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diff --git a/43742.txt b/43742.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 43a7d8e..0000000 --- a/43742.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7825 +0,0 @@ -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 - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH *** - -***** This file should be named 43742.txt or 43742.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/7/4/43742/ - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive -- Cornell University Library - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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