diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 4 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/68849-0.txt | 11554 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/68849-0.zip | bin | 226154 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/68849-h.zip | bin | 816349 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/68849-h/68849-h.htm | 14246 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/68849-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 345786 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/68849-h/images/coversmall.jpg | bin | 254818 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/68849-h/images/i_title.jpg | bin | 26343 -> 0 bytes |
10 files changed, 17 insertions, 25800 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f7bed39 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #68849 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68849) diff --git a/old/68849-0.txt b/old/68849-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 18e56b0..0000000 --- a/old/68849-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11554 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The pretender, by Robert W. Service - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The pretender - A story of the Latin Quarter - -Author: Robert W. Service - -Release Date: August 26, 2022 [eBook #68849] - -Language: English - -Produced by: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRETENDER *** - - - - - -THE PRETENDER - - - - -In deference to the opinion of the publishers the Author has consented -to certain alterations being made in his work. - - - - - THE PRETENDER - - A Story of the Latin Quarter - - BY - ROBERT W. SERVICE - - AUTHOR OF “SONGS OF A SOURDOUGH,” “TRAIL - OF ’98,” ETC. - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - DODD, MEAD & COMPANY - 1914 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1914 - BY ROBERT W. SERVICE - - VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY - BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK - - - - -THE PRETENDER - - - - - “Of Books and Scribes there are no end: - This Plague--and who can doubt it? - Dismays me so, I’ve sadly penned - _Another_ book about it.” - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - BOOK I--THE CHALLENGE - - I THE HAPPIEST YOUNG MAN IN MANHATTAN 1 - - II THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS 10 - - III GRILLED KIDNEY AND BACON 20 - - IV AN UNINTENTIONAL PHILANDERER 28 - - V A SEASICK SENTIMENTALIST 40 - - VI AN INVOLUNTARY FIANCÉ 48 - - VII A BATTLE OF INK 61 - - VIII THE GIRL WHO LOOKED INTERESTING 69 - - IX THE CHEWING GUM OF DESTINY 78 - - X THE YOUNG MAN WHO MAKES GOOD 89 - - - BOOK II--THE STRUGGLE - - I THE NEWLY-WEDS 101 - - II THAT MUDDLE-HEADED SANTA CLAUS 114 - - III THE CITY OF LIGHT 123 - - IV THE CITY OF LAUGHTER 133 - - V THE CITY OF LOVE 145 - - VI GETTING DOWN TO CASES 156 - - VII THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY 166 - - VIII “TOM, DICK AND HARRY” 181 - - IX AN UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENT 193 - - X THE LIFE AND DEATH OF DOROTHY MADDEN 204 - - - BOOK III--THE AWAKENING - - I THE STRESS OF THE STRUGGLE 215 - - II THE DARKEST HOUR 231 - - III THE DAWN 241 - - IV A CHAPTER THAT BEGINS WELL AND ENDS BADLY 258 - - V THE GREAT QUIETUS 271 - - VI THE SHADOW OF SUCCESS 286 - - VII THE FATE OF FAME 298 - - VIII THE MANUFACTURE OF A VILLAIN 308 - - IX A CHEQUE AND A CHECK 317 - - X PRINCE OF DREAMERS 333 - - - - -BOOK I--THE CHALLENGE - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE HAPPIEST YOUNG MAN IN MANHATTAN - - -To have omnibus tastes and an automobile income--how ironic? - -With this reflexion I let myself collapse into a padded chair of -transcendent comfort, lit a cigarette and inspected once more the -amazing bank-book. Since I had seen it last several credit entries had -been made--over twenty thousand dollars; and in the meantime, dawdling -and dreaming in the woods of Maine, all I had managed to squander was a -paltry thousand. Being a man of imagination I sought for a simile. As -I sat there by the favourite window of my favourite club I could see -great snowflakes falling in the quiet square, and at that moment it -seemed to me that I too was standing under a snowfall, a snowfall of -dollars steadily banking me about. - -For a moment I revelled in the charming vision, then like a flash it -changed. Now I could see two figures locked in Homeric combat. Like a -serene over-soul I watched them, I, philosopher, life-critic; for was -not one of them James H. Madden, a man of affairs, the other, J. Horace -Madden, dilettante and dreamer.... Look! from that clutter of stale -snow a form springs triumphant. Hurrah! It is the near-poet, the man on -the side of the angels.-- And so rejoiced was I at this issue that I -regarded the little bank-book almost resentfully. - -“Figures, figures,” I sighed, “what do you mean to me? Crabbed symbols -on a smudgy page! can you buy for me that fresh Spring-morning feeling -in the brain, that rapture of a fine thing finely done? Ah no! the -luxury you spell means care and worry. In comfort is contentment. And -am I not content? Nay! in all Manhattan is there man more happy? Young, -famous, free--could life possibly be more charming? And so in my tower -of tranquillity let me work and dream; and every now and then, little -book, your totals will grow absurd, and I will look at you and say: -‘Figures, figures, what do you mean to me?’ - -“But, after all,” I went on to reflect, “Money is not so utterly -a nuisance. Pleasant indeed to think that when most are pondering -over the problem of the permanent meal-ticket, you are yourself well -settled on the sunny side of Easy Street. Poets have piped of Arcady, -have chorused of Bohemia, have expressed their enthusiasm for Elysian -fields, but who has come to chant the praise of Easy Street? Yet surely -it is the kindliest of all? Behind its smiling windows are no maddening -constraints, no irking servitudes, no tyranny of time. Just sunshine, -laughter, mockery of masters-- Oh, a thousand times blessed, golden, -glorious Easy Street!” - -Here I lighted a fresh cigarette and settled more snugly in that chair -of kingly comfort. - -“Behold in me,” I continued lazily, “a being specially favoured of the -gods. Born if not with a silver spoon in my mouth at least with one -of a genteel quality of nickel, blest with a boyhood notably cheering -and serene, granted while still in my teens success that others fight -for to the grave’s edge, untouched by a single sorrow, unthwarted by a -solitary defeat--does it not seem as if my path in life had been ever -preceded by an Olympian steam roller macadamising the way? - -“True, as to appearance, the gods have failed to flatter me. If you, -gentle reader, who are as perfect as the Apollo Belvedere, gaze, at -your chiselled features in the silver side of your morning tea-pot, -you will get a good idea of mine. But there--I refer you to a copy of -_Wisdom for Women_, the well-known feminist Weekly. It contains an -illustrated interview, one of that celebrated series, _Lions in their -Dens_. Harken unto this: - - “A tall, tight-lipped young man, eager, yet abstracted; eyes - quizzical, mouth a straight line, brow of a dreamer, chin of a - flirtatious stockbroker. His gleaming glasses suggest the journalist, - his prominent nose the tank-town tragedian. Add to that that he - has a complexion unæsthetically sanguine, and that his flaxen - hair, receding from his forehead, gives him a fictitious look of - intellectuality, and you have a combination easier to describe than - to imagine....” - -“What a blessing it is we cannot see ourselves as others see us! How it -would fill life with intolerable veracities! Dear lady who wrote the -above, I can forgive you for the Roman nose, for the flirtatious chin, -nay, even for the fictitious intellectuality of my noble brow, but for -one thing I can never think of you with joy. You wrote of me that I was -‘a mould of fashion and a glass of form.’ Since then, alas! I have been -compelled to live up to your description. Bohemian to the backbone, -lover of the flannel suit of freedom and the silken shirt of ease, how -I have suffered in such clutch of _comme-il-faut_ no tongue can tell. -Yet thanks to a Fifth Avenue tailor even a little sartorial success has -fallen to my lot.” - -Success! some men seem to have a magic power of attracting it, and I -think I must be one. Sitting there in the window of the club, as I -watched the shadows steal into the square, and the snow thicken to a -fluttering curtain I positively purred with satisfaction. Behind me -the silent library was lit only by a fire of glowing coals. The jocund -light gleamed on the carved oak of the book-cases, and each diamond -pane winked jovially. Yet cheerful though it was my thoughts were far -more rosy. - -But now my reverie was being broken. Two men were approaching, and by -their voices I knew them to be Quince the critic and Vaine the poet. -The first was a representative of the School of Suds, the second an -exponent of the School of Sediment; but as neither were included in the -number of my more intimate enemies I did not turn to greet them. - -Goring Quince is a stall-fed man with a purple face, cotton-coloured -hair and supercilious eyebrows. He is an incubator of epigrams. His -articles are riots of rhetoric, and it is marvellous how completely he -can drown a poor little idea in a vat of verbiage. - -Herrick Vaine is a puffy, pimply person, with a mincing manner and -an emasculated voice. He might have been a poet of note but for two -things: while reading his work you always have a feeling that you have -seen something oddly like it before; and after you have read it all you -retain is a certain dark-brown taste on the mental palate. Otherwise he -is all right. - -And now, having described the principals, let me record the little -dialogue to which I was the unseen listener. - - VAINE (_with elaborate carelessness_): By the way, you haven’t read - my latest book, I suppose? - - QUINCE (_cooingly_): Why yes, my boy. I lost no time in reading it. I - positively wallowed--I mean revelled in it. Reminds me of Baudelaire - in spots. Without you and a chosen few what would literature be? - - VAINE (_enraptured_): How lovely of you to say so. You know I value - your opinion more than any in the world. - - QUINCE (_waving his gold-rimmed eyeglasses_): Not at all. Merely - my duty as a watchdog of letters. Yes, I thought your _Songs - Saturnalian_ in a class by itself; but now I can say without being - accused of a lapse of literary judgment that your _Poems Plutonian_ - marks a distinct epoch in modern poetry. There is an undefinable - _something_ in your work, a _je ne sais quoi_ ... you know. - - VAINE: Yes; thank you, thank you. - - QUINCE: Is it selling, by the way? - - VAINE: Thank heaven, no! How banal! Popular success would imply - artistic failure. To the public true art must always be inaccessible. - If ever I find my work becoming bourgeois, it will be because I have - committed artistic suicide. On my bended knees I pray to be delivered - from popularity. - - QUINCE: I see. You prefer the award of posterity to the reward - of prosperity. Well, no doubt time will bring you your meed of - recognition. In the meantime give me a copy of the poems, and I will - review it in next week’s _Compass_. - - VAINE: Will you indeed. That honour alone will repay me for writing - it. By the way, I imagine I saw a copy in the library. Let me look. - - (As Vaine had put it there himself his doubt seemed a little - superfluous. He switched on a light, and from the ranked preciosity - of a certain shelf he selected a slim, gilt volume.) - - VAINE: _Poems Plutonian_. - - QUINCE (_taking it in his fat, soft hands_): How utterly exquisite! - What charming generosity of margin! - - VAINE: Yes; you know the great fault of books, to my mind, is that - they contain printed matter. Some day I dream of writing a book that - shall be nearly all margin, a book from which the crudely obvious - shall be eliminated, a book of exquisite intrusion, of supreme - suggestion, where magic words like rosaries of pearls shall glimmer - down the pages. I really think that books are the curse of literature. - If every writer were compelled to grave his works on brass and copper - from how much that is vain and vapid would we not be delivered? - - - QUINCE: Ah, yes! Still books have their advantages. Here, for example, - am I going to burn the incense of a cigar before the putrescent--I - mean the iridescent altar of art. Now if _Poems Plutonian_ were - inscribed on brass or stone I confess I should hesitate. What are - those things? - - (He pointed to a separate shelf, on which stood nine volumes with - somewhat aggressive covers.) - - VAINE: Well may you ask. Brazen strumpets who have stumbled into the - temple of Apollo. These, my dear sir, are the so-called novels of - Norman Dane. You see, as a member of the club, he is supposed to give - the library a copy of his books. We all hoped he wouldn’t, but he came - egregiously forward. Of course we couldn’t refuse the monstrous - things. - - QUINCE: No, I understand. What’s this? _The Yellow Streak_: Two - hundred thousand! _The Dipsomaniac_: Sixth Edition!! _Rattlesnake - Ranch_: Tenth Impression!!! Why, what a disgusting lot of money the - man must be making! - - VAINE: Yes, the Indiana Idol, the Boy Bestsellermonger. A perfect - bounder as regards Art. But he knows how to truckle to the mob. His - books sell by the ton. They’re so bad, they’re almost good. - - QUINCE (_with surprising feeling_): There! I don’t agree with you. He - doesn’t even know how to please the public. It takes a clever man to - do that, and Norman Dane is only a dry-goods clerk spoiled. No, the - point is--he is the public, the apotheosis of the vulgar intelligence. - Don’t think for a moment he is writing down to the level of the mob. - He charms the great half-educated because he himself belongs to them. - He can’t help it. - - VAINE: Yes, but there are so many plebeian novelists. How do you - account for Dane’s spectacular success? - - QUINCE: A fool’s luck! He happened to hit the psychological moment. - When he leaped into the lists with _The Haunted Taxicab_ taxis had - just come out, and at the same moment there was a mania for mystery - stories. Take two popular _motifs_, mix recklessly, spice with - sentiment and sauce with sensation--there you have the _recipé_ of a - best-seller. His book fluked into favour. His publishers put their - weight behind it. In a month he found himself famous from Maine to - Mexico. But he couldn’t do it again; no, not in a thousand years. What - has he done since? Live on his name. Step cunningly in his tracks. - Bah! I tell you Norman Dane’s an upstart, a faker; to the very heart - of him a shallow, ignorant pretender.... - -Whatever else the poor chap might be was lost in the distance as the -two men moved away. For a long time after they had gone I did not stir. -The fluttering snow-butterflies seemed to have become great moths, -that hovered in the radiance of the nearest arc-light and dashed to a -watery doom. Pensively I gazed into that greenish glamour, pulling at a -burnt-out cigarette. - -At last I rose, and going to the book-case regarded the nine volumes of -flamboyant isolation. - -“An upstart,” I sighed softly; “a faker, a pretender....” - -And to tell the truth I was sorely taken aback; for you see in my hours -of industry I am a maker of books and my pen name is Norman Dane. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS - - -Whether or not a sense of humour is an attribute of the Divine, I -am too ignorant of theology to conjecture; but I am sure that as -a sustaining power amid the tribulations of life it is one of the -blessedest of dispensations. - -For a moment, I must confess, the words of Quince and Vaine stung me -to resentment. Being one of these people who think in moving pictures, -I had a gratifying vision in which I was clutching them savagely and -knocking their heads together. Then the whole thing struck me on the -funny side, and a little page boy, entering to turn on the lights, must -have been amazed to hear me burst into sudden laughter. - -So that presently, as Mr. Quince, having spilt some cigar ash over the -still uncut leaves of _Poems Plutonian_, was arising to daintily dust -the volume, I approached him with a bright and happy smile. - -“Hullo, Quince,” I began, cheerily. - -He looked up. His eyes gleamed frosty interrogation, and his clipped -grey moustache seemed to bristle in his purple face. - -“What is it?” he grunted. - -“It’s about that matter we spoke of this morning. You know I’ve been -thinking it over, and I’ve decided to go on that note of yours.” - -Quince was astonished. He was also overjoyed; but his manner was -elaborately off-hand. - -“Ah! Thanks awfully, Madden. Only a matter of renewal, you know. Old -endorser went off to Europe, and the bank got after me. Well, you’ll go -on the note, then?” - -“Yes, on one condition.” - -“Hum! Condition! What?” he demanded anxiously. - -“Well,” I said. “I believe one good turn deserves another. Now I was -down at the bank this morning, and I know you’re in rather a hole about -that renewal. Backers for thousand dollar notes aren’t picked up so -easily. However, I’m willing to go on it if you’ll”--here I paused -deliberately, “give my last book a good write up in your next _Compass -causerie_.” - -His face fell. “I’m afraid--you see, I’ve promised Vaine--” - -“Oh, hang Vaine! Sidetrack him.” - -“But--there’s the policy of the paper--” - -“Oh, well, I’ll buy a controlling interest, and alter your policy. But, -as a matter of fact, you know they’ll print anything over your name.” - -“Yes--well, there are my own standards, the ideals I have fought for--” - -“Rot! Look here, Quince, let’s be honest. We’re both in the writing -game for what we can get out of it. We may strut and brag; but we know -in our hearts there’s none of us of much account. Why, man, show me -half a dozen writers of to-day who’ll be remembered twenty years after -they’re dead?” - -“I protest--” - -“You know it’s true. We’re bagmen in a negligible day. Now, I don’t -want you to alter your standards; all I want of you is to adjust -them. You know that as soon as you see a book of mine coming along -you get your knife out. You’ve flayed me from the start. You do it on -principle. You’ve got regular formulas of abuse. My characters are -sticks, my plots chaotic, my incidents melodramatic. You judge my work -by your academic standards. Don’t do that. Don’t judge it as art--judge -it as entertainment. Does it entertain?” - -“Possibly it does--the average, unthinking man.” - -“Precisely. He’s my audience. My business is to amuse him, to take him -outside of himself for an hour or two.” - -“It’s our duty to elevate his taste.” - -“Fiddlesticks! my dear chap. I don’t take myself so seriously as that. -And, anyway, it’s hopeless. If you don’t give him the stuff he wants, -he won’t take any. You’ll never educate the masses to anything higher -than the satisfaction of their appetites. They want frenzied fiction, -plot, action. The men want a good yarn, the women sentiment, and we -writers want--the money.” - -“It’s a sad state of affairs, I admit.” - -“Well, then, admit that my books fill the bill. They’re good yarns, -they’re exciting, they’re healthy. Surely they don’t deserve wholesale -condemnation. So go home, my dear Quince, and begin a little screed -like this: - - “In the past we have frequently found occasion to deal severely with - the novels of Norman Dane, and to regret that he refuses to use those - high gifts he undoubtedly possesses; but on opening his latest novel, - _The House of a Hundred Scandals_, we are agreeably surprised to note - a decided awakening of artistic conscience. And so on. No one knows - how to do it better than you. Bring to the bank to-morrow a proof of - the article, and I’ll put my name on the back of your note.” - -“I--I don’t know. I’ll think it over. Perhaps I’ve been a little too -dogmatic. Let me see--Literary Criticism and the Point of View--yes, -I’ll see what I can do.” - -As I left him ruefully brooding over the idea I felt suddenly ashamed -of myself. - -“Poor old chap!” I thought; “I’ve certainly taken a mean advantage -of him. Perhaps, after all, he may be right and I wrong. I begin to -wonder: Have I earned success, or only achieved it? It seems to me this -literary camp is divided into two