame de Val
-Fleury, or, as she now called herself, Victorine de Beaulieu, was the
-sensation of Paris that autumn. The consummate toilettes permitted
-by her wealth lent to her face a beauty even more transcendent than
-Berthe Cheron's had been. When she drove, people pressed forward on
-the sidewalks to regard her. When she entered her box at the Opera,
-everybody in the house to whom the box was visible looked at her as
-much as at the stage. In salons, faces the most admired before her
-advent paled in her presence, like candle flames in sunshine. She was
-paramount and she revelled in the knowledge. Yet the transformation had
-its lack. She missed her game of ecarte with her erstwhile neighbour.
-She missed the garrulity of familiar friends whom she no longer met.
-There were hours when, despite the transports afforded by the mirror
-now, she found time hang heavy on her hands. And the hands, of course,
-had not recovered girlishness and beauty. Nor her body, nor her mind.
-
-That was the drawback. Only her face was young. Physically and mentally
-she was old. Her corsetiere could not provide her with a figure to
-match the face. Her physician could not give back to her the energies
-that had gone. Her mirror itself was impotent to revive the enthusiasm
-and illusions of her youth.
-
-Men made love to the bewildering "young widow." After the first thrill
-of amazed exultance she was bored. Their fervour kindled no responsive
-spark. Her aged heart beat no faster. The sentiment, the rhapsodies
-poured into her ear seemed drearily stupid to the old woman, as she
-posed on balconies, wishing she were in her bedroom with a cup of
-tisane and her slippers. During the third passionate proposal addressed
-to her, it was with extreme difficulty that she restrained her jaws
-from yawning.
-
-"Why are you so cold--why won't you hear me?" men cried to her. And she
-answered dully: "I am not impressionable. It doesn't interest me to be
-made love to. I am tired of all that."
-
-And she was spoken of in Paris as the "girl who was tired of love."
-
-Many evenings during the winter there were when the knowledge that she
-would be wearied by some man's appeal, if she went out, determined her
-to remain at home. The opportunity to out-shine other women failed to
-lure her from the fireside, and she sat in her dressing-gown, playing
-ecarte with her new maid. "It is marvellous what a head for the game
-madame has, seeing she is so young!" exclaimed the maid, awestruck.
-"I cannot say as much for _you_," snapped her mistress, mourning that
-quondam neighbour.
-
-When the summer came and she went to the coast, with a score of
-wonderful dresses, she sighed for companionship more drearily yet.
-Hitherto, at such places, she had sat among her compeers, amiably
-chatting. Now she appeared too young to be congruous to the circle of
-the old--was too old to participate in the pastimes of the young. Scant
-of breath and stiff in the joints, she viewed morosely the laughing
-women trooping to the tennis courts. Shrunken beneath her youthful
-frocks, she dared not don a bathing costume and reveal her wasted form
-among the sirens lolling by the tents. Queer as the fact seemed, her
-years irked her more this summer than they had done while she looked
-her age.
-
-The anniversary of the miracle found her in low spirits, and suffering
-from lumbago.
-
-There was a lad, attractive, promising, on the threshold of a
-career--such a lad as, thirty-eight years earlier, she had pictured
-her baby growing up to be. She had made his acquaintance at a "feeve
-o'clock," where, being so young, he felt shy, and where to find himself
-speaking to this enchantress confused him more still. But her tone had
-promptly relieved him of his dread that he ought to play the courtier.
-When she invited him to call on her, she asked him as she might have
-asked a schoolboy. Her interest in Guy Verne's ambitions yielded to her
-gradually a healthier outlook. Stranger still, as the months passed,
-a real and deep affection stole into the old egoist's nature. She was
-less purposeless, less futile for it. Almost, as she entered into his
-boyish forecasts, and made fight of his little setbacks, it seemed to
-her as if her son had lived.
-
-One day the boy flung his arms round her and begged her to be his wife.
-
-It was horrible. She repulsed him, shuddering.
-
-"Don't, Guy, don't!"
-
-Entreaties poured from him.
-
-"If you understood!" she moaned. "I shall have gone to my grave while
-you're a young man."
-
-He thought she meant that she was very ill.
-
-"I'll nurse you back to health. Victorine, I love you with all my soul."
-
-"You don't love me a bit," she said. "There is nothing in me for you to
-love--I am as utterly different from you as if there were fifty years
-between us; you only imagine you love me because you admire my face.
-Good heavens, have I ever said a single word to lead you to think I
-cared for you in such a way?"
-
-An English boy might have suffered as much, but would have taken it
-more quietly. This boy was French, and he did not hide what he felt.
-He answered vehemently that she had led him to think so every time
-they talked of his future. "If you didn't care for me, why should
-it interest you?" He raved of his broken heart. He loaded her with
-reproaches. "You've shammed to me, mocked me, just to amuse yourself!"
-
-"No." She was crying. "I _am_ fond of you--fonder of you than of
-anybody in the world. But not like that. I shall never care like that
-again for anyone."
-
-"I wish I had never seen you. I wish I were dead."
-
-"You mustn't come here any more," she found the strength to tell
-him--and not till then had she realised how very dear he had become to
-her.
-
-"I'm so sorry, Guy--so dreadfully sorry."
-
-He fell at her feet, imploring her anew. He broke down, and besought
-one kiss before he left her. Her misery was deeper than his as she bent
-to him, but the boy didn't know it.
-
-"My God," he sobbed, "I adore you--and you kiss me as if you were my
-mother!"
-
-The mirror provided no comfort in her loss. She stared, lonely, at the
-alien face reflected--stared at it, by slow degrees, with aversion.
-It was not she. The unlovely form and jaded mind were she--the spent
-passion, and the infirmities. What benefit was the face of youth
-without youth's pulses? The mirror mocked her weary thoughts each day.
-
-Upon her grief a woman, white-lipped and shaken, intruded to upbraid
-her.
-
-"You have ruined my son's career," she said. "He neglects his work, he
-thinks of nothing but you. I hope and pray you may be punished as you
-deserve!"
-
-"At Guy's age a career is not ruined by a foolish attachment," pleaded
-madame de Val Fleury piteously.
-
-"And at yours such an answer is abominable," cried the other. "You do
-not lessen your guilt by cynicism. If ever a girl encouraged a young
-man, you encouraged my son. Foolish as his devotion to you may be,
-he _is_ devoted to you. By what right did you tempt him to come here
-constantly if you had no tenderness for him? Your treatment of him has
-been infamous."
-
-"As a mother, do you know only one kind of tenderness, madame? My
-affection for your son was true and great. My interest in his future
-was no less deep than yours. I swear to you that what has happened
-distresses me so much that I have been able to think of nothing else."
-
-Madame Verne advanced upon her with clenched hands.
-
-"Your hypocrisy is even more revolting than your cynicism. If I know
-more than one kind of tenderness? Yes. But not in a girl for a young
-man! You swear to me you are distressed. _I_ swear to _you_ something
-else. My boy is all I have--and I am frightened for him; I do not know
-what he may do in his despair. If I lose him he shall be revenged. Take
-care, madame de Beaulieu. If you hear of his death, take care! The very
-next day, if possible, or the next month, or the next year--whenever I
-can reach you--as Heaven is my witness, I will mark that face of yours
-with vitriol."
-
-She rang the bell, and went--and the maid that entered found her
-mistress in a swoon upon the floor.
-
-For a week her shattered nerves kept madame de Val Fleury abed. And
-for several weeks terror prevented her from setting foot outside the
-flat. She had a grille constructed in the door, and a hundred times she
-repeated to the servants that it was not to be opened for the merest
-instant to madame Verne, or any stranger. Such precautions could not
-yield composure, however. The day was rendered ghastly with false
-alarms; and when she glanced at the mirror, dread flared upon her now a
-face seared and repulsive, a mutilated, sightless thing of horror. The
-night brought dreams so fearful that she was, more than once, wakened
-by a scream that had burst from her. Thrice the awfulness of the
-tension impelled her to falter, through the telephone, sympathetic and
-ingratiating inquiries to madame Verne; and when the mother rang off
-without vouchsafing a reply, the poor old creature tottered with panic.
-
-At last, towards the close of February, she had the unspeakable relief
-of learning that madame Verne and her son had gone to Monaco, and
-once again she was able to step into her car with a sense of safety.
-Nevertheless, the thought of the unhappiness that she had brought upon
-the boy was black in her mind. She tried to thrust the thought aside
-by reading, but fiction had lost its power to charm her. Gradually, as
-her health improved, she turned, for respite from her sad reflections,
-to the theatre. When there remained no more fashionable programmes for
-her to see, she would adventure the second-rate. One night, as she was
-coming out of a little theatre in the Montmartre quarter, she started
-and stopped short, trembling in every limb at a sight that met her
-gaze. She could not withdraw her gaze--she was magnetised by the sight;
-it thrilled her as if the dead had risen to her view. She was looking
-at the face that had been hers--she was looking at Berthe Cheron.
-
-Berthe Cheron, handsomely dressed, had also jerked to a standstill, and
-for a few seconds the two fronted each other dumbly--the young girl's
-puckered eyes, her furrowed cheeks rancorous with regret. It was she
-who was the first to speak.
-
-"Blast you!" she said.
-
-"What do you mean--I treated you fairly, didn't I?" stammered madame de
-Val Fleury.
-
-"I wish--I wish----" Resentment choked her.
-
-"I paid all you wanted."
-
-"Paid? It wouldn't have been good enough if you'd paid a million. _You_
-knew--_you_ knew who was getting the best of it. Paid? What's the use
-of the money without any fun? Do you think fine clothes make up for
-that? I want to be danced with, I want to be kissed. To hell with your
-money--I want love!"
-
-"Don't talk so loudly, don't! That man's looking at us."
-
-"He's not looking at _me_. No man ever looks at me. Paid? If we were
-both as we were, you could pay some other fool--it wouldn't be me you'd
-get!"
-
-"If we were both as we were, I'd pay no one," groaned madame de Val
-Fleury.
-
-"What?"
-
-"It's true. Quite, quite true."
-
-For a moment they were silent again, studying each other. Then madame
-de Val Fleury said breathlessly:
-
-"I want to ask you something. Come home with me--get into my car. Don't
-abuse me any more, don't rail at me--I'm an old woman and I can't bear
-it."
-
-As the car bore them away, she explained herself, weeping.
-
-"I know it seems strange to you, my not being satisfied--I know I've
-got the things you want so much. But _you_ retain the capacity to enjoy
-those things, and _I don't_. If I could have had your youth as well, it
-would have been different. The old are happiest in their old ways, with
-their old friends. We both made an error. If--do you think, if we were
-to go there again----?" Berthe Cheron turned to her wildly. "If we were
-to go there again?" she gasped.
-
-"If we were to go there again--in humbleness of spirit this time, in
-contrition, beseeching pardon for our error--do you think it might be
-undone?"
-
-"Oh, let us try, let us try!" cried the girl, seizing her hand. And
-she, too, wept. "But I could not refund more than about half the
-money," she faltered, dismayed.
-
-"I would not ask you to refund a son of it," said madame de Val Fleury.
-"You should keep it as a marriage portion."
-
-In the flat they talked till late, mingling their tears and comforting
-each other.
-
-Nearly four months had to pass before the coming of the date they
-craved, but on the evening of the 6th of September the two victims of
-their own folly reached St. Pierre des Champs once more. And in the
-eerie market-place, the lanterns swayed amid the flitting figures, and
-again they heard the shrill clamour of the crone, shuffling among the
-naked stalls. "Fine faces cheap!" And the long, long night grew cold,
-and the penitents' teeth chattered; and as the elder knelt and prayed,
-as never had she prayed before, the pebbles bit into her knees.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-A few days afterwards, monsieur Septfous, in the private office of the
-bank, saw the door open to admit a caller that surprised him.
-
-"My dear madame de Val Fleury," he exclaimed, "how delighted I am to
-greet you! Dare I hope you have returned to Paris for good?"
-
-"For good, my friend--the country got on my nerves. At my time of life
-not every change is desirable," replied the old lady, beaming.
-
-And subsequently one man said to another:
-
-"Funny thing; at Bullier last night I saw a girl just like madame de
-Beaulieu, who vanished to New York or somewhere--excepting that she had
-her arms round a chap's neck and looked so happy."
-
-"Lucky chap, by Jove! Know him?"
-
-"A fellow called Guy Verne."
-
-
-
-
-XII
-
-IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1918
-
-
-DEAR NELLY,
-
-I was in the theatre last night, just to have a look at you again, and
-I saw you when you came out of the stage door. Saw the toff and the
-taxi waiting to take you to supper. Wonder if you can call my name to
-mind any more? Alf. Alf that was your sweetheart when you were in the
-fancy department at Skinner and Mopham's. Loved you true, I did.
-
-Remember the early closing days when we used to go to the theatre
-together, Nelly? Remember _me_ taking you to supper at the ham and beef
-shop four years ago? Wouldn't set foot in the ham and beef shop now,
-would you? No class. But I've been fair sick with longing for the sight
-of it, myself, since the day I joined up, and you cried in the City
-Road, with your arms round my neck. Bright as heaven it looked, the
-gas shining on all the sausages, when I was all over lice in the line,
-with my jaws chattering. Thought of it just as I was going over the top
-once. Saw the chap in his white jacket, cutting a sandwich and smearing
-the mustard on. Saw him plain.
-
-Bit I read in a London paper over there said the "pre-war time, now it
-had passed away, seemed like an evil dream." It didn't seem like that
-to _me_. The "bad old days of peace," the paper called it. Said all us
-boys would "find it painful to go back to business, after the great
-romance and glory of war." I _don't_ think. I know one of them that
-would have given something to be back, calling "Sign," in the bad old
-days of peace, while he was sticking that great romance. Made me feel
-funny all over to see London again at last, and look at the "civilian
-population that was bearing their trials with such heroic fortitude."
-Too good to be true it felt, till I got a mouthful of what they call
-beer in this better world I hear we've made, and found the lord duke
-behind the bar treating me as if I was dirt. Made me wonder if paying
-sixpence for half a pint was asking for charity. Seem to have forgotten
-how to be civil, all the publicans, now it's the law for them to loaf
-the best part of the day, and make you pay so that they do as well in
-one week as they used to do in three. That's what I'm told by a chap,
-whose uncle has got a pub--the profit on one week's loafing is about
-the same as it was on three weeks' work. Done too well in the shops
-to be civil, too, I notice, while I've been freezing and bleeding in
-that there great romance. It's "Hope the war lasts for ever," isn't
-it? Mother couldn't bear to go out, because of what the neighbours are
-saying. People with sons of their own, too. It makes me wonder who I've
-been doing it for. There's mother--and there used to be you. Makes me
-wonder about lots of things, religion and that. At church, on Sunday,
-the collection was for teaching our Christianity to the heathen, the
-peaceful heathen that aren't busy bombing one another. And nobody
-laughed.
-
-Don't make any mistake. I'm not saying England hadn't got to fight.
-England had got to fight, right enough, because it ain't a civilised
-world. But the parsons, and the priests, and the rabbis, and the papers
-could have said how horrible it was, our not having learnt any way
-to settle things, ever since we took to wearing clothes, except new
-ways of slaughtering one another. They hadn't got to pretend war was
-something fine, and splendid, and improving. They hadn't got to pretend
-war had changed every woman in England to a holy angel, and Englishmen
-were "finding their souls" by driving bayonets through other men's
-bellies. England couldn't help going to war, but England could have
-helped praising war. We were told, at the start, as how Armageddon had
-been led up to by those German writers that had "preached the devilish
-doctrine" that war did good. They must have had a rare job, if they
-preached it more than our own newspapers were preaching it before a
-month was up. Those of them that _I_ saw, anyhow. If the war has been
-such an "ennobling influence," if it has "purified" us all half, or a
-quarter as much as they keep on saying, the Kaiser must be the best
-benefactor England ever had. Then why don't they put up a monument to
-him in Trafalgar Square?
-
-And what did they want to put the "Great War" for on the shrines I
-see? I should have thought they might have found a better word for it
-than "great." Ain't "great" bringing up the kids to hold with the lie
-that war is an ennobling influence, like the savages do? If I had _my_
-way, I'd put the "Crudest War," or the "Worst War" on all the shrines.
-
-Remember how I used to hate Gus Hooper for his conscientious objector
-lay? Well, I'm not keen on him now--Hooper may have been a swine--but
-I've come to see that, if war is ever done away with, it will be just
-because the real conscientious objectors are top dog. I expect by
-then they won't be called conscientious objectors, and it will sound
-strange to read how, in our time, there weren't more than a few men
-or women that didn't think it a virtue to commit murder if you put on
-khaki. Even ladies you can't say too much for--I mean, real ladies, not
-our disgraceful sort, them that _have_ been heroines, a lot of them,
-and worked themselves to shadows--I've heard more than one of _them_
-put in a good word for war, with "They say war brings out men's best
-qualities." You could hear that, under their pity for us, they approved
-of war. It did come on me as a shock. I used to think we were all so
-up-to-date, all the finished article, if you know what I mean. I don't
-think anybody will look the same to me again, quite, no matter how
-smart they are dressed. When you look at people in the streets now, you
-can often fancy them as Ancient Britons, coming along naked. There's
-nothing that looks quite the same. Not sunshine in the parks. You
-cheer up wonderful, for a minute, and then you feel as if the sunshine
-was _camouflage_, too. War won't ever be done away with because kaisers
-and governments leave off wishing they could grab something that
-somebody else has grabbed first--it isn't in human nature--but only
-because they can't get men willing to kill, and be mangled for it.
-"Civilised warfare?" Might as well talk about Peaceful massacre. Why,
-if this bloody world of ours was civilised, there'd have been no need
-for England to go to war, or Belgium to go to war, or anybody else to
-go to war. No need for Fritz to go to war. We shouldn't have had the
-Worst War at all. Bill, and his war gang would have been seized by
-the Germans themselves, and clapped into gaol, or a lunatic asylum,
-according to what the doctors said about them.
-
-Went over to Skinner and Mopham's, hoping to find you. They haven't
-done so bad, neither, with their heroic fortitude. I'm told the girls
-that used to run in for six-three-farthing quills for their hats have
-been buying separation allowance coats at thirty guineas as fast as
-hands could pick them off the hooks. Still, Mopham passed the time of
-day with me quite familiar, considering. "Proud thought for a young
-fellow that he's done his duty to his country," he says. "Only wish I'd
-been of military age, myself," he says. "See our Roll of Honour in the
-window? Framed very stylish, I think. Spared no expense to make it a
-handsome article. What for you, miss? Furs, forward!"
-
-It was there that I heard you had gone wrong. "The women are splendid!"
-What price the rest? Made me feel queer last night, being so close to
-you again, Nelly, though you didn't recognise the bit of my face that
-the bandages let you see. I was the cripple by the door of the taxi,
-when you and the toff got in.
-
-ALF.
-
-
-
-
-XIII
-
-A POT OF PANSIES
-
-
-This afternoon it chanced that three men, who used to be firm friends,
-were all sitting in the Cafe de la Paix at the same time. They
-pretended not to notice one another. And to-night my thoughts keep
-reverting to a pot of pansies, the pot of pansies that was so great a
-power.
-
-I exaggerate nothing. It is I, Pierre Camus, pressman, who affirm it.
-
-Jacques Rouelle still struggled as a writer of short stories, and Henri
-Dufour was already succeeding as a playwright, but they remained as
-cordial as ever. No jealousy on the one side, nor pomposity on the
-other. Their wives, too, were on affectionate terms; in fact, the women
-were cousins. As for me, I was the comrade of them all. In their modest
-flat--a great name for two rooms--Jacques and Blanche Rouelle would
-read to me manuscripts, and bewail the terms Jacques got for them; and
-in their little villa, off the rue Pergolese, Henri and Elise Dufour
-would talk to me of some comedy that Henri was perpending, and even
-confide to me their discomfiture when he had one declined. Two devoted
-couples; five ardent friends. And then, by a stroke of fate, Jacques
-discovered the pot of pansies!
-
-I had gone to see him one day, and found that he was out. Blanche,
-however, was at home, and Elise had just dropped in, bringing a toy
-or something for the child. Very charming and fashionable she looked,
-though I knew her well enough to be sure she had put on one of her
-shabbiest costumes for the visit. She told us that Henri had begun the
-penultimate act of the play on which he had been at work ever since the
-spring, and that he had talked of it recently to Martime, who was much
-attracted by the thesis. She was in high feather, and her elation was
-natural. Martime had produced an earlier piece of Henri's, but that had
-been no guarantee that he would like this one, and I knew that Henri's
-heart was set on his playing the leading part.