bands, the sheep and the goats, and, -sooner or later, a man must ask himself which he belongs to. Am I a -sheep or am I a goat?” - -But I quickly steeled myself. Why should I have compunction? Was I not -in a land where money was the standard of success? Here then was the -virtue of my bloated bank-book--Power. Let them sneer at me, these -æsthetic apes, these flabby degenerates. There by the door was a group -of them, and I ventured to bet that they were all in debt to their -tailors. Yet they regarded me as an outsider, a barbarian. Looking -around for some object to soothe my ruffled feelings, I espied the -red, beefsteak-and-beer face of Porkinson, the broker. Here was a -philistine, an unabashed disciple of the money god. I hailed him. - -Over our second whiskey I told Porkinson of the affair in the library. -He laughed a ruddy, rolling laugh. - -“What do you care?” he roared raucously. “You put the stuff over and -grab the coin--that’s the game, isn’t it? Let those highbrow freaks -knock you all they want--you’ve got away with the goods. And, anyway, -they’ve got the wrong dope. Why, I guess I’m just as level-headed as -the next man, and I wouldn’t give a cent for the piffle they turn out. -When I’m running to catch a train I grab one of your books every time. -I know if there’s none of the boys on board to have a card game with -I’ve got something to keep me from being tired between drinks. What I -like about your yarns, old man, is that they keep me guessing all the -time, and the fellow never gets the girl till the last page. I always -skip a whole lot, I get so darned interested. I once read a book of -yours clean through between breakfast and lunch.” - -Thanking Porkinson for his enthusiasm, which somehow failed to elate -me, I took the elevator up to my apartment on the tenth story of the -club. Travers, the artist, had a studio adjoining me, and, seeing a -light under his door, I knocked. - -“Enter,” called Travers. - -He was a little frail old man, with a peaked, grey face framed in a -plenitude of iron-grey hair, and ending in a white Vandyke beard. A -nervous trouble made him twitch his right eye continually, sometimes -emphasising his statements with curious effect. He believed he was one -of the greatest painters in the world; yet that very day three of his -best pictures had been refused by the Academy. - -“I knew it,” he cried excitedly; “I knew when I sent them they’d come -back. It’s happened for the last ten years. They know if they hung me -I’d kill every one else in the room. They’re afraid of my mountains.” -(A wink.) “Their little souls can’t conceive of any scenery beyond -Connecticut. But it’s the last time I’ll send.” (A wink.) “I’ll get -recognition elsewhere, London, Paris; then when they want my pictures -for their walls they’ll have to come and beg, yes, beg for them.” (A -portentous wink.) - -Every year he vowed the same thing; every year he canvassed the members -of the hanging committee; every year his pictures came cruelly back; -yet his faith in himself was invincible. - -“I tell you what,” I said; “you might be one of the popular painters of -the day if you only looked at it right. Here you go painting straight -scenery as it was in the days before Adam. You object to the least hint -of humanity--a hut, a bridge, a boat. My dear sir, what the General -Public wants is the human, the dramatic. There’s that River Rapids -picture you did two years ago, and it’s still on your hands. Now that’s -good. That water’s alive, it boils; as I look at it I can hear it roar, -and feel the sting of the spray. But--it’s straight water, and the G.P. -won’t take its water straight. Now just paint two men in a birch-bark -canoe going down these rapids. Paint in a big rock, call it _A Close -Shave_, and you’ll sell that picture like winking.” - -“Oh, I couldn’t do that. You’re talking like a tradesman.” - -“There’s that sunset,” I went on. “It’s splendid. That colour seems to -burn a hole in the canvas. But just you paint in a black cross against -that smouldering sky, and see how it gives significance, aye, and -poetry to the picture. Call it _The Lone Grave_.” - -“But don’t you see,” said Travers, with some irritation, “I’m trying -to express a mood of Nature. Surely there’s enough poetry in Nature -without trying to drag in lone graves?” - -“Not for the G.P. You’ve got to give it sentiment. Did that millionaire -brewer buy anything?” - -Travers sighed rather wofully. - -“No, he kept on asking me where my pictures were, and I kept on telling -him they weren’t anywhere, they were everywhere; they were in his own -heart if he only looked deep enough. They were just moods of nature. -He couldn’t see it. I believe he bought an eight by ten canvas at -Rosenheimer’s Department Store: _Moses Smiting the Rock_.” - -“There you are. He was getting more for his money. He wanted action, -interest. Daresay he had the gush of water coloured to look like beer. -But I’ll tell you what I’ll do--I’ll give you five hundred for that -thing you call _Morning Mist in the Valley_.” - -“Sorry,” said Travers, with a look of miserable hesitation; “I don’t -want to sell that. It’s the best thing I’ve done. I want to leave it to -the nation.” - -“All right. You know best. Good-night.” - -I knew I had offered more than the market value of the picture; I knew -that Travers had not sold a canvas for months; I knew that he often ate -only one meal a day, and that if he chose, he could paint commercial -pictures; so I could not but admire the little man who, in the face -of scorn, neglect, starvation even, clung to his ideals and refused -to prostitute his art. But this knowledge did not tend to restore my -self-esteem, and it was in a mood of singular self-criticism I entered -my room. - -As I switched on the light the first thing I saw was my reflection -in a large mirror. Long and grimly I gazed, hands in pockets, legs -widespread, head drooping. I have often thought of that moment. It -seemed as if the reflection I saw was other than myself, was, indeed, -almost a stranger to me. - -“Ha!” I cried, grimacing at the man in the mirror; “you’re getting -found out, are you? Tell me, now, beneath your wrappings of selfishness -and sham is there anything honest and essential? Is there a real _You_, -such as might stand naked in the wind-swept spaces of eternity? Or are -you, down to your very soul’s depths a player of parts?” - -Then my mood changed, and I savagely paced the room. - -“Oh, the fools! The hypocrites! Can’t they see that I am cleverer than -they? Can’t they see that I could write their futile sonnets, their -fatuous odes? But if I did, wouldn’t I starve? Am I to be blamed if I -refuse? It’s all right to starve if one’s doing immortal work; but not -six men in the world to-day are doing that. We’re ephemera. Our stuff -serves the moment. Then take the cash, and let the credit go.” - -I took off my boots, and threw them viciously into a corner. - -“How Quince upset me to-night! So I made a chance hit with my first -book? Well, it’s true the public were up on their toes for it. But then -I would have succeeded anyway. As to catering to the mass--I admit it. -I’m between the devil and the deep sea. The publishers keep rushing -me for the sort of thing that will sell, and the million Porkinsons -keep clamouring for the sort of thing they can read without having to -think. For the sake of his theoretical wife and six children, what can -a poor devil do but commercialise his ideals?” - -Here I paused thoughtfully, with one arm out of my coat. - -“After all, is a book of fiction not entertainment just as much as a -play? There’s your audience, the public. You’ve got to try and please -them, to be entertaining from cover to cover. Better be immoral than be -dull. And when it comes to audiences, give me a big one of just plain -‘folks,’ to a small one of highbrows.” - -With knitted brows and lips pursed doubtfully, I proceeded to wind up -my watch. - -“Anyway, I haven’t written for money; I’ve written for popularity. It’s -nice to think you can get on a train and find some one reading your -books--even if it’s only the nigger porter. True, my popularity has -meant about twenty-five thousand a year to me; but it’s not my fault -if my publishers insist on paying me such big royalties. And I’ve not -spent the money. I’ve gone on living on my private income. Then the -writing itself has been such a distraction. Lord! how I have enjoyed -it! Granted that my notion of Hades would be to be condemned to read -my own books, yet, such as they are, I’ve done my best with them. I’ve -lived them as I wrote. I’ve laughed with joy at their humour. I’ve shed -real tears (with just as much joy) at their pathos.” - -I gave a wrench at my collar, expressive of savage perplexity; on which -the stud shot out, and cheerfully proceeded to roll under the wardrobe. - -“Perhaps I’ve done things I shouldn’t? I’ve made coincidence work -overtime; I’ve grafted on love scenes so that the artist could get in -one or two ‘clinch pictures.’ On my last page you’ll find the heroine -clutched to the hero’s waistcoat; but--they all do it. One’s got to, or -get out of the game.” - -Here I disappeared for a moment; and when I re-entered, clad in -pale-blue pyjamas, I was calm and cheerful again. - -“So old Quince said I’d succeeded by a fluke. Well, I’d just like to -bet my year’s income against his that I could make a fresh start and -do the same thing all over again. By Jove! What an idea! Why not? Go -away to London, cut adrift from friends and funds, fight my way up the -ladder from the very bottom. After all, I’ve had the devil’s own luck, -everything in my favour. It’s hardly been a fair test. Perhaps I really -am a four-flusher. Even now I begin to doubt myself. It seems like a -challenge.” - -Switching off the light I jumped into bed. - -“Life’s too appallingly prosy. Here for seven years I’ve been -imagining romance; it’s time I tried to live it a little. Yes, I’ll -go to-morrow.... London ... garret ... poverty ... struggle ... -triumph....” - -And at this point, any one caring to listen at my door might have heard -issuing from those soft blankets a sound resembling the intermittent -harshness of a buzz-saw going through cordwood. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -GRILLED KIDNEY AND BACON - - -I was awakened at eight o’clock by the alarm in my watch, and lay a few -minutes debating whether or not I should rise. I have always rebelled -against the convention that makes us go to bed at night and get up -in the morning. How much less primitive to go to bed in the morning -and get up at night! But in either case we should abhor crude and -violent awakenings. We should awake rhythmically, on pulsing ripples -of consciousness. Personally, I should like to be awakened by gentle -music, viols and harps playing soft strains of half-forgotten melodies. -I should like to be roused by the breath of violets, to open my eyes to -a vista of still lake on which float swans whiter than ivory. - -What I did open my eyes to was a vista of shivery sunshine, steely blue -sky, and snow on the roofs of the neighbouring sky-scrapers. I was -indeed comfortable. Outside the heat-zone of my body the sheets were -of a delectable coolness, and from head to heel I felt as if I were -dissolving in some exquisite oil of ease. - -Lying there enjoying that ineffable tranquillity, I subjected myself to -my morning diagnosis. My soul is, I consider, a dark continent which it -is my life’s business to explore. This morning, then, in my capacity -of explorer, I started even as Crusoe must have done when he saw the -naked footprint in the sand. Extraordinary phenomenon! I had actually -awakened of the same mind as that in which I fell asleep. - -Propping myself up I lit a cigarette. - -“Well, young fellow,” I greeted my face in the mirror, “so we’re still -doubtful of ourself? Want to make fresh start, go to London and starve -in garret as per romantic formula? What foolishness! But let’s be -thankful for folly. Some day we’ll be wise, and life will seem so worn -and stale and grey. So here’s for London.” - -With that I sprang up and disappeared into the bath-room from which you -might have heard a series of grunts and groans as of some one violently -dumb-belling; then a series of snorts and splutters as of some one -splashing in icy water; then the hissing noise one usually associates -with the rubbing down of horses. After all of which, in a pink glow and -a Turkish bath-robe, appeared a radiant young man. - -Taking down the receiver of my telephone I listened for a moment. - -“Yes, it’s me, Miss Devereux. Give me the dining-room, please.... -Dining-room?... Yes, it’s Mr. Madden speaking. I want to order -breakfast.... No, not grape-fruit, I said _breakfast_--Grilled kidney -and bacon, toast and Ceylon tea. That’s all, thank you.” - -In parenthesis I may say I do my best work on kidney and bacon. There -is, I find, a remarkable affinity between what I eat and what I write. -Before tackling a scene of blood I indulge in a slab of beefsteak, -extra rare; for tender sentiment I find there is nothing like a -previous debauch on angel cake and orange pekoe; while if I have to -kill any one I usually prime myself with coffee and caviare sandwiches. -But as far as ordinary narrative is concerned I find kidney and bacon -an excellent stimulus. - -“How extremely agreeable this life is,” I reflected as I resumed -dressing. “No care, no responsibility, neither jolt nor jar in the -machinery. It’s almost too pleasant to be natural. Now, if I had a -house, servants, a wife, the trouble would just be beginning at this -time. As it is everything conspires to save me from friction. But it’ll -soon be all over. I never quite realised that. My last day of gilded -ease. To-day a young man of fashion in a New York club, to-morrow a -skulking tramp in the steerage of an ocean liner. Yes, I’ll go in the -steerage.” - -Perhaps it was to heighten the contrast that I dressed with unusual -care. From a score of lounging suits I selected a soft one of slatey -grey; shirt, tie and socks to match; cuff-links of antique silver, and -a scarf-pin of a pearl clutched in a silver claw; a hat of grey velour, -and shoes with grey cloth uppers. Thus panoplied I sallied forth, a -very symphony in grey. - -At this early hour the dining-room was empty, and three girls flew to -wait on me. For the first time it struck me as being odd. Surely, I -thought, if things were as they should be, woman would not be waiting -on man. Here am I, a strong, healthy brute of a male, lolling back like -a lord, while these frail females fly like slaves to fulfil my desires. -Yet I work three hours a day, they ten. I am rich, they painfully -poor. There’s something all wrong with the world; but we’re so used to -looking at wrong we’ve come to think it right. - -A strange spirit of dissatisfaction was stirring in me, of desire to -see life from the other side. As I took my breakfast I studied the -girls, trying to imagine what they thought, how they lived. Although -there were no other members in the dining-room at that moment, each -waitress was obliged to remain at her post. How deadly monotonous, -standing there at attention! How tired they must be by the end of the -day! Then I noticed that one of them, under cover of her apron, was -taking surreptitious peeps at a yellow-covered book. At that moment -the lynx-eyed lady superintendent entered, caught her in the act, and -proceeded to rate her soundly. I hate scenes of any kind, and this -particularly pained me, for I saw that the all-too-tempting volume was -a cheap edition of _The Haunted Taxicab_. - -Then that moving picture imagination of mine began to flicker. The girl -had gone from the room with tears in her eyes. Surely, thought I, she -has been dismissed. A blur came between me and my plate and the film -unreeled.... - -Ah! I see her trying to get other employment, failing again and again, -sinking deeper into the mire of misery and despair. Then at last the -time comes when the brave, proud heart is broken; the proud, sweet eyes -flinch at another day of bitterness and failure. They recognise, they -accent the end. - -It is a freezing night of mid-winter, and I am walking down Broadway. -Suddenly I am accosted by a girl with a hard, painted face, a girl who -smiles the forced smile of fallen womanhood. - -“Silvia!” I gasp. - -She shrinks from me. “You!” she cries. “The author of my ruin; you, -whose book I was dismissed for reading, unable to resist peering into -the pages you had invested with such fatally fascinating charm....” - -As the scene came up before me tears filled my eyes, and fearful that -they might drop on my kidney and bacon I averted my head. At the same -moment the waitress came back with a saucy giggle and resumed her post. -I was somewhat dashed, nevertheless I decided it would do for a short -story, and taking out my idea book I noted it down. - -“Now,” I said, “let’s see the morning paper.... How lucky! The -_Garguantuan_ sails to-morrow. I’ll just catch her. Splendid!” - -That histrionic temperament of mine began to thrill. Had not my whole -life been dominated by my dramatic conception of myself? Student, -actor, cowboy, I had played half a dozen parts, and into each I had put -my whole heart. Here, then, was a new one: let me realise it quickly. -So taken was I with the idea that I, who had never in my life known -what it was to want a hundred dollars, retired to the reading-room, -and, inspired by the kidney and bacon, took out a little gold pencil, -and with it dinted in my idea book the following sonnet: - - -TO LITERATURE - - “I, a poor, passion-goaded garreteer, - A pensive enervate of book and pen, - Who, in the bannered triumph-march of men - Lag like a sorry starveling in the rear-- - Shall I not curse thee, mistress mine? I peer - Up from life’s saturnalia, and then - Shrink back a-shudder to my garret den, - Seeing no prospect of a glass of beer. - - “What have I suffered, Siren, for thy sake! - What scorn endured, what happiness foregone! - What weariness and woe! What cruel ache - Of failure ’mid a thousand vigils wan! - Yet do I shrine thee as each day I wake. - Wishing I had another shirt to pawn.” - -I smoked two large cigars over my sonnet before I finally got it -straight. This in spite of the fact that I had a hundred and one other -things to do. If the house had been burning I believe the firemen -would have dragged me out muttering and puzzling over my sonnet. My -rhymes bucked on me; and, though I had rounded up a likely bunch of -words, I just couldn’t get them into the corral. Finally, with more of -perspiration than inspiration, the thing was done. - -“Hullo, Madden!” said some one as I wrote the last line, and looking up -I saw young Hadsley, a breezy cotillion leader, who had recently been -admitted into his father’s law firm. - -“Rotten nuisance, this early snow,” went on Hadsley. “Mucks things up -so. ’Fraid it’ll spoil the game on Saturday.” - -“I hope not,” I replied fervently. The game was the Yale-Princeton -football match, and I was terribly eager to see my old college win. - -“By the way,” suggested Hadsley, “if you care to go I’ll run you down -on my car.” - -“Of course, I’d like it,” I exclaimed enthusiastically. “I’ll be simply -delighted.” Then like a flash I remembered. - -“Oh, no! After all, I’m sorry, I can’t. I expect to be in mid-ocean by -Saturday.” - -“Ah, indeed! That sounds interesting. Going to Europe! Wish I was. When -do you start?” - -“To-morrow on the _Garguantuan_.” - -“You don’t say! Why, the Chumley Graces are going on her. Of course, -you remember the three girls--awfully jolly, play golf divinely, used -to be called the Three Graces? They’re so peeved they’re missing the -game, but the old man won’t stay for it. They’re taking their car and -going to tour Europe. How nice for you! You’ll have no end of a good -time going over.” - -Malediction! Could I never out-pace prosperity? Could I never throw off -the yoke of fortune? - -“Oh, well, it’s not settled yet,” I went on quickly. “I may not be able -to make it for to-morrow. I may have to take a later boat. So don’t say -anything about it, there’s a good fellow.” - -“Oh, all right. The surprise will be all the jollier when they see you. -Well, good-bye, old man, and good luck. You’ll get the news of the game -by wireless. Gee! I wish I was in your shoes.” - -Hadsley was off, leaving me gnawing at an imaginary moustache. “The -Chumley Graces going on the _Garguantuan_. That means I can never go -steerage, and I have set my heart on going steerage. Let’s see the -paper again. Hurrah! There’s an Italian steamer sailing to-morrow -morning. Well, that’ll do.” - -I was now in a whirlwind of energy, packing and making final -arrangements. At the steamship office, when I asked for a ticket, the -clerk beamed on me. - -“Yes, sir, we can give you a nice suite on the main deck, the best we -have on the boat. Lucky it’s not taken.” - -My moral courage almost failed me. “No, no!” I said hastily. “It’s not -for me. It’s for one of my servants whose way I’m paying back to Italy. -Give me a steerage ticket.” - -“Coward! Coward!” hissed Conscience in my ear. “You’re making a bad -beginning.” - -Just before lunch I remembered my business with Quince, and, jumping -into a taxi, whisked down to the Bank. The manager received me -effusively. The note was prepared--only wanted a satisfactory endorser. -I scratched my name on the back of it, then, speaking into the -telephone on the manager’s desk, I got Quince on the line. - -“Hullo! This is Madden speaking. I say, Quince, I have fixed up that -note for you.” - -(A confused murmur that might be construed as thanks.) - -“And about that article, never mind. I find I won’t need it.” - -(Another confused murmur that might be construed as relief.) - -“No, I’ve come to the conclusion you’re right. The book’s not the right -stuff. If you praised it you’d probably have a hard time getting square -with your conscience. So we’ll let it go at that. Good-bye.” - -Then I slammed the receiver on the hook, feeling that I had gained more -than I had lost. - -By three o’clock everything had been done that could be done. I was on -the point of giving a sigh of relief, when all at once I remembered two -farewell calls I really ought to make. - -“I’d almost forgotten them,” I said. “I must say good-bye to Mrs. Fitz -and Miss Tevandale.