-
-"Mind you don't forget to send Jacques and me tickets for the dress
-rehearsal," said Blanche blithely.
-
-"As if we were likely to forget you! Or Pierre either," said the other,
-smiling to me. "Of course we don't know yet that Martime will do the
-piece, but he was so enthusiastic about the theme, and his part is so
-good, that we're pretty confident. I daresay he will want some silly
-alterations made, but I don't think there's much doubt about his taking
-it, when it's ready."
-
-"How lovely to be able to write for the theatre!" Blanche exclaimed.
-"Think, all the money Jacques has had from editors, with his royalties
-from _Contes du Quartier_ as well, is not anything like as much as
-Henri can make with a single play!" And, as if fearing that her cousin
-might misconstrue her plaint, she added emotionally, "Not that I grudge
-him his good fortune, Heaven knows!"
-
-"I know it, too, cherie," responded Elise, squeezing her hand.
-"Jacques' innings will come. I am very sure it will come. It is
-atrocious that Henri and I should have all the luck in the meantime."
-
-The vivacity seemed to be taking a solemn turn, so I put in, "And what
-about _me_? For me both your households are too wealthy--I blunder in
-knowing either of you. A pauper should never have rich friends."
-
-"Tiens! That is a novel philosophy," said Elise inquiringly.
-
-"It is sound. What do they yield him? At best, an invitation to dinner.
-Which does not compensate for the despondence he suffers in contrasting
-their grandeur with his garret. The poor devil of discretion associates
-with people even worse off than himself--and by comparison feels
-prosperous."
-
-"You old humbug!" they laughed at me. And addressing Blanche again,
-Elise Dufour said, "Wait till those dividends come rolling in! He will
-gnash his teeth more than ever, won't he?"
-
-"Dividends?" said I. "What dividends? Who dares to mention dividends in
-front of me?"
-
-"Ah! he hasn't heard," cried Blanche, recovering her buoyancy. "Henri
-is going to get a hundred shares for Jacques in a company that is
-coming out. We should not be able to get them ourselves, but the
-man is a friend of Henri's. What do you think of it, our making
-investments? Isn't it great?"
-
-"It is true," said Elise, nodding. "It will be a very good thing. Henri
-means to apply for quite a lot."
-
-I could guess what it was, though, not being a capitalist, I paid no
-heed to the Bourse and was absolutely ignorant whether Amalgamated
-Pancakes were heavy, or Funded Fireworks had gone up. Henri had chanced
-to speak of it to me. I had no doubt that Jacques might do much worse
-than hold a hundred shares in that concern.
-
-"What do you think of it?" repeated Blanche. "We have been working
-eight years to save three thousand francs--won't it seem wonderful to
-have a few francs that we haven't worked for at all coming in every
-year?"
-
-She went on talking about it after Elise had gone. "It will be like
-something in a fairy tale, to have a little money falling regularly to
-us from the skies, as it were. What it will mean! Even Henri and Elise
-do not know. We shall be in a position to indulge in pleasures that
-sound fantastic now. For instance, if Jacques is out of sorts, I shall
-be able to pack him off to the country to get well. To-day he would not
-hear of such a thing--he would not touch our nest-egg if he were on his
-last legs. And the little one! What joy to buy Baby's clothes without
-dipping into that! To buy him perhaps a little fur coat out of money
-that poor Jacques has not had to whip his brains for. Won't he look
-sweet, the pet, dressed in dividends? I wish that _you_ could take some
-shares, Pierre. But I know."
-
-Then Jacques returned, seemingly deep in thought, and I said: "Come in
-and make yourself at home. Congratulations, my financial magnate!"
-
-"Hein?" he queried. "What? Oh, that! Yes. It had slipped my mind for
-the moment." He went over to his wife and kissed her tenderly. It
-appeared that he had been out for two or three hours, and he demanded,
-with deep anxiety, if the child still thrived.
-
-"Mais oui, goose. He sleeps in there," said Blanche. "The shares
-had slipped thy mind? Ah, but listen, thou dwellest overmuch on thy
-work--in the end thou wilt have a breakdown."
-
-"But no, but no, little woman. On the contrary, never have I felt
-more fit. I have just seen something that is positively inspiring,"
-he announced. "I have seen a suggestion for a short story that is
-exquisite."
-
-"So?" We were all attention.
-
-"Quite by accident. I had been walking aimlessly, wandering without
-noting where I turned, when in the twilight I found myself in a long
-street of decay that struck a chill to my heart. The slatternly,
-forbidding houses had an air of hopelessness, of evil that made me
-shudder. I tried to classify the denizens, but well as I know Paris, I
-was baffled. I had the impression of entering a street of mysteries.
-It was as if, behind each of those morose, darkling windows, lowering
-upon me in their hundreds, there lurked gruesome things. Suddenly,
-on the foul ledge of a ground-floor window, dim with dirt, behind
-which some nameless stuff was looped, further to hide the secrets
-of the room, I saw blooming?--a pot of pansies! I cannot tell you
-how infinitely fresh its fairness looked in these surroundings, how
-divinely incongruous! I stood gazing at it a full minute, lost in
-conjecture. Who, in that sinister house, retained the sensibility to
-tend a pot of pansies? What message did it yield her? How did she
-come to be there? 'Mon Dieu,' I said, 'a story! A great story!' I was
-enraptured. When I reached a decent quarter, I sat down on a bench,
-and lit a cigarette, and prepared to welcome the delicious plot that I
-foresaw emerging from my reverie."
-
-"Tell it to us," we begged him.
-
-The fervour of Jacques' tones abated. They were flat when he replied.
-
-"Strange to say, it did not emerge," he said. "I have not been able to
-find it yet."
-
-"It will arrive," we cried, with conviction. "There should be an
-excellent story in that."
-
-"Ah, certainly it will arrive. My only misgiving is that I am not
-worthy to treat it. It should be a gem, that story, a masterpiece. It
-should be a story that will live.... All the same, it piques me that,
-with such a stimulus to write, I should have to wait, even for an hour.
-I am athirst to begin."
-
-"You will strike the idea before you go to bed," I assured him. "Even
-I, though fiction is not my line, can see a story there."
-
-"You can see it?" he inquired eagerly.
-
-"I do not mean that I see the plot. But I see the prospects."
-
-"Ah, yes, that is how it is with _me_," he said. "The prospects are
-magnificent, aren't they? What delight I shall take in this! I may not
-be capable of handling it as well as it deserves, but you are going to
-see the best short story I have ever done, mon vieux."
-
-Well, changes in the staff transferred me abruptly to London soon after
-that, and I had no further conversation on the subject with Jacques
-till nearly five months had passed. The interval had threatened to be
-longer still, but one must eat. Why can't you cut an English cook's
-throat? If you don't know the answer you are unaware that in England
-they placidly consume anything that is put on their plates. Because
-there are no English cooks. I should like frequently to sojourn in the
-beautiful countryside of England, if it were not so painful to see
-vegetables growing there. When I looked at those verdant young things,
-so full of flavour and nutriment, and thought of the fate before
-them--reflected that they were destined to be drowned in hogsheads
-of water, and served as an unpalatable pulp, the sight of them used
-to wring my heart. I overtook Jacques in the Champs Elysees one day,
-as I was on my way to call on Henri and Elise, and we strolled along
-together. I said: "I rather thought you would send me a copy of that
-story you were speaking of before I went. What paper was it published
-in?"
-
-To my amazement, he replied gloomily: "It is not written. I am seeking
-the plot for it."
-
-"What?" I exclaimed. "Not written? After five months? If you could turn
-out other stories in the meantime, why not that one?"
-
-"I have not turned out other stories in the meantime," he told me. "I
-am concentrating my imagination on the pot of pansies."
-
-I stopped and stared at him. "Ah, ca! Are you in earnest? Mon Dieu! It
-looked very promising, but if you mean to spend the rest of your life
-trying to write it, the promise will cost you dear."
-
-"I know it is unpractical of me," he owned distressfully. "I have
-eaten up a pretty penny. I reproach myself. But the fascination is
-overwhelming. I cannot withstand it. The thing has become an obsession.
-I have been back a dozen times, in all weathers, to look at the house
-again. But the course has not advanced me. In desperation, I even rang
-the bell and asked to see the occupant of that room, but the crone who
-opened the street-door was either so deaf, or so artful, that it was
-impossible to make her understand what I said. Let us talk about it!
-There are only three points to resolve. Who, in a house like that, has
-still the sensibility to tend a pot of pansies? What does it say to
-her? By what circumstances is she there?"
-
-"I remember, I remember," I said. "I am not provided with answers to
-such conundrums at any moment of the day. But I could have answered
-them in less than five months, I'll swear." I added, "If you like, I
-will find the plot for you, in a quarter of an hour, some time, when
-I have nothing else to do." I did not mean it very seriously, and, of
-course, I am a busy man.
-
-At this juncture, we saw Henri approaching--a deuce of a swell in
-his frock-overcoat and chamois gloves, though his figure was more
-protruberant than it had been in the period when he was among the Great
-Unacted. He hailed us with: "You rascals, you negligent knaves! If you
-greet me once in a century, it is by chance. How are you, darlings?"
-
-"We meant to honour you with a visit now," I said. "As it is, we will
-go on and see Elise. Come back and see her too."
-
-"Elise has gone to a matinee," said Henri. "You shall take a little
-ta-ta with me, instead. I am on topping terms with myself, and need
-someone to listen to my boasts. I read my play to Martime this week.
-All is well. When I finished, tears were in his eyes."
-
-"Good business!" We exulted hardly less than he.
-
-"When will it be seen?" asked Jacques. "Will he make it his next
-production?"
-
-"Ah, that is not settled. For that matter, he has not actually agreed
-to take it. But he has got the script, and he is to write to me in a
-few days. I know well enough what is going to happen; I shall have to
-agree that the leading woman's part ought to be less strong. And then
-he will tell me the play is flawless."
-
-"You do not mind sacrificing her?"
-
-"If I mind? Well, naturally I mind. Mais que voulez-vous? My primary
-desire is Martime. His vanity is colossal, but it is a man's play,
-and no other actor on the stage could do what _he_ will do with it.
-I constructed it for him from the start. You may be sure I will make
-concessions rather than lose Martime. Ah, we are rejoicing! This piece
-means a great deal to us, you know--it is ambitious work. With this, if
-it succeeds, I--en effet, I am promoted to the front rank."
-
-"You are not at the foot of the class now," I said.
-
-"Ah! But I have written for fees rather than for fame. It was not
-good enough to clothe my wife and children in rags because I aspired
-to wear laurels. The day I entreated Elise to marry a boy who had not
-five hundred francs, I was guilty of a crime. I have never forgotten
-the confidence she showed in me that day--nor her unwavering belief in
-me while times were bad. In truth, my wife has but one failing--she
-admires me to excess. According to her, every word I write, or speak,
-is inspired. But it is not odious to be worshipped. She is adorable.
-I ask myself what I should do without her. They may say some of the
-pieces I have done so far are of no account; I assure you I have had
-far more joy from scribbling a farce that bought smart costumes or a
-bracelet for Elise than I could have had from evolving classics that
-left her worried about the washing bill. Enfin, everything comes at
-last to him who waits--even a fine day in London, hein?--and now I
-have felt entitled to devote twelve months to a grand attempt. And, if
-it is well received--I do not romance when I say that, if it is well
-received, the thing that will make me proudest will be the admiration
-of my dear wife."
-
-While he talked on, opening his heart to us, we strode towards
-the Boulevard; and as we proceeded to the Boulevard, with never a
-premonition of disaster, it is not hyperbolic to affirm that all Paris
-would have failed to display a trio more united.
-
-Presently he inquired of Jacques: "Anything wrong with you? You are
-very quiet."
-
-"I search for a plot," sighed our friend; and was long-winded.
-
-"He has been able to think of nothing but the enchanting story that
-ought to blossom from that flower-pot, and doesn't," I explained. "By
-this time he might have----"
-
-"The points I ponder are three," Jacques broke in strenuously. "Who,
-in such environment, has the fingering sensibility to tend a pot of
-pansies? What does it express to her? How does it happen that she is
-there?"
-
-"I do not see anything in it," said Henri. "It has no action."
-
-"How the devil can it have action before there is a plot?" screamed
-Jacques. "I tell you, the atmosphere is superb."
-
-"It is a picture, not a story. There is no material in it," complained
-Henri. "You have everything to create, except the scene. The scene is
-good, but----"
-
-We were still discussing the question, sipping vermouth at a cafe, when
-someone exclaimed: "Ah, you! How goes it?" And, looking up, I saw that
-the cordial hand upon the dramatist's shoulder pertained to no less
-eminent a person than Martime himself.
-
-"Numa!" Henri was delighted; the more so when Martime consented to sit
-down at our table and sip an aperitif, too.
-
-"Permettez. Two of my oldest friends--monsieur Camus, of _L'Elan_;
-monsieur Rouelle, romancier."
-
-The actor-manager did not allow us to imagine we met upon terms of
-equality, but his greetings were gracious. To be candid, I had been
-somewhat impressed to hear our chum call him by his Christian name.
-I knew, of course, that Henri was agog to learn whether a decision
-had been reached about his play, and I mentally applauded his air of
-absorption while Martime expatiated upon his performance in the present
-piece. After some minutes I glanced at Jacques, with a view to our
-leaving the pair together, but before we could move, Henri, desirous no
-doubt of cloaking his eagerness, said lightly:
-
-"As you arrived, we were in the midst of a literary controversy.
-Monsieur Rouelle detects promise of a great story where I see none. The
-point is not uninteresting." Whereupon he launched into a description
-of the street, and did justice to the pansies, though Jacques did not
-look as if he thought so.
-
-"C'est tres bien, ca," said Martime, with weighty nods. "It is very
-fine, that. Let me tell you that you have there a poem." In no more
-authoritative a tone could the Academy have spoken.
-
-"Ah!" cried Jacques. "You feel it, monsieur? There, in that vile spot,
-the fairness and fragrance of those pansies----"
-
-"Not 'fragrance,'" said Henri; "pansies have no smell."
-
-"----struck a note sensationally virginal," continued Jacques, with
-defiance.
-
-"Oui, oui," concurred Martime. I suppose it was no trouble to him to
-do these things, but the ideality he threw into his eyes was worth
-money to see. We all regarded him intently, and I think he liked the
-situation. Even more ideality flooded his gaze, and he propped a temple
-with two fingers. "I am not of your opinion, mon cher," he told Henri
-profoundly. "I find it admirable."
-
-"The three questions that besiege one, monsieur," burst forth
-Jacques--and I shuddered--"are, who, biding amid decay, has the
-imperishable sensibility to tend a pot of pansies? Of what does it
-speak to her? How comes it that she is there?"
-
-And now it was that the famous man was tempted to a fall.
-
-"Tout a fait admirable," he repeated. "But"--he displayed a cautionary
-palm--"above all, no melodrama! The keynote is simplicity. Simplicity
-and tenderness. For example, in the squalid room sits a young girl,
-refined though poor--a sempstress. She dreams always of the sylvan
-vales that she has left, and the lover who is seeking for her. And--it
-would be very charming--one day the lover passes the window while she
-waters the pansies."
-
-"Oh, my dear Numa, bosh!" exclaimed Henri genially.
-
-No sooner had he said it than he recognised his error, I am sure.
-Martime's eyes flashed poniards, and his face turned turnip colour with
-offence. Perceiving his indignation, Jacques began to stammer hasty
-insincerities, and Henri also did his utmost to palliate the affront,
-but I could not persuade myself that their efforts were successful. For
-a minute or two Martime remained stiff and monosyllabic, and then, with
-a few formal words, got up and went.
-
-"I fear he was annoyed," murmured Jacques.
-
-"You 'fear'!" said Henri irascibly. I was dismayed to hear resentment
-in his tone.
-
-Though Martime had gone the constraint continued; and it was not long
-before we rose.
-
-As Henri and I walked on, after Jacques had parted from us, I said:
-"Very stupid of Martime. You spoke in quite a friendly way."
-
-"And still more stupid of Jacques to talk about the story to him,"
-he flung back, at white heat. "What possible interest could Jacques'
-difficulties have for Martime? Childish!"
-
-"But--pardon me, it was you who first mentioned the matter," I said.
-
-"Ah, don't split straws," he growled. Clearly, the incident disturbed
-him more than a little.
-
-It was probably a week or ten days afterwards that Jacques came to me
-in great perturbation and volleyed, "What do you think? Henri has got
-his knife into me! It appears that Martime has returned the play, and
-Henri says it is my fault."
-
-"Oh, nonsense!" I said. "How can he say that? Returned the play? I am
-dreadfully sorry."
-
-"I too. But what have _I_ got to do with it? Did you ever hear anything
-more preposterous? To begin with, it is not likely that Martime would
-refuse the piece solely on account of what was said that day; and,
-even if he did so, it was not I who said it. It wasn't till yesterday
-I knew there was anything wrong. Blanche met Elise. Elise's manner was
-rather strange, and Blanche wondered. But she had no idea there was any
-ill-feeling. Naturally! She inquired if Henri had heard from Martime
-yet. Then it came out."
-
-"That Henri held you responsible?"
-
-"Blanche was condoling. She said, 'What a cruel disappointment for
-you both, dear!' And Elise said coldly, 'Yes, indeed; it is very
-unfortunate that Jacques discussed his affairs in front of Martime.'
-Blanche, poor girl, was thunder-struck. Of course, she explained to
-Elise exactly what had happened. But Elise replied with something very
-vague, and when I telephoned to Henri he was not himself with me at
-all--he was very brusque. He said,' I have no wish to talk about the
-matter.' There is not the least doubt that he is angry."
-
-"I will have a chat with him," said I.
-
-I went the following day. But he had gone to have a Turkish bath, and
-Elise, who received me, begged me not to mention the play when I saw
-him. "His finest work, that took him a year to do, practically wasted!"
-she said, in a stunned fashion. "It is frightful. He is stricken. It
-would be kinder of you not to say anything about it to him yet awhile.
-I'll tell him that you came."
-
-"But 'practically wasted'?" I demurred. "He will be able to place it
-with some other management, will he not?"
-
-"He may. But it is not the kind of play for every management. And,
-anyhow, we shall not get Martime in the part. It will never now be the
-immense success that it _would_ have been. What an idiot to reject a
-great part because his vanity was wounded!"
-
-"You are certain that is the explanation?"
-
-"There is no question about it. The script was returned in the most
-formal way--a line to say it was 'unsuitable.' Henri was prostrate.
-Prostrate. My poor Henri! You may realise what a blow it was. I am
-feeling very anxious about him. I have persuaded him to go away for a
-few months--I am taking him to Biarritz. What a calamity his meeting
-Jacques that afternoon!"
-
-"Ah, but listen," I urged. "Jacques is terribly cut up that Henri
-is bitter against him. And, between ourselves, it is a shade unjust.
-It was not Jacques who affronted Martime, nor even Jacques who first
-referred to the subject. It was Henri himself."
-
-"Henri made a passing allusion," she protested; "Jacques made an
-eternal discussion of it. He would never let it drop. Henri is never
-unjust, he is fairness itself; I have never known anyone who was as
-fair as Henri always is. Also, he is not 'bitter' against Jacques--we
-are not so small-minded that we forget old friendships because of an
-indiscretion. When we come back I shall, of course, go and see Jacques
-and Blanche as usual. I have nothing against Blanche--it was not _her_
-fault that Jacques was so tactless."
-
-Oh, well. Useless to try to convince people of what they don't want
-to believe! I told Jacques that she and Henri were going away, and
-predicted that he would find the unpleasantness over when they
-returned. And, as a matter of fact, I did not attach deep importance to
-it until a certain morning. The sight of a prospectus led me to inquire
-of Jacques if the shares he had been counting on were allotted to him.
-He answered passionately, "No."
-
-At that I was startled. I asked if he had made an application for them.
-
-"I did not see anything about it soon enough!" he raged. "Henri had
-told me to leave it all to him. And not a word have I had from him.
-Even if I _had_ applied, I should not have got them. What malice!
-Blanche is broken-hearted. I will never forgive him for her grief.
-It is not as if I had been seeking a gift at his hands--he could
-have made money for us without its costing him more than a postage
-stamp. An opportunity to do such a service for a friend comes to a
-man once in a lifetime. No; his spite against me for nothing is so
-intense that deliberately he turns his back on the chance! It is
-disgusting. We could not believe, we could not think it possible he
-had been such a swine, after all his promises. So I got his address
-from the bonne and telegraphed to him. You should see his answer--the
-letter of a stranger: 'On consideration, he had not cared to take the
-responsibility of recommending an investment to me.' Liar! Blanche
-cried the whole night through. I will never speak another word to him
-as long as I live. And I do not want to see Elise either. Blanche's own
-cousin, to show such animosity! What a despicable pair!"