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -AN UNINTENTIONAL PHILANDERER - - -To believe a woman who tells you her age is twenty-nine is to show a -naïve confidence in her veracity. Twenty-nine is an almost impossible -age. No woman is twenty-nine for more than one year, yet by a process -of elasticity it is often made to extend over half a dozen. True, the -following years are insolent, unworthy of acknowledgment, best punished -by being haughtily ignored. For to rest on twenty-nine as long as she -dare is every woman’s right. - -Mrs. Fitzbarrington had been twenty-nine for four or five years, but -if she had said thirty-nine, no one would have expressed particular -surprise. However, there were reasons. Captain Fitzbarrington, who was -in receipt of a monthly allowance, had been engaged for some years in a -book entitled _The Beers of America_, the experimental investigations -for which absorbed the greater part of his income. Mrs. Fitz, then, had -a hard time of it, and it was wonderful how she managed to dress so -well and keep on smiling. - -She received me in the rather faded drawing-room of the house in -Harlem. She herself was rather faded, with pale, sentimental eyes, and -a complex complexion. How pathetic is the woman of thirty, who, feeling -youth with all that it means slipping away from her, makes a last -frantic fight to retain it! Mrs. Fitz, on this occasion, was just a -little more faded, a little more restored, a little more thirty-ninish -than usual; and she welcomed me with a little more than her usual -warmth. - -“I’m so glad to see you,” she said, giving me both hands. “You know, I -was just thinking of you.” - -This clearly called for a gallant reply, so I answered, “Ah! that must -be telepathy, for you know I’m _always_ thinking of you.” - -Yet I could have bitten my tongue as soon as I heard the last phrase -slip from my mouth. There was a sudden catch in her breath; a soft -light beaconed in her eyes. Confound the thing! why do the women we -don’t want to always take us seriously, and those we are serious with -always persist in regarding us as a joke? I hastened to change the -subject. - -“Ah, how are the kiddies?” - -The kiddies were Ronnie and Lonnie, two twin boys, very sticky and -strenuous, whom in my heart I detested. - -“The darlings! They’re always so well. Heaven knows what I should do -without them.” - -“And _he_?” - -“Oh, he! I haven’t seen him for three days, not since the remittance -arrived, and then you can guess the state he was in.” - -“My poor friend! I’m so sorry.” (How I hated my voice for vibrating -as I said this, but for the life of me I could not help it. At such a -moment tricks I had learnt in my short stage career came to me almost -unconsciously.) - -“Oh, don’t pity me,” she said; “you know a woman hates any one who -pities her.” - -“Then I mustn’t make you hate me.” (Again that infernal -fighting-with-repressed feeling note.) “Well, you know you have my -deepest sympathy,” I added hastily. - -She certainly had. My Irish heart melts at a tale of woe, or is roused -to fiery wrath at the recital of a wrong. I feel far more keenly than -the person concerned. Yet, alas! the moment after I am ready to laugh -heartily with the next one. - -“Yes, indeed, I know it,” she spoke quickly. “It almost makes it worth -while to suffer for that. You know how much it means to me, how much it -helps, don’t you?” - -There was an awkward pause. She was waiting for me to take my cue, and -I was staring at a mental sign-board, “Dangerous Ground.” I tried to -say, “Well, I’m glad,” in a friendly way, but, to my infinite disgust, -my voice broke. She caught the note, as of suppressed emotion. With -wide eyes she looked at me as if she would read my soul: her flat bosom -heaved, then suddenly she leaned forward and her voice was tense. - -“Horace,” she breathed, “do you love me?” - -Now, when a female asks an unprotected male if he loves her there -can be only two answers: Yes or No. If No, a scene follows in which -he feels like a brute. If Yes, he saves her feelings and gives Time -a chance to straighten things out. The situation is embarrassing and -calls for delicate handling. I am sadly lacking in moral courage, and -kindness of heart has always been my weakness. To say “No” would be to -deal a deathblow to this woman’s hope, to leave her crushed and broken, -to drive her to despair, perhaps even to suicide. Besides--it would be -awfully impolite. - -“Perhaps I’d better humour her,” I thought. So I too leaned forward, -and in the same husky voice I answered, “Stella, how can you ask?” - -“Cora,” she corrected gently. I was rather taken aback. Yet I am not -the first man who has called the lady of the moment by the name of her -predecessor. It is one of life’s embarrassing situations. However, I -went on: - -“Cora, how could you guess?” - -“How does a woman know these things?” she answered passionately. “Could -I not read it in your eyes alone?” - -“Ah! my eyes--yes, my eyes....” Inwardly I added, “Damn my eyes!” Then, -after a pause in which I was conscious of her wide, bright, expectant -regard I repeated lamely, “Ye--es, my eyes.” - -But she was evidently waiting for me to rise to the occasion. She -leaned still further forward; then suddenly she laid her hands on mine. - -“You mustn’t kiss me,” she said. - -“Oh, no, I mustn’t,” I agreed hastily. I hadn’t the slightest intention -of doing it. - -“No, no, that would ruin us. We must control ourselves. If Charley were -to discover our secret he would kill me. Oh, I’ve known for long, so -long that you loved me; but you were too fine, too honourable to show -it. Now, what are we going to do? The situation is full of danger.” - -“Do!” I said glumly, “I don’t know. It’s beastly awkward.” Then with an -effort I cheered up. I tried to look at her with sad, stern eyes. I let -my voice go down an octave. - -“There’s only one thing to do, Nora--I mean, Cora, only one thing: -I--must--go--away.” - -“No, no, not that,” she cried. - -“Yes, yes, I must; I must put the world between us. We must never meet -again.” - -I could feel fresh courage in my heart, also the steerage ticket in my -pocket. In a near-by mirror I had a glimpse of my face, and was pleased -to see how it was stern and set. I was pleased to see also that she was -looking at me as if I were a hero. - -“Brave! Noble!” she whispered. “I knew it. Oh, I understand so well! -It’s for me you’re doing this. How proud I am of you!” - -Then, with my returning sense of safety, the dramatic instinct began to -seethe in me. Apparently I had got out of the difficulty easily enough. -Now to end things gracefully. - -“Oh, what an irony life is!” I breathed. “How happy we could have been, -just we two in some garden of roses. Oh, if we were only free, free to -fly to the ends of the earth together, to the heart of the desert, to -the shadow of the pole--only together! Why did we meet like this, too -late, too late?” - -“Is it too late?” she panted, catching fire at my words. “Why should -we let life cheat us of our joy? Take me away, darling, to some far, -far land where no one will know us, where we can live, love, dream. -What does it matter? There will be a ten days’ scandal; he will get a -divorce; all will soon be forgotten. Oh, take me away, sweetheart; take -me away!” - -By this time I was quite under the spell of my histrionic imagination. -Here was a dramatic situation, and, though the heavens fall, I must -work it out artistically. I threw caution to the winds and my arms -around the lady. - -“Yes,” I cried. “Come with me. Come now, let us fly together. I want -you; I need you; I cannot live without you. Make me the happiest man in -the world. Let me live for you, just to adore you, to make your life -one long, sweet dream of bliss.” - -These were phrases from one of my novels, and they slipped out almost -unconsciously. Again in that convenient mirror I saw myself with parted -lips and eyes agleam. “How well I’m doing this!” the artist in me -applauded. “Ass! Ass!” hissed the critical overself. My attitude was a -picture of passionate supplication, yet my whole heart was a prayer to -the guardian that watches over fools. - -“Oh, don’t tempt me,” she cried; “it’s terrible. Yes, yes, I’ll go now. -Let’s lose no time in case I weaken ... at once.... I’ll just get my -hat and cloak. Wait a moment--” - -She was gone. Horror of horrors! What had I done? Here I was eloping -with a woman for whom I did not care two pins. What mad folly had -got into me? As I stared blankly at the door through which she had -passed it seemed to be suddenly invested with all the properties of -tragedy. Soon she would emerge from it clad for the flight, and--I -must accompany her. Could I not escape? The window? But no, it was -six stories high. By heaven, I must go through with it! Let my life -be ruined, I must play the game. As I sat there, waiting for her to -reappear, never in the history of eloping humanity was there man more -miserable. - -Then at last she came-- Oh, merciful gods, without her hat! - -“How can I tell you,” she moaned. “My courage failed me. I couldn’t -bear to leave my children. There were their little photographs staring -at me so reproachfully from the dressing-table. For their sakes I must -stay and bear with him. After all, he is their father.” - -“Is he? I mean, of course he is.” How my brain was reeling with joy! At -that moment I loved the terrible twins with a great and lasting love. - -“Forgive you, Flora,” I said nobly. “There is nothing to forgive. I -can only love you the more. You are right. Never must they think of -their mother with the blush of shame. No, for their dear sakes we must -each do our duty, though our hearts may break. I will go away, never -to return. Yet, my dearest, I will always think of you as the noblest -woman in the world.” - -“And I you too, dearest. You shall be my hero, and I shall adore you to -the last day of my life. Now go, go quickly lest I weaken; and don’t” -(here she leaned closely to me), “don’t kiss me--not even once....” - -“No, I won’t. It’s hard, hard--but I won’t. And listen, darling--if -ever anything should happen to _him_, if at any time we should both -find ourselves free, promise, promise me you’ll write to me. _I’ll -come to you though the whole world lies between us._ By my life, by my -honour I swear it.” - -“I promise,” she said fervently. She looked as if she was going to -weaken again, and I thought I had better get away quickly. A phrase -from one of my novels came into my mind: “Here the brave voice broke.” - -“Good-bye,” I cried. “Good-bye for ever. I shall never blame you, -darling. Perhaps in another land I’ll find my happiness again. Then -some day, when we both are bent and grey, and sentiment lies buried -under the frosts of time, we’ll meet again, and, clasping hands, -confess that all was for the best. And now, God bless you, Dora ... for -the last, last time, good-bye.” - -Here “the brave voice broke” beautifully; then slowly and with drooping -head I made my exit from the room. Once in the street I drew a deep -breath. - -“To be over-sympathetic is to be misunderstood,” I sighed. “Well, I’ve -given her a precious memory. Poor Mrs. Fitz!” - -And, come to think of it, I had never kissed her, not even once. - - * * * * * - -Fifteen minutes later I had reached Riverside Drive, and was being -shown into the luxurious apartment of Miss Boadicia Tevandale. - -She was an orphan and an heiress, only child of Tevandale the big -corporation lawyer, himself an author, whose _Tevandale on Torts_ had -almost as big a circulation as my _Haunted Taxicab_. Socially she moved -in a more exalted sphere than I, but we had met at some of the less -exclusive functions, and she had majestically annexed me. - -Though her dearest enemy could not have called her “fat,” there was -just a suggestion of a suggestion that at some time in the future -she might possibly develop what might be described as an adipose -approximation. At present she was merely “big.” - -I rather resent bigness in a woman. A female’s first duty is to be -feminine--to be small, dainty, helpless. I genuinely dislike holding a -hand if it is larger than my own, and I can understand the feelings -of Wainwright who poisoned his sister-in-law because her thick ankles -annoyed him. However, Boadicia had really been very nice to me. It -would have been terribly rude on my part to have ignored her overtures -of friendship. Consequently we had been seen much together, and had -drifted into what the world regarded as a sentimental attachment. With -my faculty, then, for entering into such situations, I was sometimes -convinced that my feelings for her were those of real warmth. Indeed, -once or twice, in moments of great enthusiasm, I almost suspected -myself of being mildly in love with her. - -She received me radiantly, and she, too, gave me both hands. On the -third finger of the left one I noted the sparkle of a new diamond. - -“Hello, stranger,” she said, gaily. “Just in time for tea. It seems -ages since I’ve seen you. Why haven’t you been near me for a whole -fortnight?” - -I was going to make the usual excuses, when suddenly that devil of -sentiment entered into me. So, trying to give my face a pinched look, I -answered in a hollow voice: - -“Can _you_ ask that?” - -She looked at me in surprise. “Why, Horace, what’s the matter?” - -“Oh, you women, you women!” I groaned bitterly. - -“What do you mean?” she demanded, with some amazement. - -“What do I mean? Are you blind? Have you no eyes as well as no heart? -Can you not see how I have loved you this long, long while; loved you -with a passion no tongue can tell? And now--” - -I pointed dramatically to the new ring. - -“Oh, _that_! Why, you don’t mean to say--” - -“I mean to say that after I read of your engagement in this morning’s -_Town Tattle_ I went straight off and took a passage for Europe. I -leave to-morrow. I’ve just come to say good-bye.” - -“Oh, I’m sorry, so sorry you feel that way about it. I never dreamed--” - -“No, I have uttered no word, given no sign. How could I, knowing the -difference in our social positions? Break, break my heart, but I must -hold my tongue. So it seems I have kept my secret better even than I -knew. But it does not matter now. I have no word of reproach. To-morrow -I go, never to return. I pray you may be happy, very happy. And so, -good-bye....” - -“Wait a moment! Good gracious!” - -She laid a detaining hand on my arm, but I shook it off quite roughly, -and strode to the window. My face was stern and set; my shoulders -heaved with emotion. I had seen the leading man in our _Cruel Chicago_ -Company (in which I doubled the parts of the waiter and the policeman) -use the same gesture with great effect. - -“Why did I ever meet you?” I said harshly to a passing taxicab. - -And strange as it may seem, at that moment I had really worked myself -into the spirit of the scene. I actually felt a blighted being, the -victim of a woman’s wiles. Then she was there at my side, pale, -agitated. - -“I’m so grieved. Why didn’t you speak? If I’d only known you cared. But -then, you know, nobody takes you seriously. Perhaps, though, it’s not -too late. If you really, really care so much I’ll try to break off my -engagement with Bunny.” - -(Bunny was Mr. Jarraway Tope, an elderly Pittsburg manufacturer of -suspenders--Tope’s “Never-tear Ever-wear Suspenders.”) - -“No, no, it’s too late now,” I interrupted eagerly. “Things could never -be the same. Besides, he loves you. He’s a good old fellow. He will -make you happy, far happier than I could. He is rich; I am poor. It is -better so.” - -“Riches are not everything,” she pouted miserably. - -“No, but they’re the best imitation of it I know. Oh, you hothouse -flowers! You creatures of lace and luxury! You don’t know what it is -to be poor, to live from hand to mouth. How could you be happy in a -cottage--I mean a Brooklyn flat? No, no, Boadicia, we must not let -sentiment blind us. Never will I drag you down.” - -“But there’s no question of poverty. You make lots of money?” - -“A mere pittance,” I cried bitterly. “It’s my publishers who make the -money. I’m no man of business. On a few beggarly royalties how can -I hold up my end? No, I must put the world between us. Oh, it will -be all right. Some day when we are both old and grey, and sentiment -lies buried under the frost of time, we will perhaps meet again, and, -clasping hands, confess that all was for the best.” - -“Oh, I hate to let you go away like that. If you have no money, I have.” - -“As if I could ever touch a penny of yours,” I interrupted her sternly. - -“Horace,” she pleaded, “you cut me to the heart. Don’t go.” - -“Yes, yes. Believe me it’s best. Why prolong this painful scene? I’ll -pray for your happiness, for both of your happinesses, yours and -Bunny’s. Perhaps my heart’s not so badly broken after all.” (I smiled a -brave, twisted smile.) “For the last time, good-bye, good-bye.” - -With that I rushed blindly from the room. When I reached the street, I -wiped away a few beads of perspiration. - -“Oh, you everlasting, sentimental humbug!” I cried. “One of these days -you’ll get nicely nailed to the cross of your folly.” - - - - -CHAPTER V - -A SEASICK SENTIMENTALIST - - -If ever I should come to write my autobiography (as I fondly hope in -the fulness of time my recognition as the American Dumas will justify -me in doing) it will fall easily into chapters. For, so far, my -life has consisted of distinct periods, each inspired by a dramatic -conception of myself. Let me then try to forecast its probable -divisions. - - _Chapter I._--Boyhood. Violently imaginative period.--Devouring - ambition to become pirate chief.--Organised the “Band of - Blood.”--Antipathy to study.--Favourite literature: Jack Harkaway. - - _Chapter II._--Youth. Violently athletic period.--Devouring ambition - to become great first baseman.--Organised the Angoras. Continued - antipathy to study.--Favourite literature: The sporting rags. - - _Chapter III._--Cubhood. Violently red blood period.--Devouring - ambition to become champion broncho buster.--Went to Wyoming, and - became the most cowboyish cowboy in seven counties.--Favourite - literature: The yellow rags. - - Chapter IV._--Undergraduate days. Violently intellectual - _period.--Devouring ambition to become literary mandarin.--Gave up - games and became a bookworm.--Commenced to write, but disdained - anything less than an epic.--Favourite literature: The French - decadents. - - _Chapter V._--Adolescence. Violently histrionic period.--Devouring - ambition to become a second Mansfield.--Joined the _Cruel Chicago_ - Company as general utility.--Chief literature: The theatrical rags. - - _Chapter VI._--Manhood. At age of twenty-one wrote _The Haunted - Taxicab_, and scored immediate success.--Devouring ambition to write - the Great American Novel.--Published nine more books in next five - years, and managed to hold my own. - -There you are--down to the time of which the present record tells. And -now, in accordance with the plot, let me continue. - -On a certain muggy morning of late November, a young man of -conspicuously furtive bearing might have been seen climbing aboard the -steamer bound for Naples. He wore the brim of his velour hat turned -down, with the air of one who entirely wishes to avoid observation. - -Over one arm hung a mackintosh, and at the end of the other dangled -an alligator-skin suitcase. An inventory of its contents would have -resulted as follows: A silk-lined, blue serge suit; three silk -_négligé_ shirts; three suits silk pyjamas; three suits silk underwear; -three pairs silk socks; several silk ties, and sundry toilet articles. - -If, in the above list, an insistence on the princely fabric is to -be remarked, I must confess that I shrink from the contact of baser -material. It was then with some dismay that I descended into the bowels -of the ship, and was piloted to my berth by a squinting steward in -shirt-sleeves. I gazed with distaste at the threadbare cotton blanket -that was to replace the cambric sheets of the mighty. Then I looked at -the oblique-eyed one, and observed that nonchalantly over his arm was -hung another blanket of more sympathetic texture, and that his palm -protruded in a mercenary curve. So into that venial hollow I dropped -half a dollar, and took the extra blanket. Then throwing my suitcase on -the berth, I went on deck. - -Shades of Cæsar! Garibaldi! Carusa! What had I “gone up against”? -One and all my fellow passengers seemed to be of the race of garlic -eaters. Not a stodgy Saxon face among them. Verily I was marooned in -a sea of dagos. Here we were, caged like cattle; above us, a tier -of curious faces, the superior second class; still higher, looking -down with disdain, the fastidious firsts. And here, herded with these -degenerate Latins, under these derisive eyes, must I remain many days. -What a wretched prospect! What rotten luck! And all the fault of these -gad-about Chumley Graces, confound them! - -But I did not lament for long. If ever there is an opening for the -sentimentalist it is on leaving for the first time his native land. -Could it be expected, then, that I, a professional purveyor of -sentiment, would be silent? Nay! as I watched the Statue of Liberty -diminish to an interrogation mark, I delivered myself somewhat as -follows: - - “Grey sea, grey sky, and grey, so grey - The ragged roof-line of my home; - Yet greyer far my mood than they, - As here amid this spawn of Rome - With tenderness undreamt before - I sigh: ‘Adieu, my native shore!’ - - “To thee my wistful eyes I strain; - To thee, brave burg, I wave my hand; - Good-bye, oh giddy Tungsten Lane! - Good-bye, oh great Skyscraper Land! - Good-bye, Fifth Avenue so splendid...!!” - -And here my doggerel I ended.... Horrors on horrors! Could I believe -my eyes? There, looking down from the promenade deck, in long ulsters -and jaunty velour hats, were the three Misses Chumley Grace. They were -laughing happily, and looking right at me. Could anything, I wonder, -have equalled the rapidity of my retreat? As rabbit dives into its -burrow, as otter into its pool, so dived I, down, down to the dark hole -they called my cabin, where I collapsed disgustedly on my bunk. - -And there for five days I remained. - -It may be assumed (so much are we the creatures of an artificial -environment) that it is only in the more acute phases of life we -realise our truer selves. As a woman in the dental chair, as a fat man -coaxing a bed down a narrow stairway, as both sexes in the clutches of -_mal-de-mer_, are for the moment stripped of all paltering pretence, so -in the days that followed I had many illuminating glimpses of my inner -nature. Never was a man more rent, racked, ravaged by the torments of -sea-sickness. But let me read you an extract from my diary: - - “Eight hundred Italians on board, and we are packed like sardines - in a keg. Our wedge-shaped cabin is innocent of ventilation. The - bunks are three tiers high and three abreast; so that, as I have an - outer one, a hulky Dago ascends and descends me a hundred times a - day. Also I am on the lower row, and as both the men above me are - violently sick, my situation may be imagined. The sourly stinking - floors are swilled out every morning. My only comfort is that I am - too calloused with misery to care about anything. - - “It’s the awful, brutal sinking that fixes me; as if I were suddenly - being let down the elevator shaft of the Singer Building at full - speed, ten thousand times a day, then as suddenly yanked up again. By - the dim light I can see hundreds of cockroaches crawling everywhere - around me, elongated, coffee-coloured cockroaches, big ones, - middle-sized ones, tiny baby ones. They wander to and fro, fearless - and apparently aimless. But perhaps I am wrong about this. Perhaps - they are moved by a purpose; perhaps they are even in the midst of - a celebration--following the mazes of a cockroach cotillion. As I - lie watching them I speculate on this. What they live on may be - guessed at. And as if to mock me on my bed of woe all the rollicking, - frolicking sea-songs I have ever heard keep up a devilish concert in - my head, singing the praises of this fiendish and insatiable sea.” - -For nine-tenths of his time the artist lives the lives of other men -more vividly than his own; for the other tenth, his own ten times more -vividly than other men. Of such transcendent tenths creation comes. -It was then from the very poignancy of my sufferings that I began to -evolve a paper on the pangs of _mal-de-mer_. It was to be the final -expression of the psychology of sea-sickness. Even as I lay squirming -in that sour, viscid gloom I rejoiced in the rapture of creation. It -seemed, I thought, the best thing I had ever done. Though I had not put -pen to paper, there it was, clearly written in my brain, every word -sure of its election, every sentence ringing true. I longed to see it -staring me from the printed page. - -And on the morning of the sixth day I arose and regarded my shaving -mirror. My face had peaked and paled, and was covered with fluffy -hair, so that I looked like a pre-Raphaelite Christ. Indeed, so -æsthetic was my appearance I had to restrain myself from speaking in -blank verse. - -How glorious was the clear, sweet air again! | With every breath of it -I felt new life. | The sea was very amiable now, | and playing children -paved the sunlit deck. | A score of babies punctuated the picturesque -confusion. On the decks above the plebeian seconds and the patrician -firsts presented two tiers of amused faces. They were like curious -spectators looking down into a bear pit. - -Then suddenly did I realise my severance from my class, and, strange -to say, it aroused in me a kind of defiant rage. For the first time -democracy inspired me. For five days I had starved and suffered--or was -it five years? Anyway, the life of luxury and ease seemed far away. -Goaded by the gay shouts of the shuffle-boarders on the upper deck, I -felt to the full the resentment of the under-dog; yea, ready to raise -the red flag of revolt behind blood-boltered barricades of hate. - -But all at once I became conscious of another sensation equally -exorbitant. It was the first pang of a hunger such as never in my life -had I endured. In imagination I saw myself at Sherry’s, conning the -bill of fare. With what an undreamt-of gusto I made a selection! How I -revelled in a dazzling vision of delicate dishes served with sympathy! -It was a gourmet’s dream, the exquisite conception of a modern -Lucullus. I almost drooled as I dictated it to a reverent head-waiter. -Yea, I was half hunger-mad. When, oh when, would lunch-time come? - -It came. It was the first meal I had seen served in the steerage, -and it was served in buckets. You dipped into one, spiked a slab of -beef floating in greasy swill, shovelled a wad of macaroni from a tin -wash-basin to your tin plate, grabbed a chunk of stale bread from a -clothes basket: there you were, set up for another five hours. - -Too ravenous to demur, I seized my tin plate and rushed the -ration-slingers. The messy meat I could not stomach, but I pryed loose -a little mountain of macaroni. I was busy wolfing it when on looking up -I saw the youngest Miss Chumley Grace regarding me curiously. With many -others she had come to see the animals fed. - -“It’s dollars to doughnuts,” I thought, “she’ll never know me in this -beard. But all the same I’ll keep my face concealed.” - -I had finished feeding, and was washing my plate at a running tap, when -all at once I dropped it as if it had been red-hot. Brushing every one -aside I made a leap for my cabin, and reached it, I will swear, in -record time. Frantically I felt under the pillow of my bunk. Too late! -Too late! The wallet in which I kept my money was gone. - -“Alas!” I sighed. “My faith in Roman honesty has received a nasty -knock.” - -I did not report my loss. I was afraid the inevitable fuss would betray -me to the Chumley Graces. I seemed to spend my whole time dodging them -now. Once or twice I found the spectacled gaze of poppa fixed upon me. -Many times I sneaked away under the scrutiny of the girls. All this -added to my other miseries, which in themselves might have served -Dante for another canto of his Inferno. - -But at last it was over. There was the blue bay of Naples. Now we were -manœuvring into the seething harbour. Now we were keeping off with -streams of water boatmen who retaliated by hurling billets of wood. -Now we were throwing dimes to the diving boys. Now there ran through -the ship the thrill of first contact with the dock. Hurrah! In a few -more moments I should be free, free to follow the Trail of Beautiful -Adventure. True, I was broke; but what a fine, clean feeling that was! - -Clutching my alligator-skin suitcase I reconnoitered, with -conspiratorial wariness. Cautiously I crept out. Softly I sneaked over -to the nearest gangway. My foot was on it; in another moment I would -have made my escape. I could have laughed with joy when--a little hand -was laid on my arm, and turning quickly I found myself face to face -with the youngest Miss Chumley Grace. - -“Oh, Mr. Madden,” she chirped, “we knew you all along, but it’s been -such fun watching you. Do tell me, now, aren’t you just doing it for a -bet?” - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -AN INVOLUNTARY FIANCÉ - - -Alas and alas! I am engaged--an engagement according to Hoyle, -sanctioned by poppa and sealed with a solitaire--irrevocably, -overwhelmingly, engaged. - -Who would have dreamed it? But in the great round-up of matrimony, -isn’t it always the unexpected that happens? I was run down, roped, -thrown, before I knew what was happening to me. And the brand on me is -“Guinivere Chumley Grace.” - -She is the youngest, the open-airiest, the most super-strenuous of the -sporting sisters. She slays foxes, slaughters pheasants, has even made -an air-flight. I have no doubt she despises poor, ordinary women who -cook steaks, darn socks and take an intelligent interest in babies. - -And this is the girl I am going to marry, I who hate horse-flesh, would -not slay a blue-bottle promenading on my nose, admire the domestic -virtues, and hope that a woman will never cease to scream at the sight -of a mouse. Can it be wondered at that I am in the depths of despair? - -And it is all the fault of Italy? - -Naples sprang at me, and, as we say, “put it all over me.” Such welters -of colourful life! Such visions of joy and dirt! Such hot-beds of -rank-growing humanity! Diving boys and piratical longshoremen; plumed -guardians of the police and ragged _lazzaroni_; whooping donkey drivers -and pestiferous guides; clamour, colour, confusion, all to bewilder my -prim Manhattan mind. - -What a disappointment that had been; to stand there one exultant moment -with the Trail of Beautiful Adventure glimmering before; the next, -to be hemmed in by the jubilant Chumley Graces, and hurried to the -haughtiest of hotels, where poppa insisted on cashing my cheque for -five hundred dollars. - -But resignation to one’s fate is comparatively easy in Naples. There, -where villa and vineyard dream by an amethystine sea where purple Capri -and violet Vesuvius shimmer and change with every mood of sun and -breeze, the line of least resistance seems alluringly appropriate. - -There were days in which (accompanied by Miss Guinivere Chumley Grace) -I roamed the Via Roma, stimulated by the vivid life that seethed around -me; when I watched the bronze fishermen pull in their long, sea-curving -nets; when the laziness of the _lazzaroni_ fell upon me. - -There were evenings in which (accompanied by Guinivere Chumley Grace) -I sat on the terrace of the hotel, caressed by the balmy breeze, -listening to the far-borne melody of mandolins, and gazing at the topaz -lights that fringed the throbbing vast of foam and starlight. - -There were nights when (accompanied by Guinivere) I watched the dull -reflection of fiery-bowled Vesuvius, dreaming of the richly storied -past, and feeling my heart stir with a thousand sweet wonderings of -romance. - -Can it be wondered, then, that some of this rapture and romance found -an echo in my heart? Here was the time, the place, and--Guinivere. Only -by a violent effort could I have saved myself, and violent efforts in -Naples are unpopular. No; everything seemed to happen with relentless -logic; and so one afternoon, looking down on the sweeping glory of the -bay the following conversation took place: - - SHE: Isn’t it ripping? - - I: Yes, it’s too lovely for words. Why cannot we make our lives a - harvest of such golden memories? - - SHE: Yes, it would be awfully jolly, wouldn’t it? - - I: If we cannot make the moment eternal, let us at least live eternal - in the moment. - - SHE: But how can we? - -I wasn’t sure how we could, nor was I sure what I meant; but the -freckled face was looking up at me so inquiringly, and the crisp-lipped -mouth was pouted so invitingly that I sought the solution there. -She, on her part, evidently found it so satisfactory that I laid -considerable emphasis on it, and I was still further accentuating the -emphasis when on looking up I found myself confronted by the stony, -spectacled stare of poppa. - -Anathema! Miseracordia! After that there was nothing to do but ask for -his blessing. I could not plead poverty, for he is a director in most -of the railways in which I hold shares. The god of fools, who had so -often moved to save me, had this time left me on the lurch. So it came -about that I spent three hundred dollars out of my five in the purchase -of a diamond ring; and there matters stand. - -Well, I shall have to go through with it. If there is one idea more -than another I hold up to myself it is that of The Man who Makes Good. -I have never been untrue to my promises; and now I have promised -Guinivere a cottage at Newport and a flat in town. Life looms before me -a grey vista of conventional monotony and Riverside Drive. - -If only she cared for any of the things I do! But no! She is one of the -useless daughters of the rich, who expect to be petted, pampered and -provided for in the way they have been accustomed, forgetting that the -old man struggled a lifetime to give them that limousine and the house -on Fifth Avenue. She is one of the great army of women who think men -should sweat that women may spend. I have always maintained that it was -a woman’s place to do her share of the work; and here I was, marrying a -pleasure-seeker, an idler. - -Better, I thought, some daughter of democracy; yea, even such a one as -but a little ago tidied my apartment, that dark-haired damsel with the -melancholy mouth and the eyes of an odalisque. - -As I pretended to work I had often watched my charming chambermaid; but -my interest was purely professional, till one day it was stimulated by -an unusual incident. There was a villainous-looking valet-de-chambre -who brought me my coffee and rolls in the morning, and who presided -over a little pantry from which they seemed to emanate. Passing this -pantry, I witnessed a brisk scuffle between the chambermaid and the -valet. He made an effort to kiss her, and she repulsed him with evident -disgust. From then on I could see the two were at daggers drawn, and -that the man only waited a chance to take his revenge. - -After that, it may not be deemed strange that I should have taken a -more personal interest in my hand-maid; that I should have practised -my Italian on her on every opportunity; that I should have found her -name to be Lucrezia Poppolini, and that of her tormentor, Victor. -A spirit of protection glowed in me; I half hoped for dramatic -developments, pitied her in her evident unhappiness, and vowed that if -she were persecuted any more I would take a hand in the game. - -In a rhapsodic vein I had begun an article on Naples, and ranged far -and wide in search of impressions. It was one evening I had pleaded -work to escape from Guinivere (who was getting on my nerves), and I -had sought the quarter of the town down by the fish-market. Frequently -had I been moved to remark that in Naples there seemed to be no danger -of depopulation, and the appearance of a good woman approaching -strengthened my conviction. Then as she came close I saw that she -was only a girl, very poor, and intensely miserable. But something -else made me start and stare: she was the exact counterpart of my -interesting chambermaid. - -“Perhaps they are twin sisters,” thought I. “This girl’s trouble would -account for the worry and sadness on the face of Lucrezia. Here is -material for drama.” - -So taken was I by my twin-sister theory, that I ended by -half-convincing myself I was right. Then, by a little play of fancy, I -allowed for the following dramatis personæ: - - “Victor, the Villainous Valet. - Lucrezia, the Chaste Chambermaid. - Twin Sister in trouble. - False Lover of Twin Sister. - Aged Parent.” - -Thus you will see how my little drama was interesting me. On her daily -visits to my room, I watched my poor heroine with sympathetic heart. -What was going to happen? Probably Aged Parent would stab False Lover, -and Villainous Valet, who happened to witness the deed, would demand -as the price of his silence the honour of Chaste Chambermaid. How I -began to hate the man as he roused me at eight o’clock with my steaming -Mocha! How I began to pity the girl as dreary and distraught she -changed my towels! Surely the _dénouement_ was close at hand. - -Poppa and I shared a parlour from which opened out respective bedrooms. -It had outlook on the bay, and often the girls would sit there with -their father instead of in their own _salon_. I was not surprised, -then, on my return from a copy-hunting expedition to hear the sound of -many voices coming from within. - -But I was decidedly surprised, on opening the door, to find quite a -dramatic scene being enacted. The backs of the actors were to me, and -they did not see me enter. In the centre of the stage, as it were, were -Victor and Lucrezia. Behind them the fat little manager of the hotel. -To the right poppa and Guinivere. To the left Edythe and Gladys, the -elder sisters. - -Lucrezia looked pale as death, and cowered as if some one had struck -her. Facing her, with flashing eyes and accusive digit was the vengeful -Victor. The little manager was trying to control the situation, while -poppa and offspring, staring blankly, were endeavouring to follow the -Italian of it. - -“Baggage! Thief!” Victor was crying. “I saw her. I stole after her! I -watched her enter the signor’s room. There on the dressing-table it -was, the little purse he had so carelessly left. She draws near, she -examines it ... quick! She pushes it into her blouse--so. Oh, I saw it -all through the chink of the door.” - -“No, no,” the girl protested, in accents of terror and distress; “I -took nothing, I swear by the Virgin, nothing. He lies. He would make -for me trouble. I am innocent, innocent.” - -“I am no liar,” snarled the man. “If you do not believe me, see--she -has it now. Search her. Look in the bosom of her dress. Ah! I will....” - -He caught her roughly. There was a scuffle in which she screamed, and -from her corsage he tore forth a small flat object. - -“What did I tell you!” he cried vindictively. “Who is the liar now? Oh, -thief! thief! I, Victor, have unmasked thee--” - -Here he turned round and suddenly beheld me. His manner grew more -exultant. “Ha! It is the signor himself.” - -Then I saw that what he held out so triumphantly was my little gold -purse, and in the breathless pause that followed, cinema pictures were -flashing and flickering in my brain. How vivid they were! Twin sister -imploring aid--girl distracted--no money to give her--What’s to be -done?