-
-"Words will not express my regret," I said. "And I am amazed at Henri's
-attitude. But you cannot be sure that Elise knows anything about it."
-
-"Why should she not know?" he scoffed.
-
-"I do not suppose that Henri can feel very proud of himself--he may not
-have confided in her. Besides, Elise said she meant to go on seeing
-you, the same as ever. That being so, she would hardly? encourage him
-to break his word to you in the meanwhile. I think you are being unfair
-to Elise."
-
-"Henri has been more unfair to my poor Blanche," he bellowed. "I do
-not hear so much of your sympathy for _her_."
-
-It was an infamous reply to make, but he was in the mood to quarrel
-with anyone that was handy, and I had the magnanimity to let it pass.
-I was sympathising sincerely with Blanche, and I sympathised even more
-when I saw her. She spoke with less vehemence than Jacques, but it was
-evident he had not exaggerated her dejection. "It seems incredible,"
-she said. "It shows that you never really know anyone; nothing could
-have persuaded me that Henri had it in him to behave so badly. If you
-had heard him talking to us about the shares--what a benefit they would
-be to us! And now, to avenge himself for an imaginary wrong----" She
-gave a gulp. "You don't think Elise knows? Ah, yes; he and she are one
-in everything, I assure you! What it would have meant to us, to get
-dividends! However small the sums might have been, what a godsend to
-poor Jacques, driving his pen all day! He is working harder than ever
-to make up for lost time--he has had to put the thought of the pot of
-pansies aside for the present--and I could cry as I watch him. By the
-way, you were going to try to find a plot for that. Did you?"
-
-"Nothing occurred to me," I said.
-
-I could say nothing to cheer her, either then, or later, though I often
-looked in at the flat and did my best. And, to inflame the indignation,
-the shares rose. They rose, and went on rising. And Jacques, who had
-hitherto never so much as glanced at closing prices, developed a
-morbid interest in following their advance. I shall not forget the day,
-about three months after the issue, when I learnt that they were quoted
-at forty francs, and that, if Henri had kept his word, my host and
-hostess would have doubled their capital. I shall not forget it for two
-reasons. 1. The lamentations they gave way to were exceedingly trying
-to me. 2. On that very afternoon Elise walked in.
-
-I had not known that she was back, else I should have prepared her for
-the situation. Blanche, ignoring the proffered embrace, tendered the
-tips of her fingers, and Jacques bowed, as to a woman he had never seen
-before. Elise turned very pale. Her scared eyes sought mine, and I
-tried by the warmth of my greeting to mitigate the moment for her.
-
-"What is the matter?" she faltered of us all.
-
-"It is only surprise at your visit," said Blanche sarcastically.
-
-Impossible to avert it. The storm broke.
-
-Just as I surmised, Elise had been unaware of Henri's misdeed. But
-though her consternation was only too apparent, Jacques and Blanche
-were in no mood to let it influence them. The tirade against Henri to
-which Jacques condemned her was bad to bear. She quivered under it.
-She could do nothing but stammer painfully, "I forbid you to insult my
-husband; I forbid you to insult my husband!" Blanche knew how to stab,
-too, in her pathetic voice.
-
-"Ah, it is useless to talk, Elise," she sobbed. "As a rich woman, you
-do not understand what three thousand francs would have done for us!
-Three thousand francs! We have been scraping for eight years to put
-by as much as that, and if Henri had been fair to us we should have
-doubled our means already. Three thousand francs! To Jacques, who in
-all his life has never had a son that wasn't wrung out of his poor
-tired head! It is the wickedness towards _him_ that I resent--towards
-him, and our child. And what is the cause? That Henri is unmanly
-enough to hate another for his own mistake. Ah, it is too petty and
-contemptible of him for words!"
-
-"But remember it is not Elise's fault," I begged. I saw that she
-could endure no more. "Say these things to Henri, both of you, if you
-must--not to her!"
-
-"Blanche is in no need of your corrections," shouted Jacques
-hysterically. "Attend to your own affairs. My wife talks to her cousin
-as she thinks fit. It is always Elise you champion. If you feel so
-deeply for our enemies, I wonder that you come here."
-
-I could scarcely credit my ears. But I said very quietly, with dignity,
-"Indeed? I shall not put you to the trouble of wondering twice."
-
-And, as Blanche remained silent--for which she was very culpable,
-for I looked towards her as I moved--I offered my arm to Elise, who
-was so much deranged that she could hardly get down the interminable
-staircase, and took her home in a cab.
-
-As will be readily understood, I had no ambition to assist at her
-next conversation with Henri, and I did not intend to enter the house.
-Unluckily, when the cab stopped, he was on the veranda, and he came to
-the gate.
-
-"_Comment_? What is it?" he demanded, seeing her agitation.
-
-"She is rather upset," I said. "I won't come in."
-
-"Yes, yes, come in! Tell him what has happened," gasped Elise
-peremptorily. Whereby she, in her turn, committed a grave fault, for
-she made me witness matrimonial dissension of which I need otherwise
-have had no knowledge.
-
-"She has been to see Jacques and Blanche," I said; following them into
-the salon.
-
-"Ah?" said Henri, with reserve.
-
-"Yes, I have been to see Jacques and Blanche," she panted, "and a nice
-time I have had there!"
-
-He decided on hauteur. "I am quite at a loss. If one of you will
-explain?"
-
-As she looked at me, I said: "They told her you had not done as they
-expected about the shares. I rather gathered that there was some
-tendency towards feeling hurt."
-
-"Hurt? On reflection, I saw that I had not the right to advise Jacques
-to speculate. What of it?"
-
-"They do not view it as a speculation," I said.
-
-"They! Much they know of business!"
-
-"Did you take shares yourself?" queried Elise.
-
-"The cases are not parallel," he contended, his voice rising excitedly.
-"Jacques is a poor man; I did not feel justified in letting him risk
-money."
-
-"Oh, Henri," she wailed, "you know very well that was not the reason.
-It was not loyal of you; it was very, very wrong. Already it would have
-been a little fortune for them. No wonder they are aggrieved. I cannot
-be surprised--much as I have suffered this afternoon, I cannot be
-surprised at what I have had to hear."
-
-"What you have had to hear? You have heard that I did not choose to
-assume the responsibility of conducting another man's affairs. And
-then? Ah, je m'en fiche! I am fed up with Jacques."
-
-"I have had to hear you broke a promise because you were mean-spirited
-enough to blame him for your own _gaffe_ to Martime," she cried. "Of my
-husband I have had to hear that! No, I cannot be surprised at what they
-said. They said it was petty and contemptible of you--_and so it was!_"
-
-For an instant it was as if she had hurled a thunderbolt. Henri stood
-inarticulate, his eyes bulging from his head. Then, bringing his fist
-on to the table with a blow that made every ornament in the room jump,
-he roared:
-
-"You dare to say it? To me, your husband, you dare to say such a
-thing? You shall ask pardon at once, in the presence of the friend who
-has heard the insult!" And, as it was obvious she would do nothing
-of the kind, he went on, without loss of time, "No! I forbid you to
-apologise--it is vain. There are insults that apologies cannot abate. A
-husband who is 'contemptible' to his wife is best apart from her--I can
-find comprehension elsewhere."
-
-I was having a pleasant day--what with one menage and the other, I was
-having a pleasant day. There ensued a quarrel the more harrowing from
-the fact that the recriminations poured from a pair whom I knew to be,
-at heart, lovers. And as often as I endeavoured to steal out, either
-Henri or Elise would pounce upon me to confirm some point that did not
-matter. When I got away at last my need of stimulant was insupportable.
-
-I had, naturally, expected to receive a penitent missive from Jacques
-that night, and when there was a knocking at my door I did not doubt
-that he had come to beg forgiveness in person. But it was Henri who
-flung in, and dropped into a chair.
-
-"Enfin, I go back no more," he groaned.
-
-He took my breath away.
-
-"You are mad," I stuttered. "What? You part from a wife you adore, and
-who adores you, because of a hasty word? Are you a boy, to behave so
-wildly? _C'est inoui!_"
-
-"There are words, and words!" His face twitched and crumpled. "It is
-because I am not a boy that I see clearly we could never again be happy
-together. The madness would be to try! To sit, every day, opposite a
-woman who is thinking me contemptible? Merci! I could not endure it.
-Every meal, every moment would become a hell."
-
-"Ah, if she were thinking it, really! But she spoke impetuously--she
-had had much to try her. She had only just left Jacques and----"
-
-"Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, what I owe to that man!" he vociferated.
-"What everlasting afflictions, his telling me of his accursed pansies!
-First, it annihilated my prospects, and now it rends me from my wife
-and children. I shall stipulate that they live with me for half the
-year; but what of the other half, while they are being taught that the
-father who loves them so dearly is a contemptible man, disgusting to
-their mother?" He rocked to and fro. "Also, how am I to make a home
-for them when they come? I leave the villa to Elise; I cannot afford
-two establishments--above all, now that I have lost the production by
-Martime, and may never see a son from work that has occupied me for a
-year. Malediction on that pot of pansies!"
-
-"Now listen!" He had been to the last degree unreasonable, but he was
-suffering, and I have a good heart. "I guarantee that this separation
-will not last a week. I shall have a talk with Elise."
-
-"With Elise? It is I who make the separation," he objected, with a
-piteous attempt at dignity. "And further, I have no hostility against
-you, but it is partly through your own talks with Elise that she is
-lost to me. Ah, yes!" I had stared at him, stupefied. "I understand
-that you said to her, at the time, that I was guilty of 'injustice'
-towards Jacques. I do not say you traduced me with any vicious motive,
-but, unquestionably, your irresponsible chatter paved the way to the
-catastrophe that wrecks my life."
-
-My turpitude notwithstanding, he wept in my room till 3 a.m., keeping
-me up. And he, and Elise, too, proved very distressing to me during the
-days that followed. She was equally headstrong. I was surprised at her.
-
-"You mean well, but pray say no more; it is inevitable," she answered
-me tremulously. "As for that stupid affair of Jacques and Blanche,
-I daresay I may have misjudged Henri. They don't understand. As a
-business man, no doubt he did what was really best in their own
-interests." I perceived that her commiseration for them had much
-decreased since it involved her in domestic strife. "But his conduct
-towards _me_--! I have done with him. I am not a fool, to imagine
-an honourable man would desert his wife for a reason like that. A
-performance. He did not even forget his razor strop. Let him go to her!
-He was not an angel--no writing man is--but I thought he loved me, and
-I never complained. Because I admired him, because he was the one man
-in the world to me. Behind the curtain it hung, not even in sight, and
-he did not forget it when he packed! Brute! You heard him say he could
-'find comprehension elsewhere.' She will not keep his linen in such
-order as _I_ have done, that I'll swear. To pretend it was just because
-I believed what Jacques and Blanche had said! I believe nothing that
-they say. I detest them. Oh, they have made a pretty mess of my life,
-those two!"
-
-She was illogical, but I was much displeased with Jacques and Blanche
-myself. The previous day I had seen them in the street. It is true
-that they cast ingratiating glances, but in the circumstances they
-should have done a good deal more. And I, very properly, looked away.
-
-Yes, for fully three weeks the estrangement of Henri and Elise made
-demands on my time. And since each of them viewed the other as the
-aggressor, their criticisms of each other were not unduly diffident.
-Nevertheless I continued to do all in my power for them. I implored
-Henri to return, and I besought Elise to write to him, though it was no
-recreation to me to keep pressing counsel upon people who told me they
-did not want to hear it. When there were two consecutive days without
-Henri despairing in my chair, the lull was welcome.
-
-I cannot depict my joyful surprise, the next evening, on seeing them
-issue radiantly from the Restaurant Noel Peters, arm in arm. I had had
-no news of the reconciliation. I rushed to them and clasped their hands.
-
-"Hurrah!" I exclaimed. "Thank goodness! How delighted I am the trouble
-is over!"
-
-Their greeting appeared to me a shade constrained.
-
-"Oh, that didn't amount to much," Henri mumbled, brushing my reference
-aside.
-
-"No one supposed it did," laughed Elise lightly. And as I found myself
-at a loss what to say next, there was a pause.
-
-"We are going to a theatre," said Henri; "we are rather late." After a
-glance at his wife, he added, in flat tones, "You will dine with us
-one night, hein?"
-
-"Ah, yes," said Elise perfunctorily. "Of course."
-
-When I went, we did not allude to what had happened. Nor was the
-conversation on general topics as animated as when I had dined there
-hitherto. For the first time at their table I was depressed.
-
-And it was the last invitation from them I received. Probably I was
-embarrassing to them, by reason of their having railed against each
-other to me while they thought they would never make it up. Also,
-though Henri could forgive his admiring wife for once calling him petty
-and contemptible, one may be sure it was bitter to him to remember
-I had been present when she humiliated him. That both he and Elise
-resented my sharing the secret of their separation was as clear as
-daylight. For some months afterwards, if I chanced to meet them,
-they would stop and exchange a few words with me, but by and by they
-contented themselves with smiling; and, finally, they preferred to
-pass without perceiving that I was there. When that play of Henri's
-was produced, two or three years later, he had become so alien to me
-that I should never have dreamed of going to see it, if I had not got
-in for nothing. The leading man was not capable of the part, and the
-run was short--by which Henri's enmity against Jacques was doubtless
-intensified.
-
-The two couples that used to be so intimate remain at daggers drawn.
-And both couples are strangers to _me_. I do not think there is
-anything to add, excepting that the story of the pot of pansies has not
-been accomplished to this day. The tragic history that I have related
-is the story of the story that was never found.
-
-
-
-
-XIV
-
-FLOROMOND AND FRISONNETTE
-
-
-Floromond and Frisonnette, who were giddy with a sense of wealth
-when they acquired three rooms, and had flowers growing on their own
-balcony, and sat upon chairs that they had actually bought and paid
-for, held a reception one fine day. The occasion was a christening.
-Floromond and Frisonnette were, of course, monsieur and madame
-Jolicoeur, and they dwelt in the part of Paris that was nearest to
-Arcadia. Among those present were monsieur Tricotrin, the unadmired
-poet, monsieur Pitou, the composer of no repute, monsieur Lajeunie,
-whose stirring romances so rarely reached a printing office, and
-monsieur Sanquereau, the equally distinguished sculptor.
-
-Though the company were poor in pocket, they were rich in benevolence,
-and since the dearth of coppers forbade silver mugs, they modelled
-their gifts upon the example of the good fairies. Advancing graciously
-to the cradle, the bard bestowed upon the female infant the genius of
-poesy: "Epics, and odes," he declared, "shall fall from her lips like
-the gentle dew from Heaven." "And, symphonies," said the musician, "she
-shall drop as nimbly as the newly rich drop needy friends." That she
-might be equipped more fully yet for the stress of modern life, the
-novelist endowed her with the power of surpassing narrative, while the
-sculptor, in his turn, contributed to her quiver the pre-eminence of
-Praxiteles.
-
-Then Frisonnette hung over her baby, saying, "And one boon, besides:
-let her marry her sweetheart and always remember that a husband's love
-is better than an ermine cloak!"--an allusion which moved Floromond to
-such tenderness that he forthwith took his wife in his arms, regardless
-of us all; and which reminded your obedient servant of their story.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-When Floromond beheld her first, she was in a shop window--the most
-tempting exhibit that a shop window had displayed to him, in all
-his five-and-twenty years. If he had stayed in the quarter where he
-belonged, it would not have happened. It was early on a spring morning,
-and she was posing a hat, for the enticement of ladies who would tread
-the rue La Fayette later in the day. Floromond, sunning himself like
-a lord, though he was nothing better than a painter, went on to the
-Garden of the Tuileries, noting how nicely the birds sang, and thinking
-foolish thoughts. "Had I a thousand-franc note in my pocket, instead of
-an importunate note from a washer-woman," ran his reverie, "I would go
-back and buy that hat; and when she asked me where it was to be sent, I
-would say, 'I do not know your name and address, mademoiselle.' Then,
-having departed, without another word, leaving her speechless with
-amazement and delight, I should never see her any more--until, not too
-long afterwards, we found ourselves, by accident, in the same omnibus.
-Ciel! how blue her eyes were."
-
-And, though he did not omit to reprove himself, in the most
-conscientious manner, and the weather changed for the worse, his
-admiration drew him to the rue La Fayette, at the same hour, every day.
-
-Frisonnette's demeanour, behind the plate glass, was propriety itself.
-But she could not be unconscious that the young man's pace always
-slackened in the downpour, as he approached madame Aureole's--she could
-not be insensible of the homage of his gaze. That Tuesday morning,
-when, dripping, he bowed, his salutation was so respectful that she
-felt she would be inhuman to ignore it.
-
-So the time came when they trod the rue La Fayette together, making
-confessions to each other, after the shop shut.
-
-"I used to wonder at first whether you noticed me as I went by," he
-told her wistfully.
-
-"I noticed you from the beginning," she owned, "you have such a funny
-walk. The day that you were late----"
-
-"My watch was in pawn. Sapristi, how I raced! It makes me perspire to
-think of it."
-
-"I took five minutes longer than usual to dress the window, waiting for
-you."
-
-"If I had guessed! And you didn't divine that I came on purpose?"
-
-She shook her head. "I used to think you must be employed somewhere
-about."
-
-"What! you took me for a clerk?" asked the artist, horrified.
-
-"Only at the start. I soon saw you couldn't be that--your clothes were
-too shabby, and your hair was so long."
-
-"I could have wished you to correct the impression by reason of my air
-of intellect. However, to talk sensibly, could the prettiest girl in
-France ever care for a man who had shabby clothes, and a funny walk?"
-
-"Well, when she was beside him, she would not remark them much," said
-Frisonnette shyly. "But I do not think you should ask me conundrums
-until you have talked politics with my aunt; I feel sure she would
-consider it premature."
-
-"Mademoiselle," said Floromond, "I am rejoiced to hear that your aunt
-has such excellent judgment. Few things would give me greater pleasure
-than to agree with her politics as soon as you can procure me the
-invitation."
-
-And one day Floromond and Frisonnette descended the steps of a certain
-mairie arm in arm--Frisonnette in a white frock and a nutter--and the
-elderly gentleman in the salle des mariages, to whom brides were more
-commonplace than black-berries, looked after this bride with something
-like sentiment behind his pince-nez. A policeman at the gate was
-distinctly heard to murmur, "What eyes!" And so rapidly had the rumour
-of her fairness flown, that there were nearly as many spectators on
-the sidewalk as if it had been a marriage of money, with vehicles from
-the livery stables.
-
-The bride's aunt wore her moire antique, with coral bracelets, and at
-breakfast in the restaurant she wept. But, as was announced on the
-menu, wedding couples and their parties were offered free admission
-to the Zoological Gardens; pianos were at the disposal of the ladies;
-and an admirable photographer executed GRATUITOUSLY portraits of
-the couples, or a group of their guests. At the promise of being
-photographed in the moire antique, a thing that had not occurred to her
-for thirty years, the old lady recovered her spirits; and if Tricotrin,
-in proposing the health of the happy pair, had not digressed into
-tearful reminiscences of a blighted love-story of his own, there would
-have been no further pathetic incident.
-
-Floromond and Frisonnette, like foreigners more fashionable, "spent
-their honeymoon in Paris," for, of course, Frisonnette had to keep
-on selling Aureole's hats. Home was reached by a narrow staircase,
-which threatened never to leave off, and after business hours the
-sweethearts--as ridiculously enchanted with each other as if they had
-never been married--would exchange confidences and kisses at a little
-window that was like the upper half of a Punch and Judy show, popped
-among the chimney-pots of the slanting tiles as an afterthought.
-
-"It is good to have so exalted a position," said Frisonnette; "there is
-no one nearer than the angels to overlook us. But I pray you not to
-mention it to the concierge, or our rent will soon be as high as our
-lodging. The faint object that you may discern below, my Floromond, is
-Paris, and the specks passing by are people."
-
-"They must not pass us by too long, however, Beloved," said Floromond;
-"I am a married man and awake to my responsibilities. It would not suit
-me, by any manner of means, to share you with millinery all your dear
-little life. More than ever I have resolved to be eminent, and when the
-plate glass can never separate us again, you shall have dessert twice a
-day, and a bonne to wash the dishes."