--Suddenly sees gold purse--Temptation: “I’ll just borrow one -little piece. The signor will never miss it. Some day I’ll pay it back.” - -How she struggles, gazes at it like one fascinated, puts out a hand, -shrinks back, looks round fearfully! Then at last she takes it in her -hand;--a sudden noise,--impulsively she pushes it in the bosom of her -dress. Then Victor’s high pitched voice of denunciation, bringing every -one on the scene. - -All this I saw in a luminous moment, but--where did I come in? My -heart bled for the poor girl so tried, so tempted. A quixotic flame -leapt in me. There was the vindictive valet; there was the frail -Lucrezia; there was the centre of the stage waiting for what?--me. Ah! -could I ever resist the centre of the stage? - -So I stepped quietly forward, and, to complete the artistic effect, the -girl, who had been gazing at me with growing terror, swayed as if to -faint. Deftly I caught her over my left arm; then with the other hand I -snatched the purse from the astonished Victor, and deliberately pushed -it back into the blouse of Lucrezia. - -“The girl is innocent,” I said calmly; “the money is her own. I, -myself, gave it to her,--this morning.” - - * * * * * - -Of the scene that followed I have no vivid recollection. I was -conscious that poppa herded his flock hurriedly from the room; that -Lucrezia disappeared with surprising suddenness; that the dumbfounded -Victor was ordered to “begone” by an indignant _maître d’hôtel_, who, -while extremely polite, seemed to regard me with something of reproach. - -I was, in fact, rather dazed by my sudden action, so hastily packing -the alligator-skin suitcase I paid my bill and ordered a carriage. -Telling the man to drive in the direction of Possillipo, I there -selected a hotel of a more diffident type, and, in view of my reduced -finances, engaged a single room. - -The day following was memorable for two interviews. The first, in the -forenoon, was with poppa. He had no doubt found my address from the -coachman, and had come to have it out with me. In his most puritanical -manner he wanted to know why I gave the girl the money. - -“I refuse to explain,” I said sourly. - -“Then, sir, I must refuse to consider you worthy of my daughter’s hand.” - -My heart leapt. Escape from Guinivere! It seemed too good to be true. -Lucrezia, I thank thee! Nor do I grudge thee twice the gold thy purse -contains. Concealing my joy I answered: - -“It shall be as you please, sir.” - -His church-deacon face relaxed a little. He had evidently expected more -trouble. - -“And I must ask you, sir, not to communicate with her in any way.” - -I summoned a look of sadness worthy of a lover whose heart is broken. - -“As her father,” I observed submissively, “your wishes must be -respected.” - -He laid a small box on the table. “Guinivere returns you your ring.” -Then he hesitated a little. “Have you nothing at all to say for -yourself? I too have been young; I can make some allowance, but there -are limits. I don’t like to think that you are an absolute scoundrel.” - -“If I were to tell you,” I said, “that I gave the girl the money out -of pure philanthropy, gave it to help a wretched twin sister with an -unborn babe,--what would you say?” - -“I would say you were trying to bolster up your intrigue with a -fiction. Bah! Young men don’t give purses of gold to pretty girls out -of philanthropy. Besides, we have discovered that your precious friend -is nothing more or less than a hotel thief. A detective arrived just -after you left and identified her.” - -“I don’t believe it,” I said indignantly. “These Italian women all look -alike. Where’s the poor girl now?” - -He grinned sarcastically. “Probably it is I who should ask you that.” - -His meaning was so obvious I rose and smilingly opened the door. Off he -went with a snort, and that was the last I ever saw of poppa. - -But my second interview! It took place at ten in the evening. I was -reading the Italian paper in bed when there came a soft knock at my -door. - -“Come in,” I said, thinking it was the valet with my nightcap. Then, -as if moved by a spring I sat bolt upright. With one hand I tried to -fasten the neck button of my pyjamas, with the other to smooth down my -disordered locks. I verily believe I blushed all over, for who should -my late visitor be but--Lucrezia. - -She was dressed astonishingly well, and looked altogether different -from the slim, trim domestic I had known. Indeed, being all in black, -she might have well passed for a charming young widow. Of course I was -embarrassed beyond all words, but if she shared my feeling she did not -show it. - -“Oh, signor, how can I thank you?” she cried, advancing swiftly. - -“Not at all,” I stammered; “pray calm yourself. Excuse me receiving you -in this deshabille. Please take a seat.” - -I indicated a chair some distance away, but to my confusion she seated -herself near me. I reached for my jacket and wriggled into it; after -which I felt more at ease. - -“I have just found out where you were,” she began. “I could not wait -until to-morrow to thank you. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?” - -Really she spoke remarkably well. Really she looked remarkably -stunning. Her complexion had the tone of old ivory, and her eyes of an -odalisque seemed to refract all the light of the room. I could feel -them fixed on me in a distracting, magnetising way. - -“Don’t mention it,” I answered; “there’s nothing to forgive. It’s very -good of you to think of thanking me.” - -She begun to fumble with a glove button. “Tell me,” she almost -whispered, “tell me, why did you do it?” - -“Oh, I--I don’t quite know?” - -She threw out her hands with an impulsive gesture. Her black eyes -glowed fiercely, then grew soft. - -“Was it because you--you loved me?” - -I stared. This was too much. Was the girl mad? I replied with some -asperity: - -“No, it was because I thought you must be in some desperate trouble. I -was sorry for you. I wanted to save you.” - -“Ah! you were right. I was in great trouble, and you alone understood. -You are noble, signor, noble; but you are cold. We women of the South, -we are so different. When we love, we love with all the heart. We do -not conceal it; we do not deny it. Know, then, signor, from the moment -you came so bravely to my aid like some hero of romance I loved you, -loved you with a passion that makes me forget all else. And you, you do -not care. It is nothing to you. Oh, unhappy me! Tell me, signor, do you -not think you can love me?” - -I shrank back to the furthest limit of the bed-post. Again I thought: -“Surely the girl is mad, perhaps dangerous as well. I’ve heard that -these Neapolitan girls all carry daggers. I hope this young lady -doesn’t follow the fashion. I think I’d better humour her.” - -Aloud I said: “I don’t know. This is so sudden I haven’t had time to -analyse my feelings yet. Perhaps I do. Give me to-night to think of it. -Come to-morrow. But anyway, why should I let myself love you? I am a -bird of passage. I have business. I must go away in a few days.” - -“Where is the signor going?” - -“To Paris,” I said cautiously. - -Her strange eyes gleamed with tragic fire. “If you go to Paris without -me,” she cried passionately, “I will follow you.” - -“Well, well,” I said soothingly, “we’ll see. But now please leave me -to think of all this. Don’t you see I’m agitated? You’ve taken me by -surprise. Please give me till to-morrow.” - -Her brows knit with jealous suspicion. I half thought she was going to -reach for that dagger, but instead she rose abruptly. - -“Oh, you are cold, you men of the North. I shall leave you at once.” - -“Yes,” I answered eagerly; “go quickly, before any one finds you here.” - -“Bah!” she exploded with fierce contempt; “what does it matter? But, -signor, will you let me kiss you?” - -“Certainly, if you wish.” I extended one cheek. - -She gave me a quick, smothering embrace from which I had difficulty in -detaching myself. “To-morrow, then, without fail. But where and when?” - -“I’ll meet you at the Aquarium at eleven o’clock,” I said. - -“At the Aquarium, then. And you’ll think of me? And you’ll try to love -me?” - -“Yes, yes, I will. Please go out very quietly. Au revoir till eleven -to-morrow.” - -But by eleven o’clock next morning I was exultantly on my way to -London. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -A BOTTLE OF INK - - -The disadvantage of persistent globe-trotting is that it makes the -world so deplorably provincial. With familiarity the glamour of the -far and strange is swept away, till at last there is nothing left -to startle and delight. Better, indeed, to leave shrines unvisited -and shores unsought; then may we still hold them fondly under the -domination of dream. - -Much had I read of the lure of London, of its hold upon the heart; but -to the end I entirely failed to realise its charm. To me in those grim -December days it always remained the City of Grime and Gloom, so that I -ultimately left it the poorer by a score of lost illusions. - -Drawing near the Great Grey City--how I had looked forward to this -moment as, alert to every impression, I stared from the window of the -train! Yet at its very threshold I shrank appalled. Could I believe my -eyes? There confronting me was street after street of tiny houses all -built in the same way. Nay, I do not exaggerate. They were as alike -as ninepins, dirty, drab cubes, each with the same oblong of sordid -back-yard, the same fringe of abortive front garden. Oh what a welter -of architectural crime! Could it be wondered at that the bricks of -which they were composed seemed to blush with shame? - -Then the roofs closed in till they formed a veritable plain, on which -regiments of chimneys seemed to stand at attention amid saffron fog. -Then great, gloomy corrugations, down which I could see ant-like armies -moving hither and thither: then an arrest in a place of steam and smoke -and skurrying and shouting: Charing Cross Station. - -How it was spitefully cold! Autos squattered through the tar-black mud. -A fine drizzle of rain was falling, yet save myself no one seemed to -mind it--so cheery and comfortable seemed those red-faced Islanders -in their City of Soot. Soot, at that moment, was to me all-dominant. -Eagerly it overlaid the buildings of brick; joyfully it grimed those of -stone. It swathed the monuments, and it achieved on the churches daring -effects in black and grey. After all, it had undoubted artistic value. -Then a smudge of it settled on my nose, and with every breath I seemed -to inhale it. Finally a skittish motor bus bespattered me with that -tar-like mud and I felt dirtier than ever. - -But what amount of drizzle could damp my romantic ardour as suitcase in -hand I stood in Trafalgar Square? Here was another occasion for that -sentimental reverie which was my specialty, so I began: - -“Alone in London, in the seething centre of its canorous immensity. -Around me swirl the swift, incurious crowds. Oh, City of a million -sorrows! here do I come to thee poor, friendless, unknown, yet oh! so -rich in hope. Shall I then knock at thy countless doors in vain? Shall -I then--” - -A sneeze interrupted me at this point. It is hard to sneeze and be -sentimental; besides, I recognised in the words I had just spoken -those I had put into the mouth of Harold Cleaveshaw, hero of my novel, -_The Handicap_. But then Harold had posed in the centre of Madison -Square and addressed his remarks to the Flatiron Building, while I -was addressing the Nelson Monument and a fountain whose water seemed -saturated with soot. - -Do not think the moment was wasted, however. Far from it. The likeness -suggested an article comparing the two cities. For instance: New York, -a concretion; London, an accretion; New York, an uplift; London, -an outspread; New York, blatant; London, smug; New York, a city on -tiptoe, raw, bright, wind-besomed; London, the nightmare of a dyspeptic -chimney-sweep; New York, a city born, organic, spontaneous; London, an -accident, a patchwork, a piecing on; and so on. - -Pondering these and other points of contrast, I wandered up Charing -Cross Road into Oxford Street. In a bookshop I saw, with a curious -feeling of detachment, a sixpenny edition of my novel, _The Red -Corpuscle_. Somehow at that moment I could scarcely associate myself -with it. So absorbed was I becoming in my new part that the previous -one was already unreal to me. I took up the book with positive dislike, -and was turning it over when an officious shop-boy suggested: - -“Don’t you want to read it, mister?” - -“Heaven forbid!” I replied; “I wrote it.” - -He sniffed, as much as to say, “Think you’re smart, don’t you?” - -Up Southampton Row I chanced, and in a little street off Tavistock -Square I found a temporary home. A cat sleeping on a window-sill -suggested Peace, and a donkey-cart piled high with cabbages pointed -to Plenty. But as cabbages do not find favour in the tyrannical -laboratory of my digestion, I vetoed Mrs. Switcher’s proposal that -I take dinner in the house. However, I ordered ham and eggs every -morning, with an alternative of haddock or sausage and bacon. - -These matters settled, I found myself the tenant of a fourth-floor -front in a flat brick building of triumphant ugliness. I could see a -melancholy angle of the square, some soot-smeared trees stretching in -inky tentacles to a sullen sky, a soggy garden that seemed steeped in -despairing contemplation of its own unworthiness. - -For Mrs. Switcher, my landlady, I conceived an enthusiastic dislike. -A sour, grinding woman who reminded me of a meat-axe, I christened -her Rain-in-the-Face in further resemblance of a celebrated Indian -Chief. But if I found in her no source of a sympathetic inspiration, -in the near-by Reading-room of the British Museum there certainly -was. In that studious calm, under battalions of books secure in their -circles of immortality, I was profoundly happy. Often I would pause -to study those about me, the spectacled men, the literary hack with -the shiny coat-sleeve of the Reading-room habitué, the women whose -bilious complexions and poky skirts suggested the league of desperate -spinsterhood. - -A thousand ghosts haunted that great dome. It was a mosaic of faces -of dead and gone authors, wistfully watching to see if you would read -their books. And if you did, how they hovered down from the greyness -and smiled sweetly on you; other ghosts there were too, ghosts of the -famous ones who had bent over these very benches, who had delved into -that mine of thought just as I was delving. Here they had toiled and -triumphed, even as I would toil and triumph. Spurred and exalted, under -that great dome where the only sound seemed to be the whirr of busy -brains, I spent hours of rarest rapture. - -To the solitary the spirits whisper. Ideas came to me at this time in a -bewildering swarm, and often I regretted some fancy lost, some subtlety -unset to words. So by book-browsing, by curious roaming, by brooding -thought, my mental life extended its horizons. Yet knowing no one, -speaking to no one, living so much within myself, each day became more -dreamlike and unreal. There were times when I almost doubted my own -identity, times when, if you had assured me I was John Smith, I would -have been inclined to agree with you. - -With positive joy I watched my money filter away. “Good!” I reflected. -“I shall soon be penniless, reduced to eating stale crusts and -sleeping on the iron benches of the Embankment. Who can divine the -dazzling possibilities of vicissitude? All my life I have battled with -prosperity; now, at last, I shall achieve adversity. I will descend the -ladder of success. I will rub shoulders with Destitution. I may even be -introduced to Brother Despair.” - -Enthusiasm glowed in me at the thought, and absorbed in those ambitious -dreams I cried: “Thank God for life’s depths, that we may have the -glory of outclimbing them.” - -And here be it said, we make a mistake when we pity the poor. It is the -rich we should pity, those who have never known the joy of poverty, the -ecstasy of squeezing the dollar to the last cent. How good the plain -fare looks to our hunger! How sweet the rest after toil! How exciting -the uncertainty of the next day’s supper! How glorious the unexpected -windfall of a few coppers! Was ever nectar so exquisite as that cup of -coffee quaffed at the stall on the Embankment after a night spent on -those excruciating benches? Never to have been desperately poor--ah! -that is never to have lived. - -My shibboleth at this time was a large bottle of ink which I bought and -placed on my mantelpiece. Through a haze of cigarette smoke I would -address it whimsically: - -“Oh, exquisite fluid, what magic words are hidden in thine ebon heart! -What lover’s raptures and what gems of thought! Let others turn to -dusty ledgers your celestial stream, to bills of lading and to dull -notorial deeds; to me you are the poet’s dream, the freaksome fancy -of the essayist, the stuff that shapes itself in precious prose. In -you, oh most divine elixir, fame and fortune are dissolved. In you, -enchanted liquid, strange stories simmer, and bright humour bubbles -up. Oh, magical bottle, of whom I will make life and light, gold and -jewels, laughter and tears, thrill to your dusky heart with the sense -of immortality!” - -It was while surveying the garbage heap in the rear of Mrs. Switcher’s -premises that there came to me the idea of a short story, to be called -_The Microbe_. - -Through reading an article in a magazine Mr. Perkins, a middle-aged -clerk in a dry-salter’s warehouse, becomes interested in the Germ -Theory. Half-contemptuous at first, he begins to make a study of it, -and soon is quite fascinated. Being of a high-strung, imaginative -nature, the thing gets on his nerves, and he begins to think germs, -to dream germs, to dread germs every moment of his life. He fears them -in the air he breathes, in the food he eats, even on the library books -that tell him all about them. - -Mr. Perkins becomes obsessed. He refuses to kiss the somewhat overblown -rose of his affections, to enter a train, an omnibus, a theatre. He -analyses his food, sterilises his water, disinfects his room daily, -till his landlady gives him notice. Finally he can no longer breathe -the air of a microbe-infected office, and he resigns the situation he -has held for twenty years to become a tramp. Yet even here, in the wind -on the heath, on the hill’s top, by the yeasty sea, there is no peace -for him. He broods, he fasts, he becomes a monomaniac. Then he thinks -of the germs in his own body, of the good microbes and the naughty -microbes fighting their vendetta from birth to death, his very blood -their battleground. - -No longer can he bear it. He realises the impossibility of escape. -He himself is a little world, a civil war of microbes. How he hates -them! Yet there remains to him his revenge. Ha! Ha! He has the power -to destroy that world. So beggared, broken, desperate, he returns to -London, and with a wild shriek of joy he throws himself from the Tower -Bridge. - -Yea, even in the end he has been destroyed by a microbe, the most -deadly of all, the terrible Microbe called Fear. - -One morning, dreamily incubating my story, I happened to glance out -of my window. I was gazing absently on my corner of the lugubrious -square when a little figure of a girl came into view. She wore a grey -mantle, and her face was like a splash of white. Walking with a quick, -determined step, in a moment she had disappeared. - -In about five minutes I happened to look up again. There was the same -slim figure rounding the corner, to again disappear. - -“Something automatic about this,” I said; “it’s getting interesting.” -So, taking out my watch, I judged the time, and in another five minutes -I looked up. Yes, there was my girl in grey walking with the same -purposeful stride. - -“This is getting monotonous,” I observed, after I had seen her appear -and disappear a few more times. “Such persistent pedestrianism destroys -my powers of concentration. Let me then sally forth and see what this -mysterious young female is celebrating. Perhaps if I stare at her hard -enough she will choose either Russell or Bloomsbury Square for her -constitutional, and not distract a poor, hard-working story-grinder at -his labours.” - -But when I got outside I found she had gone, so I decided to seek my -beloved Reading-Room and look up some articles on microbes. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE GIRL WHO LOOKED INTERESTING - - -After a hard skirmish with the catalogue of the Reading-Room, which, -with reference and counter-reference, defied me stubbornly, yet finally -yielded to my assault, I found myself, three hours later, seated in an -A.B.C. restaurant in Southampton Row. - -From motives of economy I had given up eating dinners. Breakfast and -a meat lunch were now my sole fortifying occasions, and of the latter -this A.B.C. was oftenest the scene. I liked its friendly fires, its -red plush chairs, its air of thrift and cheer. Behold me, then, a -studiously shabby young man, eating a shilling lunch and wearing as -a symbol of my servitude a celluloid collar. Little would you have -dreamed that but two short months before I had been toying with -terrapin in the gold room of Delmonico’s. - -But such dramatic contrasts charm me, and I was placidly engaged in the -excavation of a Melton Mowbray pie, when a girl in grey took a place at -the next table. Her long mantle was rather the worse for wear, her hat -a cheap straw. Her small hands were encased in cotton gloves, and her -feet in foreign-looking shoes. - -“Painfully poor,” I thought, “yet evidently a worshipper of the goddess -_Comme-il-faut_.” Then--“Why, surely I know her? Surely it is my -mysterious female of the matutinal Marathon.” - -With timid hesitation she ordered a bun and milk. How interesting her -voice was! It had a bell-like quality the more marked because she -spoke with a strong inflection, and an odd precision of accent. A voice -with colour, I thought; violet; yes, she had a violet voice. - -But I had not seen her face, only beneath her low straw hat her hair -of a gleamy brown, very fine of texture and so thick as to seem almost -black. It was brought round in a coiled braid over each ear, and, where -it parted at the back, showed a neck of ivory whiteness. Somewhat -curiously I wished she would turn her head. - -Then, as if to please me, she did so, and what I saw was almost the -face of a child, so small and delicate of feature was it. It was almost -colourless, of a pure pallor that contrasted with the rich darkness of -her hair. The mouth was small and wistfully sweet, the chin rather long -and fine, the cheeks faintly hollowed. Her brow, I noted, was broad -and full, her eyebrows frank and well-defined. But it was the eyes -themselves that arrested me. They were set far apart and of a rare and -faultless sea-blue. Such eyes in a woman of real beauty would have been -pools of love for many a fool to drown in, and even in this fragile, -shrinking girl they were haunting, thrilling eyes. For the rest, she -was small, slender, sad-looking, and tired, yes, tired, as if she -wanted to rest and rest and rest. - -“A consumptive type,” I thought irritably. “Seems quite worn out. Why -does she persist in that pedestrian foolishness--that’s what I want to -know?” - -I watched her as she ate her bun, and when she rose I rose too. She -payed out of a worn little purse, a plethoric purse, but, alas! its -fulness was of copper. Down Woburn Street she disappeared, and I -looked after her with some concern. A gentle, shrinking creature, -pathetically afraid of life. - -“God help her,” I said, “in this ruthless city, if she has neither -friends nor money.” I decided I would write a story around her, a story -of struggle and temptation. Yes, I would call it _The Girl Who Looked -Interesting_. - -That night I thought a good deal about my girl and my story, but next -morning a distraction occurred. London revealed itself in the glory -of a fog. At last I was exultant. Here was the city I had come so far -to see. For the squat buildings seemed to take on dignity and height. -Through the mellow haze they loomed as vaguely as the domiciles of a -dream. The streets were corridors of mystery, and alone, abysmally -alone, I seemed to be in some city of fantasy and fear. - -But the river--there the fog achieved its ghostliest effects. As I -wandered down the clammy embankment, cloud-built bridges emerged -ethereally, and the flat barges were masses of mysterious shadow. -St. Stephen’s was a spectral suggestion, and Whitehall a delicate -silver-point etching. I thanked the gods for this evasive and -intangible London, half-hidden, half-revealed in its vesture of -all-mystifying fog. - -Well, I was tired at last, and I turned to go home. But I must have -missed my way, for I found myself in a long dim street, which I judged -by its furniture-fringed pavement to be Tottenham Court Road. Filled -with a pleasant sense of adventure, I kept on till I came to what -must have been Hampstead Road. There my eyes were drawn to a large -flamboyant painting above the window of a shop in a side-street. -Drawing near, I read in flaring letters the following: - - EXHIBITION - - AMAZING! AMUSING! UNIQUE! - - O’FLATHER’S EDUCATED FLEAS - - As performed with tremendous success before - all the Crowned Heads of Europe and the - Potentates of Asia. For a limited - time Professor O’Flather will - give the people of London - the opportunity of seeing - this extraordinary - exhibition. - Entertaining! - Instructive! - Original! - Come - and - See - - THE SCIENTIFIC MARVEL OF THE CENTURY! - - The marvellous insects that have all the - intelligence of human beings. - - Admission, Sixpence. Children Half-price. - -A large canvas showed a number of insects, vivaciously engaged in -duelling, dancing, drawing water from wells, and so on. Watching them -with beaming rapture was a distinguished audience, including the Czar -of Russia, the Emperor William, Li Hung Chang, the Shah of Persia, and -Mr. Roosevelt. - -I was turning away when a big, ugly individual appeared in the -doorway. He was a heavy-breathing man with a mouth like a codfish, and -bloodshot eyes that peered through pouchy slits. He had a blotched, -greasy face that hung down in dewlaps. From under a Stetson hat his -stringy, brindled hair streamed over the collar of his fur-lined -coat. On his grubby hand an off-colour diamond, big as a pea, tried -to outsparkle another in the dirty bosom of his shirt. He reeked of -pomatum, and his teeth looked as if they had been cleaned with a towel. -No mistaking the born showman of the Bowery breed. Moved by a sudden -idea, I gracefully addressed him: - -“Professor O’Flather, I presume?” - -The impresario looked at me with lack-lustre eye. He transferred a chew -of tobacco from one cheek to the other; then he spat with marvellous -precision on a passing dog. Finally he admitted reluctantly: - -“Yep! That’s me.” - -“Pardon me, Professor, but I’m a newspaper man. I represent the -_Daily Dredger_, with which, of course, you are familiar. I have been -specially commissioned by my journal to write up your exhibition. Can -you favour me with a brief interview?” - -At the magic word “newspaper” his manner changed. He extended a hand -like a small ham. - -“Right you are, mister. Always glad to see the noospaper boys.” - -He ushered me into the shop, and, switching on a light, bellowed in -a voice of brass, “Jinny!” From behind a crimson curtain appeared a -little Jap girl in a green kimono. - -“Faithful little devil!” said the Professor. “Met ’er in a Yokerhammer -joint, and fetched ’er along for the sake of the show. Jinny, uncover -the stock. This gen’lman’s a hintervooer.” - -With eager pride the girl obeyed. From a glass case in the centre of -the room she removed a covering. The case was divided into sections, in -which were a number of suggestive shapes, supinely quiescent. - -“We turn ’em over,” O’Flather explained, “when they ain’t working, so’s -they won’t use up all their force. We need it in the business.” - -Then Jinny, with the delicacy of a lover, proceeded to put each through -its performance. - -“That there’s Barthsheeber at the well,” said the Professor, pointing -with a fat forefinger to a black speck that was frantically raising and -lowering a string of buckets on an endless chain. - -“Them’s the dooelists,” he went on, indicating two who, rearing on -their hind legs, clashed tiny swords with all the fire and fury of -Macbeth and Macduff. - -“Here we have the original Tango Team,” he continued, showing a pair -who went through the motions of the dance in time to a tiny musical box. - -Then, with pardonable pride, he drew my attention to a separate case -containing a well-made model of a little farm. “There!” he said, -extending his grubby hand, “all run by the little critters.” And, sure -enough, there were active little insects drawing ploughs up and down -green furrows; others were hoeing with tremendous energy; others mowing -with equal enthusiasm. Here, too, was a miniature threshing machine, -turned by four black specks lying on their backs, with other frantic -black specks feeding it, and an extra strenuous one forking away the -straw. - -As I expressed my admiration of their industry, the Professor, -with growing gusto, dilated on the cleverness of his pets, and put -them through their paces. There was a funeral, a chariot race, a -merry-go-round, and some other contrivances no less ingenious. Lastly -he showed me a glass case containing many black specks. - -“Raw material. Them’s the wild ones I keep to take the place of the -tame ones that dies. At first I have to put ’em in a bit of a glass -box like a pill box, and turning on an axis same’s a little treadmill. -That’s to break ’em of the jumping habit. Every time they jump--bing! -they hit the glass hard, so by and by they quit. But they have to keep -a-moving, because the box keeps going round. In a few days they’re -broke into walk all right.” - -“Most ingenious!” - -“All my own notion. Since I started in the business, many’s the hundred -I’ve broke in. I guess I know more about the little critters than any -man living.” - -It was with a view to tap a little of this knowledge that I invited -the Professor to a near-by pub, and there, under the influence of -sympathetic admiration and hot gin, he expanded confidentially. - -“All of them insects you saw,” he informed me, “comes from Japan. They -grow bigger over there, and more intelligent. I’ve experimented with -nigh every kind, but them Jap ones is the best. And here I want to say -that it’s only the females is any good. The males is mulish. Besides -they’re smaller and weaker, and not so intelligent. Funny that, ain’t -it. That’s an argyment for Woman’s Suffrage. No, the males is no good.” - -“And how do you train them, Professor?” I queried. - -“Well, first of all you’ve got to hitch ’em up, got to get a silk -thread round their waists. That’s a mighty ticklish oppyration, but -Jinny’s good at it. You see, they’re so slick cement won’t stick to -’em, and if you was to use wax it kills ’em in a day or two. So we’ve -got to get a silk loop round their middle, and cement a fine bristle to -it. Once we have ’em harnessed up we begin to train ’em. That’s just a -matter of patience. Some’s apter than others. Barthsheeber there was -very quick. In a few days she was on to her job.” - -“And how long do they live?” - -“Oh, about a year, but I’ve had ’em for nigh two. They got mighty weak -towards the last though. You know, a female in prime condition can draw -twelve hundred times her own weight.” - -“Wonderful! And what do they eat?” - -“Well,” said O’Flather, thoughtfully, “a performer can go about four -days without eating, but we feed ’em every day. Jinny used to do it. -She loves ’em. But it’s hard on a person. I’ve got a young woman -engaged just now.” - -“A young woman!” - -“Yep, but she’s a poor weak bit of a thing. I don’t think as she’ll -stick it much longer. You see, there’s lots of folks the little devils -won’t take to--me, for instance. Blood’s too bitter, I guess. They seem -to prefer the women, too. Then again, they feed better if the body’s -hot, specially if the skin’s perspiring.” - -“How very interesting!” I said absently. Then suddenly the reason of it -came to me. The insects had no intelligence, no consciously directed -power. The motive that inspired them was--Fear. Their extraordinary -demonstrations were caused by their desperate efforts to escape. It was -fear that drew the coaches and the gun-carriages: fear that made those -kicking on their backs turn the threshing mills; fear in the fight to -free themselves from the stakes to which they were chained that made -the duellists clash their sabres, and the Bathshebas work at their -wells. It was even fear that made those two lashed side by side, and -head to tail, run round in opposite directions to get away from each -other, till they gave the illusion of a waltz. Fear as a motive power! -This exhibition, outwardly so amusing, was really all suffering and -despair, struggle born of fear, pleasure gained at the cost of pain. -Exquisitely ludicrous; yet how like life, how like life! - -“Professor O’Flather,” I said gravely, “you have taught me a lesson I -will never forget.” - -“Naw,” said the Professor modestly, “it ain’t nuthin’. Hope you get a -few dollars out of it. Mind you give the show a boost.” - -We were standing by the doorway of the exhibition when a slim -figure in grey brushed past us and entered. I started, I could not -be mistaken--it was the heroine of my story _The Girl Who Looked -Interesting_. - -“Who’s that, Professor--the girl who’s just gone in?” - -“That,” said O’Flather, with a shrug, “why, that’s the young woman wot -feeds the fleas.” - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -THE CHEWING GUM OF DESTINY - - -Allured by a sign: “A Cut off the Joint for Sixpence,” I lunched in -a little eating-house off Tottenham Court Road. I was at the tapioca -pudding stage of the repast, and in a mood of singular complacency. - -“Six weeks have gone,” I pondered. “I have spent nearly a third of -the sum I realised from the sale of Guinivere’s engagement ring. In -my ambition to fail in the world, already I have accomplished much. -Behold! my boots are cracked across the uppers. Regard! the suggestive -glossiness of my coat-sleeves. Observe! the bluey brilliancy of my -celluloid collar. Oh, mighty Mammon, chain me to thine oar! Grind me, -Oppression, ’neath thy ruthless heel! Minions of Monopoly, hound me to -despair!--not all your powers combined in fell intent can so inspire me -with the spirit of Democracy as can the sticky feel of this celluloid -collar around my neck!” - -With which sentiment I lit a cigarette, and took from my pocket a copy -of the _Gotham Gazette_. I had seen it looking very foreign and forlorn -in a news-agents, and had bought it out of pity for its loneliness. I -was glancing through it when a name seemed to leap at me, and I felt my -heart stand still. I read: - - “Yesterday afternoon patrician Fifth Avenue was the scene of a - saddening incident. It was almost opposite Tiffany’s, and the autos - were passing in a continuous stream. At this time and this place it - is almost as difficult to cross the Rubicon as to cross the Avenue; - yet, taking advantage of a lull in the traffic, a well-dressed - man--who has since been identified as Charles Fitzbarrington, an - ex-army officer resident in Harlem--was observed to make the daring - attempt. Half way over he was seen to stumble, and come to the - ground. Those who saw the rash act held their breaths, and when the - nearest spectators could reach him to rescue him from his perilous - position, they found to their surprise that the man was dead....” - -I dropped the paper with a groan. Captain Fitzbarrington dead! Mrs. -Fitz free! My promise to marry her! The terrible twins! Oh, God.... - -“Alas!” I cried, “I am undone!--betrayed by an incurably romantic -disposition; asphyxiated in the effervescence of my own folly; -ignominiously undone!” - -As if it were yesterday, I remembered the faded apartment in Harlem, -my protests of undying devotion, the words that now seemed written in -remorseless flame: - - “_If anything should happen to him, if by any chance we should find - ourselves free, send for me, and I’ll come to you, even though the - world lie between us. By my life, by my honour, I swear it._” - -Had I really uttered that awful rot? Oh, what a fool I’d been! But it -was too late now. I must make the best of it. Never yet have I gone -back on my word (though I have put some very poetic constructions on -it). But here there was no chance of evasion. She would certainly -expect me to marry her. Farewell, ambitious dreams of struggle and -privation! Farewell, O glorious independent poverty! Farewell, my -schemes and dreams! Bohemia, adventure, all!--and for what? For an -elderly woman for whom I did not care a rap, a faded woman with a -ready-made family to boot. Truly life is one confounded scrape after -another. - -That night I dreamed of the terrible twins. I was a pirate ship, -Ronnie, the captain, stood on my chest, while Lonnie, a naval -lieutenant, tried to board me. Then they invented a new game, based on -the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere. It was tremendously exciting. They -both got quite worked up over it. So did I--only more so. I was the -horse. I awoke, bathed in perspiration, and hissing through my clenched -teeth: “Never! Never!” - -But really it seemed as if I must do something; so next day I began -three different letters to Mrs. Fitz. I was sorely distracted. My work -was suffering. There was the unfinished manuscript of _The Microbe_ -staring reproachfully at me. Then to crown all, just as I was sitting -down in the early evening with grim determination to finish the letter, -suddenly I was assailed by a Craving. - -Indulgent Reader, up till now I have concealed it, but I must confess -at last. I have one besetting weakness, a weakness that amounts to a -vice. I am ashamed of it. Often I have tried to wean myself of it; -often cursed the heredity that imposed it on me. Opium? Morphine? -Cocaine? Nothing so fashionable. Absinthe? Brandy? Gin? Nothing so -normal. Alas! let me whisper it in your ear: I am a Chewing Gum Fiend! - -So feeling in my pocket for the stuff, and finding none, I straightway -began to crave it as never before. Then, knowing there would be no -peace for me, I left my letter and started desperately forth into that -fog stifled city. - -And that fog was now a FOG. It irked the lungs, and made the eye-balls -tingle. Each street lamp was a sulphurous blur, each radiant -shop-window a furtive blotch of light. It seemed something solid, -something you could cut into slices, and serve between bread--a very -Camembert cheese of a fog. - -So into this woolly obscurity I plunged, and like a Mackinaw blanket it -entangled me about. Bleary boxes of light the tramways crawled along. -There were tootings of taxis, curses of cabbies, clanging of bells. -The streets were lanes of mystery, the passers weird shadows; the -shop-windows seemed to be made of horn instead of glass. Then the green -and red lights of a chemist’s semaphored me, seemingly from a great -distance, but really from just a few feet away. So there I bought six -packets of chewing gum, and started home. - -But at this point I found the fog fuzzier than ever. I stumbled and -fumbled, and wondered and blundered, till presently I found myself -standing before the great doors of a theatre. For the moment I was too -discouraged to go further, and the performance was about to begin. Ha! -that _was_ an idea! I would enter. Then I groaned in spirit, for I saw -that the theatre was Drury Lane. Sensational melodrama! Ah, no! Better -the cold and cruel street. But the fog was inexorable. Three times -did I try to break through it; three times did it hurl me back on the -melodramatic mercies of Drury Lane. - -Hanging over the front of the gallery, I asked myself: “Who are -these hundreds of well-dressed people who fill this great playhouse? -To all appearance they are intelligent beings, yet I cannot imagine -intelligent beings taking this kind of thing seriously. As burlesque -it’s funny, and the more thrilling it gets the funnier it is. Yet, -except myself, no one seems to laugh. How the author must have chuckled -over his fabrication! However, let me credit him with one haunting -line, one memorable sentiment, delivered