-
-"My child," murmured Frisonnette, "come and perch on my lap, while I
-talk wisdom to you, for you are very young, and you have been such
-a little while in Paradise that you have not learnt the ways of its
-habitants. It chagrins you that you cannot give me dessert, and
-domestics, and a cinema every Saturday night. But because I worship
-you, my little sugar husband, because every moment that I pass away
-from you, among the millinery, seems to me as long as the rue de
-Vaugirard, I do not think of such things when we are together. To be in
-your arms is enough. Life looks to me divine--and if I find anything at
-all lacking in our heavens it is merely a second cupboard. Now, since
-you are too heavy for me, you may jump down, and we will reverse the
-situation."
-
-"I have strange tidings to reveal to you," said Floromond, squeezing
-the breath out of her--"I adore you, Frisonnette!"
-
-They remained so blissful that many people were of the opinion that
-Providence was neglecting its plain duty. Here was a thriftless
-painter daring to marry a girl without a franc, and finding the course
-of wedlock run as smooth as if he had been a prosperous grocer with
-branches in the suburbs! The example set to the Youth of the quarter
-was shocking. And a year passed, and two years passed, and still the
-angels might see Floromond and Frisonnette kissing at the attic window.
-
-Then one afternoon it happened that a French beauty, hastening along
-the rue La Fayette with tiny, toppling steps, as if her bust were
-too heavy for her feet, found herself arrested by a toque on view at
-Aureole's--and entering with condescension, was still more charmed
-by the assistant who attended to her. The chance customer was no one
-less important than the wife of Finot--Finot the dressmaker, Finot the
-Famous--and at dinner that night, when they had reached the cheese, she
-said to the great man:
-
-"My little cabbage, at a milliner's of no distinction I have come
-across a blonde who could wipe the floor with every mannequin we boast.
-She is as chic as a model, and as bright as a sequin; she is just the
-height to do justice to a _manteau;_ her neck would go beautifully with
-an evening gown; and she has hips that were created for next season's
-skirt."
-
-"Let her call!" said the great man, adding a few drops of kirsch to his
-_petit suisse_.
-
-"She would be good business, I assure you," declared the lady; "she
-talked me into taking a toque more than twice the price of the one I
-went in for--_me_! Well, I shall have to find a pretext for speaking to
-her--I must go back and see if there is another hat that I care to buy."
-
-"It is not necessary," replied her husband; "go back and complain of
-the one you bought."
-
-So the lady talked to Frisonnette in undertones, and Frisonnette
-listened to her in bewilderment, not quite certain whether she was
-twirling to the top of her ladder, or being victimised by a diabolical
-hoax. And the following forenoon she passed by appointment through
-imposing portals that often she had eyed with awe. And Finot, having
-satisfied himself that she had brains as well as grace--for they are
-very wide of the mark who think of his pampered mannequins as elegant
-mechanical toys--signified his august approval.
-
-Frisonnette went home and described the splendours of the place to
-Floromond, who congratulated her, with a misgiving that he tried to
-stifle. And later on she told him of the dazzling dejeuners that were
-provided, repasts which she vowed stuck in her throat, because he was
-not there to share them. And, not least, she sought to picture to him
-the gowns that she wore and sold. O visions of another world! There
-are things for which the vocabulary of the Academie Francaise would be
-inadequate. Such clothes looked too celestial to be touched. But she
-was a woman. Though her head was spinning, as Finot's mirrors reflected
-her magnificence, though she was admiring herself inimitably, she
-accomplished so casual an air that one might have thought she had never
-put on anything cheaper in her life.
-
-And, being a woman, she did not suffer from a spinning head very long;
-she soon became acclimatised.
-
-In the daytime, Frisonnette ate delicate food, and sauntered through
-stately show-rooms, robed like a queen--and in the evening she turned
-slowly to her little old frock, and supped on scraps in the garret. And
-now her laughter sounded seldom there. Gradually the contentment that
-had found a heaven under the tiles changed to a petulance that found
-beneath them nothing to commend. Her gaze was sombre, and often she
-sighed. And the misgiving that Floromond had tried to stifle knocked
-louder at his heart.
-
-By and by the little old frock was discarded and thrust out of view,
-and she wore costumes that made the garret look gaunter still, for with
-her increased salary, and commissions, she could afford such things.
-Floromond knew no regret when she ceased to speak of bettering their
-abode instead--his pride had revolted at the thought of astonishing
-their neighbours on his wife's money--but the smart costumes made her
-seem somebody different in his eyes, and moodily he felt that it was
-presumption for a fellow in such a threadbare coat to try to kiss her.
-
-"What a swell you are nowadays!" the poor boy would say, forcing a
-smile.
-
-And Frisonnette would scoff. "A swell? This rag!" as she recalled with
-longing the gorgeous toilettes that graced her in the show-room.
-
-One treasure there she coveted with all her soul. It was an ermine
-cloak, so beautiful that simply to stroke it thrilled her with ecstasy.
-Only once had she had an opportunity of luxuriating in its folds; under
-its seductive caress she had promenaded, on the Aubusson carpet, for
-the allurement of an americaine, who, after all, had chosen something
-else. The mannequin used to think that she who possessed it should be
-the proudest woman in the world, and twice the painter had been wakened
-to hear her murmuring rhapsodies of it in her sleep.
-
-"If I could sell my 'Ariadne' and carry her away to some romantic
-cottage among the meadows!" he would say to himself disconsolately.
-"Then she would see no more of the fangles and folderols that have
-divided us--she would be my sweetheart, just as she used to be."
-
-But the best that he could do was to sell his pot-boilers; and a
-romantic cottage among the meadows looked no nearer to his purse than a
-corner mansion in the avenue Van-Dyck.
-
-That the fangles and folderols had indeed divided them was more
-apparent still as time went on--so much so that frequently he passed
-the evening at a cafe, to avoid the heartache of watching her repine.
-But it was really waste of coppers, for he thought of the change in her
-all the while; and when he lagged up the high staircase, on his return,
-he was remembering, at every step, the Frisonnette who formerly had
-run to greet him at the top.
-
-"You are a devoted companion," she would remark bitterly, as he
-entered. "What do you imagine I do with myself, in this hole, all the
-evening, while you stay carousing outside?"
-
-"I imagine you sit turning up your nose at everything, as you do when I
-am with you," he would answer, hiding his pain.
-
-Then Frisonnette would cry that he was a bear; and Floromond would
-retort that her own temper had not improved, which was certainly true.
-And after she had exclaimed that it was false, and stamped her foot
-furiously to prove it, she would burst into tears, and wonder why she
-remained with a man who, not content with forsaking her for cafes, came
-home and calumniated her nose, and her temper besides.
-
-Meanwhile Finot had been contemplating her performances on the Aubusson
-carpet with rising respect. His versatile mind was now projecting the
-winter advertisements, and he determined to entrust to his best blonde
-one of those duties which, from time to time, rendered the luckiest of
-his mannequins objects of unspeakable envy to all the rest. Finot's
-advertisements were conducted on a scale becoming to a firm whose
-annual profits ran into millions of francs.
-
-"Mon enfant," he said to her, "you have been a very good girl. And
-though you may think you are rewarded royally already, as indeed you
-are"--and here followed an irritating dissertation upon the softness
-of her job, to which she listened with impatience--"I am preparing a
-treat for you of the first order. How would it please you to travel,
-for a couple of months or so, a little later on?"
-
-"To travel, I?" she stammered.
-
-"You and one of the other young ladies. Monte Carlo, Vienna, Rome?"
-
-"Rome?" ejaculated Frisonnette, who had never dreamed of reaching any
-other "Rome" than the one on the Metropolitain Railway.
-
-"Mademoiselle Piganne would contrast most effectively with your tints,
-I think?" He screwed up his eyes. "Y-e-s, we could hardly evolve
-a colour scheme more delicious than you and mademoiselle Piganne!
-Whatever capitals we may decide on, you will stay at the hotels of the
-highest standing; all matters like that you will do best to leave to
-the judgment of the chaperon in attendance on you both, otherwise you
-might have the unfortunate experience to find yourself in an hotel
-not exclusively patronised by the cream of Society. Your personal
-wardrobe, for which you will be supplied with from twelve to fourteen
-trunks, will consist of those creations of my art which best express
-my soul, and your affair will be to attract sensational attention
-to them, while preserving an attitude of the severest propriety.
-That is imperative, remember! No English or American mother, with
-her daughters beside her, must for a single instant doubt that you
-are morally deserving of her closest stare. An open carriage in the
-park, where the climate permits--a stage box at the opera, when the
-audience is most brilliant, will, of course, suggest themselves to
-your mind. But, again, the duenna and the man-servant will organise
-the programme as skilfully as they will look the parts. All that will
-be required of you is a display, brilliant and untiring; the rest will
-be done by others. Every woman everywhere will instruct her maid to
-find out all about you, and your own maid--an employee of the firm in a
-humble capacity--will have orders to whisper that you are a princess,
-travelling incognito, and that your dresses come from Me."
-
-Frisonnette could do no more than pant, "I will speak about it at
-home, monsieur, at once!" And because she foresaw with resentment that
-Floromond's approval would be far from warm, she broached the subject
-to him very diffidently.
-
-At the back of the little head that Finot's finery had turned, she
-knew well that if her "bear" betook himself too often to cafes, it was
-mortified love that drove him to them; so she made haste to tell him:
-"It might be the best thing for you, to get rid of me for a couple of
-months--I should return in a much better humour and you would find me
-quite nice again."
-
-"You think so, Frisonnette?" said Floromond, with a sad smile.
-
-"What do you mean?" she asked, paling.
-
-"I mean," he sighed, "that after the 'brilliant display,' it is not our
-menage under the tiles that would seem to you idyllic repose. Heaven
-knows it goes against the grain to beg a sacrifice, but if you accept
-such luxury, I feel that you would never bear our straits together
-again. Do not deceive yourself, little one; you would be leaving me,
-not for two months, but for ever!"
-
-Deep in her consciousness had lurked this thought too, and she turned
-from him in guilty silence. "You are fond of me, then," she muttered at
-last, "in spite of all?"
-
-"If I am fond of you!" groaned Floromond. "Ah, Frisonnette,
-Frisonnette, there is no moment, even when you are coldest, that I
-would not give my life for you. I curse the poverty that prevents me
-tearing you from these temptations and making you entirely mine once
-more. If I were rich! It is I who would give you boxes at the opera,
-and carriages in the park; I would wrap you in that ermine cloak, and
-pour all the jewels of Boucheron's window in your lap."
-
-"I will not go!" she cried, weeping. "Forgive me, forgive the way I
-have behaved. I have been wicked, yes! But I repent, it is ended--I
-will not go!"
-
-And that night she was proud and joyful to think she would not go. It
-was only in the grey morning that her heart sank to remember it.
-
-"I must decline," she said to Finot hesitatingly. "I have a husband.
-I--I could not take my husband?"
-
-"Mon enfant, your husband would not grudge you the little holiday
-without him, one may be sure."
-
-It was like being barred from Eden. "And the ermine cloak," she
-faltered, "could I take the ermine cloak?"
-
-The tempter smiled. "One cannot doubt that, among fourteen trunks,
-there would be room for the ermine cloak," he told her suavely.
-
-One November evening when Floromond came in, his wife was not there. He
-supposed she had been detained in the show-room--until he groped for a
-match; and then, in the dark, his hand touched an envelope, stuck in
-the box. He trembled so heavily that, before he could light the lamp,
-he seemed to be falling through an eternity of fear.
-
-He read: "I am leaving you because I am frivolous and contemptible. I
-dare not entreat your pardon. But I shall never make you wretched any
-more...."
-
-When he noticed things again, from the chair in which he crouched, he
-found that the night had passed and daylight filled the room. He was
-shuddering with cold. And he got feebly up, and wavered towards the bed.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-"She did not ponder her words," babbled the aunt, who came to him
-aghast--"she will return to you. When the two months are over and she
-is back in Paris, you will see!"
-
-"She pondered longer than you surmise, and she will never return to
-me," he said. "And what is more, a man with nothing to offer can never
-presume to seek her. No, I have done with illusions--she will be no
-nearer to me in Paris than in Monte Carlo; Frisonnette's Paris and
-mine henceforth will be different worlds."
-
-Floromond lived, without Frisonnette, among the clothes that she had
-left behind; the dainty things that she had prized had been abandoned
-now that she was to be decked in masterpieces. They hung ownerless, the
-_peignoir_, and _tricot_, and dresses--the pink, and the mauve, and the
-plaid--gathering the dust, and speaking of her to him always.
-
-"She has soared above you, dish-clouts!" he would cry sometimes, half
-mad with misery. "It was you who first estranged us--now it is your
-turn to be spurned." And, as he tossed sleepless, his fancy followed
-her; or pacing the room, he projected some passionate indictment,
-which, on reflection, he never sent.
-
-"You should try to work," his reason told him. "If you worked, you
-might manage to forget in minutes." And, setting his teeth, he took
-palette and brush and worked doggedly for hours. But he did not forget,
-and the result of his effort was so execrable that he knew that he was
-simply wasting good paint.
-
-Then, because work was beyond him, and his purse was always slimmer,
-he began to make dejeuner do for dinner, too. And not long after that,
-he was reducing his rations more every day. It was a haggard Floromond
-who threaded his way among the crowds that massed the pavements when
-some weeks had passed. The boulevards were gay with booths of toys
-and trifles now; great branches of holly glowed on the _baroques_ of
-the flower-vendors at the street corners; and the restaurants, where
-throngs would fete the _Reveillon,_ and New Year's Eve, displayed
-advice to merry-makers to book their tables well ahead.
-
-"My own rejoicings will be held at home!" said Floromond.
-
-And, during the afternoon of New Year's Eve, it was by a stroke
-of irony that the first comrade who had rapped at the door since
-Frisonnette's flight came to propose expenditure. "Two places go
-begging for the supper at the Cafe des Beaux Esprits," he explained
-blithely, "and it struck me that you and your wife might join our
-party? Quite select, mon vieux. They promise to do one very well, and
-five francs a cover is to include everything but the wine."
-
-"My wife has an engagement that she found it impossible to refuse,"
-said the painter, huddled over the fading fire. "And as for me, I am
-not hungry."
-
-The other stared. "There is time enough for you to be hungry by
-midnight."
-
-"That is a fact," assented Floromond; "I may be most inconveniently
-hungry by midnight. But I am less likely to be scattering five francs.
-In plain French, my dear Bonvoisin, if you could lend me a few sous, I
-should feel comparatively prosperous. I am like the two places at the
-Beaux Esprits--I go begging."
-
-Bonvoisin looked down his nose. "I should have been overjoyed to
-accommodate you, of course," he mumbled, "but at this season, you know
-how it is. What with the pestilential tips to the concierge, and the
-postman, and one thing and another, I am confoundedly hard up myself."
-
-"All my sympathy!" said Floromond. "Amuse yourself well at the
-banquet." And he sprinkled a little more dust over the dying _boulets_
-in the grate, to prolong their warmth.
-
-Outside, big snowflakes fell.
-
-"The man who has never known poverty has never known his fellow-man,"
-he mused; "I would have sworn for Bonvoisin. He has inspired me with
-an apophthegm, however--let us give Bonvoisin his due! And, to take a
-rosy view of things, turkeys are very indigestible birds, and, since
-I lack the fuel to cook it, I am spared the fatigue of going out to
-buy one for my mahogany to-morrow. Really there is much to be thankful
-for--the only embarrassment is to know where it is to be found. If I
-knew where enough tobacco for a cigarette was to be found, I would be
-thankful for that also. How the Mediterranean sparkles, and how hot the
-sun is, to be sure! We shall get freckles, she and I. Won't you spare
-me half of your beautiful sunshade, Frisonnette? Upon my word, I could
-grow light-headed, with a little encouragement; I could imagine that
-the steps I hear on the staircase now are hers! Fortunately, I have too
-much self-control to let fancy fool me."
-
-Nevertheless, as he leant listening, his face was blanched.
-
-The steps drew nearer.
-
-"I know, of course, they go to the room on the other side; a moment
-more, and they will pass," he told himself, holding his breath.
-
-But the steps halted, and a timid tap came.
-
-"It is a child with a bill--the laundress's child. I know thoroughly
-it is the laundress's child--I do not hope!" he lied, tearing the door
-open.
-
-And Frisonnette stood there, asking to come in.
-
-"I have run away," she quavered. Her teeth were chattering, and
-her fashionable coat was caked with snow. "I should have come long
-ago--only, I was ashamed."
-
-"You are real?" said Floromond, touching her. "You are not a dream?"
-
-"Every day I have longed to be back with you, and at last I could bear
-no more. Do you think you might forgive me if you tried?"
-
-"There is a tear on your cheek, and your dear little nose is pink
-with the cold, and the snow has taken your feathers out of curl," he
-answered, laughing and crying. "Let us pretend there are logs blazing
-up the chimney, and we will draw one chair to the hearth and tell each
-other how miserable we have been--or better than that, how happy we
-are!"
-
-But still she clung to him, shivering and condemning herself.
-
-"And so," she repeated, "I ran away. It is a habit I am acquiring.
-Finot is furious; he has dismissed me; I have no job and no money. I
-have come back with nothing, my Floromond, but the clothes I stand up
-in. And--and why do I find you with an empty coal-scuttle?"
-
-"Ma foi!" he stammered, loath to deepen her distress, "as usual, that
-imbecile of a charbonnier has neglected to fulfil the order."
-
-"He becomes intolerable," she faltered. "Is that why I notice that your
-tobacco-pouch is empty, too?"
-
-"Oh, as for the tobacco-pouch," said the young man, "in this ferocious
-weather I have been reluctant to put on my hat."
-
-"It is natural," murmured Frisonnette. But her eyes were frightened,
-and she investigated the cupboard. And when the cupboard was discovered
-to be as empty as the pouch and the coal-scuttle, she rushed to him in
-a panic.
-
-"You are starving!" she moaned. "You have starved here, while I----Mon
-Dieu, I have not come home too soon!"
-
-"Tut, tut," said Floromond; "are you trying to pose me for a hero of
-romance? I have been an idle vagabond, that is all. The cat is out of
-the bag, though--you have come home, ma Frisonnette adoree, and I have
-nothing for your welcome but my embrace!" And thinking of the want that
-lay before her, he broke down.
-
-"I love you, I love you, Floromond," she wept.
-
-"I love you," he sobbed, "I love you, Frisonnette."
-
-Then, in the fading daylight, arose a plaintive cry--the wail of the
-itinerant wardrobe dealer: "_Chand d'habits!_"
-
-"_Chand d'habits_!" she gasped, and darted to the window. "_Chand
-d'habits_!" she screamed--and stripped the smart costume from her
-and stood triumphant in her petticoat. Before the dealer's aged legs
-had toiled up half the stairs, she was back in the little old frock
-that had been cast aside. "Hook me, my Floromond!" And her eager arms
-were laden, and her frozen hands showered raiment on the floor: the
-_peignoir_, and _tricot_, and dresses--the pink, and the mauve, and the
-plaid. "We dine to-night!" she laughed. "Enter, _Chand d'habits!_"
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-"And, word of honour," observed Floromond, when the clocks of Paris
-had sounded twelve, and the pair sat digesting their beef-steak, and
-toasting their toes, and she rolled another cigarette for him, "word of
-honour, you have never looked more captivating than you do now--that
-frock becomes you marvellously. At the same time, the fine clothes I
-have been gobbling lie somewhat heavy on my sensibilities, particularly
-the fascinating ribbons of the _peignoir_. If only I had kept my nose
-to the grindstone! Ah, if only we had something better to expect than
-this hand-to-mouth existence! Alas, on New Year's Day, I cannot give
-you even a bunch of flowers."
-
-And, at that moment, hurrying feet approached the house--young and
-excited voices were heard below. And what should it prove to be Well,
-what it _should_ have proved to be was, that his "Ariadne" had, in some
-ingenious way, been purchased, for a large sum, without his knowledge,
-and that a contingent of the quarter had arrived to proclaim his
-affluence; but, as a matter of semi-sober fact, it was only a posse of
-exhilarated students, wishing everybody the compliments of the season,
-and playing _Le Chemin de l'Amour_ on a trombone.
-
-Still, there was a beautiful morning, as we know, when Floromond and
-Frisonnette had flowers on their own balcony, and three rooms, and
-chairs that they had actually bought and paid for--to say nothing of
-the baby. The Moral of which is, that there are more New Year's Days
-than one and it's never too late to hope. So let us all hope now!
-
-
-THE END
-
-
-
-
-
-End of Project Gutenberg's To Tell You the Truth, by Leonard Merrick
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