by the heroine to a roar of -applause: - - “A woman’s most precious jewel is her good name, - And her brightest crown the love of her husband!” - -Then suddenly a light flashed on me. It was these people who bought -my books; it was this sort of thing I had been peddling to them so -long. And they liked it. How they howled for more! “O ye gods of High -Endeavour!” I groaned, “heap not my sins of melodrama on my head.” - -Conscience-stricken I did not wait for the climax where two airships -grapple in the sky, under the guns of a “Dreadnought,” while at a -crossing an auto dashes into a night express. I sneaked out between the -acts, and sought the solitude of the Thames Embankment. - -The fog had cleared now, and the clock of St. Stephen’s pealed till -I counted the stroke of midnight. The wall of the Embankment was a -barrier of grime, the river a thing of mystery and mud. It was a -gruesome night. Even the huge electrically-limned Highlandman on the -opposite shore, who drinks whiskey with such enviable capacity, had -ceased for the nonce his luminous libations. - -A few human waifs shuffled past me, middle-aged men with faces pale -as dough, and discouraged moustaches drooping over negligible chins. -Their clothes, green with age and corroded with mud, seemed to flap -emptily on their meagre frames. A woman separated herself from a mass -of shadow, a miry-skirted scarecrow crowned with a broken bonnet. With -one red claw she clutched a precious box of matches. - -“For Gord’s syke buy it orf me, mister. I ain’t myde tupp’nce oipney -orl dye.” - -I left her staring at a silver coin and testing it with her teeth. - -Yes, it was a bad night to be out in, a bad night to cower on these -bitter benches waiting for the dawn. Yet I myself was conscious of the -_chauffage central_ of peripatetic philanthropy. Greedily I panted for -other opportunities to enjoy the glow of giving. Then, as I was passing -Cleopatra’s Needle, I heard the sound of a woman’s sob. - -It came from the gloomy gruesomeness between the Needle and the Thames. -I peered and listened. Below me the hideous river chuckled, and the -lamplight fell lividly on the whiteness of a lifebuoy bound to the -wall. Again I was sure I heard that sound of piteous sobbing. - -Bravery is often a lack of imagination: I have imagination plus, so I -hesitated. I had heard of men being lured into traps. Vividly enough I -saw myself a cadaver drifting on the tide, and I liked not the picture. -Yet after all it takes tremendous courage to be a coward, so I drew -nearer. Strange! the sobbing, so low, so pitiful, had ceased. It was -followed by a silence far more sinister. There was a vibrating agony in -that silence, a horrible, heart-clutching suspense. What if I were to -go down there and find--no one? Yet some one had been, I would swear; -some one had sobbed, and now--silence. - -Slowly, slowly I descended the steps. There in the black shadow of the -Needle I made little noise, yet--suddenly I began to wonder if all the -world could not hear the beating of my heart.... - -Heart be still! hand be steady! foot be swift! There, crouching on the -top of the wall, gazing downward, ready for the leap, I see the figure -of a woman. Will she jump before I can reach her? I hold my breath. -Nearer I steal, nearer, nearer. Then--one swift rush--ah! I have her. - -Even as I clutched I felt her weight sag towards the river. Another -moment and I had dragged her back into safety. Tense and panting, -I stared at her; then, as the lamplight fell on her ghastly face I -uttered a cry of amazement. Heavens above! it was the girl of the -entomological meal-ticket, the persistent pedestrian of Tavistock -Square. - -There she cowered, looking at me with great, terror dilated eyes. There -I glowered, regarding her grimly enough. At last I broke the silence. - -“Child! Child! why did you do it? You’ve gone and spoilt my story. I -should never have met you like this. It’s coincidence. Coincidence, you -know, can’t happen in fiction, only in real life. You can’t be fiction -now. You’ll have to be real life.” - -She gazed at me blankly. Against the green of the wall her face was a -vague splash of white. - -“But that is a matter with which I can scarcely reproach you. What I -would like to know is why were you on the top of that wall? Having -severely strained my right arm, I conceive I am entitled to an -explanation.” - -She did not make an effort to supply one, so after a pause I continued: - -“No doubt you will say it was because you were tired, hungry, homeless. -Because you thought the river kinder than the cruel world. Because you -said: ‘Death is better than dishonour!’” - -The girl nodded vaguely. - -“Ah no!” I said sadly; “you must not say these things, for if you -do you will be quoting word for word the heroine of my novel _A -Shirtmaker’s Romance_. You will be guilty of plagiarism, my child; and -what’s worse, a thousand times worse, you will be guilty of melodrama.” - -She looked at me as if she thought me mad, then a shudder convulsed -her, and breaking away, she dashed down the steps to that black water. -Just in time I caught her and dragged her back. She shrank against the -wall, hiding her face, sobbing violently. - -“Please don’t,” I entreated. “If you want to give me a chance of doing -the rescuing hero business choose a less repellent evening, and water -not so like an animated cesspool. Now, listen to me.” - -Her sobbing ceased. She was a silent huddle of black against the wall. - -“I am,” I said, “a waif like yourself, homeless, hungry, desperate. I -came to this city to win fame and fortune. Poor dreaming fool! Little -did I know that where one wins a thousand fail. Well, I’ve struggled, -starved even as you’ve done; but I’ve made up my mind to suffer no -more. And so to-night I’ve come down here, even as you’ve done, to end -it all.” - -I had her listening now. From the white mask of her face her big eyes -devoured me. - -“Yes, my poor girl,” I went on wearily, “you’re right. Life for such -as us is better ended. Defeated, desperate, what is there left for us -but death? Let us then die together; but not your way--no, that’s too -primitive. I have another, more fascinating, more original. Ah! even -in self-destruction, behold in me the artist. And I am going to allow -you to share my doom. Nay! do not trouble to express your gratitude. -I understand; it’s too deep for words. And now, just excuse me one -moment: I will prepare.” - -With that I went over to the base of the Needle and taking from my -pocket the five remaining packets of chewing gum, I tore the paper from -them. Then with the large piece I had been masticating, I welded them -into a solid stick about six inches long. Eagerly I returned to her. - -“There!” I cried triumphantly. “Do you know what this grey stick is? -But why should you? Well, let me tell you. This dull, sugary-looking -stuff is _dynamite_, dynamite in its most concentrated form. This is a -stick of the terrific PEPSINITE. It has moved more than any explosive -known. Now do you understand?” - -Her eyes were rivetted on the little grey stick. - -“Ah, well may you shudder, girl! There’s enough in this tiny piece -to blow a score of us to atoms, to bring this mighty monument -careening down, to make the embankment look like an excavation for the -underground railway. Oh, is it not glorious? Pepsinite!” - -Still looking at it as if fascinated, she made a movement of utter -alarm. - -“Just think of it,” I whispered gloatingly; “in two more minutes we -shall be launched into eternity. Does that not thrill you with rapture? -And think of our revenge! Here with our death we will destroy their -monument, hard as their hearts, black as their selfishness, sharp as -their scorn. It, too, will be blown to pieces.” - -She looked up at the black column almost as if she were sorry for it. I -laughed harshly. - -“Yes, I know. You do not hate the Needle, but just think of the people -who are so proud of it, the devils who have goaded us to this. At first -I thought that with my death I would destroy their Albert Memorial, and -so break their philistine hearts. But that would have taken so much -pepsinite, and I have only this pitiful piece. So it had to be the -Needle.” - -Again she seemed almost to regret its impending doom. - -“And now,” I cried, “the time has come. Oh, curse you, curse you, vast -vain-glorious city! Under the Upas window of your smoke what dreams -have withered, what idols turned to clay! How many hearts of splendid -pride have failed and fallen! How many poets cursed thy publishers and -died! Oh heedless, heartless London!” - -With a gesture full of noble scorn I shook my fist in the direction of -the Savoy Hotel. Then I changed to another key. - -“But no, let me not curse you, great city! Here at the gateway of -death let me envisage you again, and from the depths of the heart you -have broken say to you sadly: ‘London, ruthless, splendid London, I -forgive!’” - -My hand quivered as I laid the grey stick at the base of the monument; -my hand trembled as I planted a large wax match in it; my hand -positively shook as I struck another match and applied a light to the -upright one. With eyes dilated I stared at the tiny flickering flame, -and at that moment, so worked up was I, I will swear I thought I was -looking at the very flame of death. - -“Come closer, closer girl,” I gasped. “See it burning down, down. -Soon it will reach the end and we will know nothing. Oh is it not -glorious--nothing! Good-bye world, good-bye life ... see! it is nearly -half way. Oh gracious flame, burn faster, faster yet! And now, girl, -standing here in the shadow of death do not refuse my last request; let -me kiss you once, just once upon your brow.” - -For answer she stooped swiftly and blew out the match. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE YOUNG MAN WHO MAKES GOOD - - -“Why did you do it?” I demanded angrily. “Why couldn’t we have gone -through with it?” - -Then for the first time the girl seemed to find her voice, and it was a -very faint voice indeed. - -“No, no, I could not. For myself it does not mattaire; but you, -monsieur--that’s different.” - -Again I was struck with her foreign intonation, her pretty precision -with which Frenchwomen speak English, the deliberate utterance due to -an effort, not wholly successful, to avoid zeeing and zizzing. - -“Why is it so different?” I asked sulkily. - -“Because--because me, I am nossing. If I die no persons will care; but -you, monsieur, you are artist, you are poet. You have many beautiful -sings to do in the life. Ah, monsieur! have courage, courage. Promise -me you nevaire do it some more.” - -“All right,” I said gloomily; “I promise.” - -She seemed reassured. Her child’s face as she looked at me was full of -pity and sympathy. - -“And now,” I said, “what’s to be done?” - -“I do not know.” - -She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. All at once a look of terror -came into her face. Fearfully she peered over my shoulder, then she -cowered back in the shadow of the wall. - -“Oh, I’m ’fraid, I’m ’fraid.” - -Involuntarily I turned in the direction of her stare, but saw no one. - -“What are you afraid of?” I asked. “What’s the trouble?” - -“It’s Monsieur O’Flazzaire! Oh, I am bad, bad girls! Why you not let me -die? I have keel, I have keel.” - -“Good Heavens! you haven’t killed Professor O’Flather?” - -“No, no, but I have keel ze troupe; Batsheba, all, all; dead, keel by -my hand, keel in revenge. Oh I am so wicked! I hate myself.” - -I stared at her. “In the name of Heaven, what have you done?” - -For answer she pulled from the pocket of her mantle a tin canister of -fair size and handed it to me. By the lamplight I could just make out -the label: - - SKEETER’S INSECT POWDER. - -A light dawned on me. “You don’t mean to say you’ve fed ’em on this?” - -“Yes, yes, all of eet. I have spare nossing. I was mad. Oh I ’ate heem -so! And now I’m ’fraid. If he finds me he will keel me, certainly. He’s -bad man. Oh don’t let heem find me!” - -She clutched my arm in her terror. - -“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “But first, let’s destroy the evidence of -your crime.” - -I flung the canister into the river, where we heard a faint splash. - -“Now,” I went on, “you’re no doubt cold and hungry. Let me take you to -the coffee-stall on the Embankment and give you some supper. Then, -according to the custom of the situation, you may tell me the sad story -of your life. In the meantime, as we walk there, let’s hear how you -fixed O’Flather.” - -“It is true, what I tell you, Monsieur; he’s very, very bad man. He -’ave said the things disgusting to me, and he try to make me have -dinner wiz heem many hevenings, but I say: No! No! Because, truly, I -have ’orror for such mans. Den last night he tell me if I don’ come -wiz heem, he don’ want me some more. He refuse pay me my money, and -the lady where I rest tell me: ‘You don’t come back some more wiz no -money.’ So what I must do? I have no ’ome, and just one sheeling of -money. Ah, no! It was not interesting for me, truly.” - -She shook her head with all the painful resignation of the poor. - -“Well, I am desperate. I sink it is all finish for me, I must drink -of the gran’ cup at last. That make me sad, because I have fight so -long. But there! it is the life, is it not? Then I sink I have one -gran’ revenge. I buy wiz my sheeling dat powdaire, and I go to the -exposition. There was only the Japonaise girl, and she leave me wiz -the troupe. They lie on their backs and they wait for dejeuner. Well, -I geeve them such as I don’ sink they want eat ever again. Oh, I ’ate -them so, and I ’ate heem so, and so I keel them every one wiz that -powdaire, till zere legs don’ wave some more. Even ze wild ones, they -don’ jump some more now.” - -“Poor Bathsheba!” - -“Then when I finish keel the last one the Japonaise girl come and -scream for the patron, and I run like wind. But I know he fetch -everywhere for me, and when he find me he keel me too. Anyway, I was -tire, and I dispair, so I sink I throw myself in the water. There!” - -“Well, you must swear you won’t do it again.” - -“Yes, I swear on the head of my fazzaire, I won’t do it again.” - -“And now for that coffee, coffee and sandwiches--ham sandwiches.” - -She ate and drank eagerly, yet always with that furtive, hunted look, -as if she expected to see the huge bull-dog face of O’Flather with -its mane of brindled hair come snarling out of the gloom. I saw, too, -that she was regarding me with great interest and curiosity, indeed -with a certain maternal and protecting air, odd in one so childish and -clinging herself. Once, seeing that I shivered a little, she turned -up the collar of my coat and buttoned it. In spite of the mothering -gentleness of the act I might have thought it a little “forward,” had I -not remembered that in her eyes we were comrades in misfortune. - -Her eyes! How blue and bright they were now, as they regarded me over -her coffee! And how long, I wondered, had that wistful mouth been a -stranger to smiles? - -“Let me see you smile,” I begged. - -I thought so. A flash of teeth that made me think of an advertising -poster for a popular dentifrice. Again I noted the darkness of her -hair, setting off the porcelain whiteness of her skin. Again I approved -of the full forehead, and the frank eyebrows. Again the girl stirred -me strangely. And to think that she might have been at the bottom of -that hideous river by now! I felt a sudden pity for her, and a wish to -shield her from further ill. - -“And now for the story,” I said, as she finished. “I have told you -mine, you know.” - -“Ah, mine! It is not so interesting. There is not much to tell. My -fazzaire die when I was leetle girl, and I go to the convent. There I -learn to do the _hem-broderie_, and when I leave the Sisters I work in -atalier in Paris. It was so hard. We work from eight by the morning -till seven at night. There was t’irty girl all in one leetle room, and -some girls was _poitrinaire_.” - -“What’s that?” - -“Ah ... what you call it--yes, consumption. Well, I begin to become -that no more can I stand it, so I come to Londres and try to get work. -Every day I try so ’ard for one month, for I can speak English not -much. Then just as I have no money left I get work in atalier at the -_hem-broderie_. It was not so ’ard as in Paris, and I was very ’appy. -But pretty soon I am seek, and it is necessaire I go to the hospital. -It was the appendicite. When I get out I try to get back to the -atalier, but my place have been fill. No work, no money--truly, I have -no chance.” - -“Well, what happened then?” - -“Ah! then it was not interesting. I often go very hungry. I live for -many days on bread, just bread. But by and by I get more work. Then -again I am very ’appy. But I have no chance. I become seek once more. I -have headache very much; my hair tumble out, and every night I cry. But -I try very ’ard. I must keep my work, I must, I must. Then the doctor -tell me I must have more air. I must _respire_. I tell him it is not -for the poor to _respire_, and he say you must do something outside, -or you will die. Well, I leave the atalier and for two months I fetch -somesing outside. But I have no chance. Once more my money is finish, -then one day I get work with Monsieur O’Flazzaire. I would not have -taken it, but that I am starve, and I am ’fraid. It was so ’ard, and -every day I get more weak. Then, yesterday, he tell me: ‘Go! I don’ pay -you,’--and I don’ care for myself any more.” - -“Why,” I said gravely, looking her in the face, “did you not do as -others would have done?” - -She stared at me in a startled way: - -“You do not mean dishonour, monsieur. Ah no! You cannot mean that.” - -“Is it not better to do that than starve?” - -“It is better to die than to do that, I sink. I am good Catholic, -Monsieur.” - -“Do not call me Monsieur! Are we not fellow waifs? So you think it is -less sin to take your own life than to sell your honour?” - -“It is that that I think, Monsieur.” - -As I looked into the steady, blue eyes I saw a look of faith that -almost amounted to fanaticism, a sort of Joan of Arc look. “How -curious!” I thought. “I was under the impression such sentiments were -confined to books.” However, I determined to fall back on cynicism, -and to seem the more cynical I lit a cigarette. She watched me with a -curious intensity; and as she stood there quietly, a naphtha lamp lit -up her pale, earnest face. - -“Ah! young lady,” I remarked mockingly, “you speak like a penny -novelette. In fact, you say the same thing as did my heroine Monica -Klein in _A Shirtmaker’s Romance_. It only remains for you to die to -slow music in the snow outside the door of a fashionable church. That’s -what happened to Monica. I shed a bucket of tears as I wrote that -scene. But I thought we had decided you were to be Fact not Fiction?” - -“I do not understand, Monsieur.” - -“Then let me explain. Idealism is a luxury we poor people can’t afford. -If you should be forced into dishonour for bread, lives there a man -that would dare blame you? To me you would be as good as the purest -woman, even though you walk the streets. Nay! I’m not sure that you -wouldn’t be better, because you would be a victim, a sacrifice, a -martyr. No, you’re wrong, mademoiselle. I think you’re wrong.” - -“It is easy to die; it must be ’ard to live like zat.” - -“How lucky you find it so easy to die. Me, I’d rather be a live lackey -than a dead demi-god. But let me tell you you won’t get much credit -in this world for dying in the cause of virtue, and I have my doubts -about the next. And it doesn’t seem to me to make much odds whether you -die quickly, as you intended doing a little while ago, or whether you -die slowly by hard work and poor living. Society’s going to do for you -anyway. You’re Waste, that’s what you are. In every process there must -be waste, even in the civilising one. You’re going to be swept into the -rubbish heap pretty soon. Poor pitiful Waste! What do you mean to do -now?” - -Her face fell sullenly. She would not look at me any more, but she -answered bravely enough. - -“Me! Oh, I suppose I try again. Perhaps I starve. Perhaps I find work. -Anyway, I fight.” - -“What chance have you got--a poor physique, hard toil, bad air, cheap -food. You’ll go on fighting till you fall, then no one will care. If -it’s fighting you’re after, why don’t you fight Society, fight with -your women’s weapons, your allure, your appeal to the worst in man. -You can do it. Any woman can if she’s determined and forgets certain -scruples. Do as I would in your case, as many men would if they had the -cursed ill-luck to be women. Then, when you’re sixty you can turn round -and have a pew in church, instead of rotting at thirty in Potter’s -Field.” - -“You advice me like zat?” I could feel that she shrank from me. - -“Doesn’t it seem good, practical advice?” - -“Suppose no one want me?” - -“True. There’s many a woman guarding ever so jealously a jewel no -man wants to steal. That’s almost more bitter than having it stolen. -However, don’t you worry about that, there’s no need to.” - -She raised her head which had been down-hung. Intently, oddly she -looked at me. - -“Will you take me?” she said suddenly. - -“Me!” I laughed. “Why no! I’m speaking as one wastrel to another. How -could I?” - -“Would you if you could?” - -“Well, er--I don’t think so. You see--I’m not that sort.” - -“No, I knew you were not,” she said slowly; “you’re good man.” - -“I’m not,” I protested indignantly. How one hates to be called -“good”--especially if one is a woman. - -“Yes, you are,” she insisted. Then she threw back her head with a -certain fine pride, and the dark sea-blue eyes were unfathomable. - -“You have saved my life. It is yours now. Will you not take me? I am -good girl. I have always been serious, I have always been virtuous. I -will work hard for you. I will help you while you are so poor; zen if -one day you are become rich, famous, and you are tire of me, I will go -away.” - -I was taken aback. If there’s one thing worse than to be convicted of -vice it’s to be convicted of virtue. I squirmed, stammered, shuffled. - -“Well, you see I-- Hang it all! somewhere in my make-up there’s that -uncomfortable possession, a Puritan conscience. I’m sorry--let me -consider.... Perhaps there’s another way.” - -How terrible to a woman to have the best she has to offer refused; but -the girl bore up bravely. - -“What is it?” she asked, without any particular interest. - -I was doing some rapid thinking. An idea had come into my head which -startled me. It was an inspiration, a solution of a pressing problem. -Swiftly I decided. - -“To do as you suggest,” I said, “would be very wrong, and what’s worse, -it would be crudely conventional. It is commonplace now in some society -to live with a person without marrying them; the original thing’s to -marry them. Well, will you marry me?” - -She looked at me incredulously. I went on calmly. - -“But for me, as you say, your troubles would by now have been over. -In a way I’m responsible for your life. What’s to be done? I’m not -old enough to adopt you, and to constitute myself your guardian would -lay me open to uncharitable suspicion. From now on I know I shall -be infernally worried about you. Well, the easiest way out of the -difficulty seems to be to marry you, doesn’t it?” - -“But you don’t know me,” she gasped. - -“You’ve got ‘nothing on me’ there,” I said airily; “you don’t know me. -That’s precisely what makes it so interesting. Any man can marry a -woman he knows; it takes an original to marry one he doesn’t. But after -all, has not the method some merit? We start with no illusions. There -will be no eye-opening process, no finding our swans geese. The beauty -of such a marriage is that we don’t entirely ring down the curtain on -romance.” - -“But--I have no money.” - -“Neither have I. What does that matter? Any fool can marry if he’s got -money; it takes a brave man to do it if he’s broke.” - -“But--” - -“Not another word. It’s all settled. I think it’s a splendid idea. -We’ll be married to-morrow if possible. I’ll get a licence at once. -By the way, what’s your name? It’s of no consequence, you know, but I -fancy it’s necessary for the licence.” - -“Anastasia Guinoval.” - -“Thank you. Now I’ll take you to where you live, and you must accept -a little money to satisfy your landlady. To-morrow I’ll call for you. -Hold on a minute--as we’re affianced, seems to me we ought to kiss?” - -“I--don’t know.” - -“Yes, I believe it’s customary.” I pecked at her lightly in the dark. -“Now, you understand we’re making a real sensible marriage, without -any sentimental nonsense about it. You understand I’m not a sentimental -man. I hate sentiment.” - -“I understand,” she said doubtfully. - -As we moved away, up there in the dark that great sonorous bell boomed -the stroke of one. Only an hour, yet how busy had the fates been on my -particular account! In what ludicrous ways had they worked out their -design! On what trivial things does destiny seem to hinge! Ah! who -shall say what is trivial? - -On reaching my room my first act was to take up my half-finished letter -to Mrs. Fitz. I read the words: “If ever we should find ourselves free -to marry, you promised you would send for me.” - -“Good!” I cried exultantly. “She will find herself free to marry all -right, but I won’t; that is, I hope I won’t after to-morrow. Whoever -could have guessed the motive behind my apparently rash proposal. To -avoid one marriage I stake my chances on another. Well, that settles -things as far as Mrs. Fitz is concerned. Ronnie and Lonnie, I defy you.” - -So I tore my letter into small pieces with a vast satisfaction, and I -was proceeding to tear also the luckless copy of the _Gotham Gazette_ -when I paused. I had not noticed that the fateful paragraph, begun near -the bottom of a page, was continued on the next. Again I read: - - “... when the nearest spectators could reach him to rescue him from - his perilous position they found to their surprise that the man was - dead....” - -Quickly I turned over the page; then I gave a gasp, for this was the -continuation: - - “... to the world. The gallant captain had been imbibing not wisely - but too well, and when aroused after some difficulty, claimed that - he had a right to sleep there if he chose. It was only after much - argument and resistance that he was finally persuaded to accompany an - officer to the police station.” - -“Of all the--” - -Words failed me at this point. I plumped down on my chair and sat as -if paralysed. And after all the captain was not dead--only dead drunk, -and my brilliant effort to avoid marrying his widow had been entirely -unnecessary. Then after all I was a fool. - -Well, it was too late to find it out. At least I never went back on my -word. I must go through with the other business. - -“Anastasia Guinoval! Hum! maybe it’ll turn out all right. Time will -show. Anyway--it will be a good chance to learn French.” - -And with this comforting reflection I went to bed. - - -END OF BOOK I - - - - -BOOK II--THE STRUGGLE - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE NEWLY-WEDS - - -It was nearly a week before I recovered from the surprise of my sudden -marriage. - -As far as the actual ceremony went it seemed as if I were the person -least concerned. One, James Horace Madden, was tying himself in the -most awkward manner to a member of the opposite sex, a slight, pale, -neatly-dressed girl whose lucent blue eyes were already beginning to -regard him with positive adoration. The said James Horace Madden, a -tall, absent-minded young man, stared about him continually. He was, -indeed, more like a curious and amused spectator than a principal -in the affair, and it was nearly over before he decided to become -interested in it. - -Well, I was married, so they told me, as they shook my hand; and I -had a wife, so she assured me as she clung lightly to my arm. She -seemed extravagantly happy. When I saw she was so happy I was glad -I had married her. To tell the truth, I had almost backed out. The -inconsiderateness of Captain Fitzbarrington in not dying had hurt my -feelings and aroused in me a resentment against Fate. In the end, -however, good nature prevailed. I believe I am good-natured enough to -marry a dozen women should occasion demand. - -We had not been wed five minutes before Anastasia developed an -extraordinary capacity, for unreserved affection. I have never been -capable of unreserved affection, not even for myself; but I can -appreciate it in others, particularly if I am the object of it. She -also developed such a morbid fear of the infuriate O’Flather that on my -suggesting we spend our honeymoon in Paris her enthusiasm was almost -grotesque. When we arrived at the Gare du Nord I believe she could have -knelt down and kissed the very stones. - -And to tell the truth my own delight was hardly less restrained. -There’s only one mood in which to approach Paris--Rhapsody. So for -ten marvellous days I rhapsodised. The fact that I was on a honeymoon -seemed trivial compared with my presence in the most adorable of -cities. Truly my bride had reason to be jealous of this Paris, and, -as she was given that way, doubtless she would have been had not she -herself loved so well. - -But there was another matter to distract me: had I not a new part to -play? As a young married man it behooved me, in the first place, to -acquire a certain seriousness and weight. After due reflexion I decided -to give up the flippant cigarette and take to the more dignified pipe. -So I made myself a present of a splendid meerschaum, and getting -Anastasia to encase the bowl in a flannel jacket I began to colour it. - -Imagine me, then, on a certain snappy morning of late December, nursing -my flannel-clad meerschaum as I swing jauntily along the Quai des -Tournelles. Seasonable weather! the brilliant sunshine playing on the -Seine with all the glitter of cutlery: beyond the splendid stride -of steel between the two Iles, the Hôtel de Ville: to the left the -hideous Morgue; beyond that, again, the grey glory of Notre Dame, its -bone-blanched buttresses like the ribs of some uncouth monster, its two -blunt towers like timeworn horns, its gargoyles etched in ebon black -against the sky. - -“After all,” I am reflecting, “the advantages of marrying a person one -does not know are sufficiently obvious. Then there is no bitterness of -disillusionment, no chagrin of being found out. What woman can continue -to idealise an unshaven man in pyjamas? What man can persist in adoring -a female in a peignoir with her hair concentrated into knots? In good -truth we never marry the person with whom we go through the wedding -ceremony: it’s always some one else.” - -Here I pause to stare appreciatively at the Fontaine St. Michel, amid -whose icicles the sunbeams play at hide-and-seek. Then I watch the -steam of a tug which the sunshine tangles in fleeces of gold amid the -bare branches of a marronnier; after which in the same zestful way I -regard a hearty man on a sand-barge toasting some beef on a sharpened -stick over a fire. Suddenly these humble things seem to become alive -with interest for me. - -“Yes,” I continue, “love is an intoxicant, marriage the most effective -of soberers. It is a part of life’s discipline, a bachelor’s punishment -for his sins, a life-long argument in which one is wise to choose an -opponent one can out-voice. How the fictitious values of courtship are -discounted in the mart of matrimony! It makes philosophers of us all. -Having been a benedict three weeks, of course I know everything about -it.” - -The long slate-grey façade of the Louvre is sun-radiant, and like a -point of admiration rears the Tower St. Jacques. Looking down the -shining river the arches of the many bridges interlock like lacework, -and like needles the little steamers dart gleaming through. The -graceful river and the gleaming quays laugh in the sunshine, and as I -look at them my heart laughs too. - -“But,” I go on musingly, “to marry some one you don’t know, some one -who has never inspired you with mad dreams, never lived for you in the -glamour of romance: surely that is ideal. You have no illusions; her -virtues as well as her faults are all to discover. Take my own case. -So far, I haven’t discovered a single fault. My wife adores me. She -can scarcely bear me out of her sight. Even now I know she’s anxiously -awaiting my return; imagines I may have been run over by a taxi, and -then arrested by a policeman for getting in its way. Or else I have a -_maîtresse_. Frequently she shows signs of jealousy, and I’ve been away -over an hour. Really I must hurry home to reassure her.” - -With that I pass under the arch of the Institute, and turn up the rue -de Seine. I glance with eager interest at the gorgelike rue Visconti; I -itch to turn over the folios before the doors of the art dealers, but -on I go stubbornly till I come to a doorway bearing the sign: - - HÔTEL DU MONDE ET DU MOZAMBIQUE. - -A certain tenebrous suggestion in the vestibule seems to account for -the latter part of the title. It is a tall, decrepit building that -at some time had been sandwiched between two others of more stalwart -bearing who now support it. It consists chiefly of a winding stairway -lit by lamps of oil. At every stage two rooms seem to happen; but they -are so small as to appear accidental. - -So up this precipitous stairway lightly I leap till I come to the third -storey. There before a yellow door I knock three times. - -“Come in!” cries a joyful voice, and I enter to find two soft arms -around my neck, and two soft lips upheld expectantly. - -“Hullo, Little Thing,” I shout cheerily. - -“Oh, darleen, why you not come before? You affright me. I sink you have -haxident, and I am anxieuse.” - -“No, no, I’ve only been gone an hour. I’ve had several narrow escapes, -though. Nearly got blown into the Seine, was attacked by an Apache in -the Avenue de l’Opera, and, stepping off the pavement to avoid going -under a ladder, was knocked down by a taxi. But no bones broken; got -home at last.” - -“Ah! you laugh; but me, I wait here and I sink all the time you was -keel. Oh, darleen! if you was keel I die too.” - -“Nonsense! You’d make rather a jolly little widow. Well, what else have -you been doing, besides worrying about me?” - -“Oh, I make blouse. I sink it will be very pretty. You will see.” - -“All right, we’ll put it on and go to the opera to-night.” - -The “opera” is a cinema house near the Place St. Michel, where we go on -rainy evenings, usually in our oldest clothes, and joking merrily about -opera cloaks and evening dress. - -“See! Isn’t it nice?” - -She holds up a shimmering sketch in silk and pins. “It’s the chiffon -you geeve me. But you must not spend your money like that. You spoil -me.” - -“Not at all. But talking about money reminds me: I got my English gold -changed to-day. Now, let’s form a committee of ways and means. Here is -all that lies between you and me and the wolf.” - -I throw a wad of flimsy French bills on the table. - -“A thousand francs! Now that’s got to last us till some Editor realises -that certain gems of literature signed ‘Silenus Starset’ are worth real -money.” - -“Oh, they are loovely, darleen, your writings. No one will refuse -articles so beautiful.” - -“My dear, you can’t conceive the intensity of editorial obfustication. -I fear we’ve got to retrench. You must make the ‘economies.’” - -“Yes, yes, that is easy for me. I know nussing but make the economies. -You see it is the chance often if I have anysing to make the economies -on.” - -“Good! Well, the first thing is to get out of this hotel. We can’t -afford palatial luxury at five francs a day.” - -And here I look with some distaste at the best bedroom the Hôtel du -Monde et du Mozambique affords. I see a fat, high bed of varnished -pine, on which reposes a bloated crimson quilt. On the mantelpiece a -glass bell enshrines a clock of gilt and chocolate-coloured marble. -There is a paunchy, inhospitable chair of green plush, and two of -apologetic cane. An oval table is covered by a fringed cloth of crimson -velour, and there is a mirror in two sections, which, by an ingenious -system of distortion immediately makes one hate oneself--one either -looks mentally abnormal, or about as intelligent as a caveman. - -“In truth,” I observe, “the decorative scheme of our apartment puzzles -me. Whether it is Empire or Louis Quinze I cannot decide. Really, we -must seek something less complex.” - -She looks at the money thoughtfully. “We might take a _logement_. -Already have I think of it. To-day I have ask Madame who keep the -hotel, and she tell me zere is one very near--rue Mazarin. The rent is -five hundred by year. Perhaps it is too much,” she adds timidly. - -“No, I think we might allow that. We pay three months in advance, I -suppose. Allow other three hundred francs for furnishing--do you think -we could manage on that?” - -She looks doubtful. “Not very nice; but we will do for the best. I will -be so careful.” - -“Oh, we’ll arrange somehow. We’ll then have five hundred francs for -food and other things. We must make that last for three months. By that -time I’m sure to be making something out of my writings. Five hundred -francs for two people for three months isn’t much, is it?” - -“No, but we will take very much care, darleen. I do not care for -myself; it is only for you.” - -“Don’t lose any sleep over me. I’ll be all right if you will. It will -be real fun scheming and dreaming, and making the best of everything. -We’ll see how much happiness we can squeeze out of every little sou; -we’ll get to know the joys and sorrows of the poor. They say that -Bohemia is vanished; but we’ll prove that wherever there is striving -and the happy heart in spite of need, wherever there is devotion to -art in the face of poverty, there eternally is Bohemia. Hurrah! how -splendid to be young and poor and to have our dreams!” - -I laugh exultantly, and the girl enters into my joyous mood. - -“Yes,” she says, “we shall be gay. As for me, I will buy a _métier_. I -will work at my _hem-broderie_. I will make leetle money like that. Oh, -not much, but it will assist. So we will be all right.” - -“Yes,” I cry, enamoured of the vision. “And when success does come, how -we will glory in it! How good will seem the feast after the fast! Ah! -but sometimes, when we have our house near the Bois, will we not look -back with regret to the days when we struggled and rejoiced there in -our tiny Mansard of Dreams?” - -I pause for a moment, while my kinematographic imagination begins to -work. I go on dramatically: - -“Then some day of December twilight, when the snow is falling, I will -steal away from the flunkies and the marble halls, and go down to look -at the old windows now so blind and dead. And as I stand wrapped in -mournful reverie and a five hundred franc overcoat, suddenly I hear a -soft step. There in the dusk I am aware of a shadowy form also gazing -up at the poor old windows. Lo! it is you, and there are tears in your -eyes. You too have slipped away from the marble halls to sentimentalise -over the old home. Then we embrace, and, calling the limousine, whirl -off to dinner at the Café de la Paix.... But that reminds me--let’s go -to _déjeûner_. Where shall it be--_chez_ Voisin, Foyet, or Laperouse?” - -It turns out to be at the sign of the Golden Snail in the neighbourhood -of the Markets, where for one franc seventy-five we have an elaborate -choice of _hors-de-œuvres_, some meat that we strongly suspect to be -horse, big white beans, a bludgeon of highly-glazed bread, a wedge of -mould-sheathed Camembert (which she eats with joy, but which I cannot -be induced to touch), and some purple wine that puts my teeth on edge. -Yet, as I sit there with a large damp napkin on my knee and my feet in -the saw-dust of the floor, I am superlatively happy. - -“It is very extravagant,” I say, as I recklessly order coffee. “You -know there are places where we can have _déjeûner_ for one franc fifty, -or even for one franc twenty-five. Just think of it! We might have -saved a whole franc on this meal.” - -“We save much more than that, when we have _ménage_. It will cost so -little then. You will see.” - -“Will it really? Come on, then, and let’s have a look at your -apartment. It may be taken just ten minutes before we get there. They -always are.” - -Off we go as eager as children, and with rising excitement we reach -the mouldering rue Mazarin. We reconnoitre a gloomy-looking building -entered by a massive, iron-studded door. Through a tunnel-like -porch-way we see a tiny court in the centre of which is a railed space -about six feet square. Within it stand a few pots of dead geraniums and -a weather-stained plaster-cast of Bellona, thus achieving an atmosphere -of both nature and art. - -The corpulent concierge emerges from her cubby-hole.-- Yes, she will -show us the apartment. There has been a Monsieur to see it that very -morning. He has been undecided whether to take it or not, but will let -her know in the morning. - -This makes us keen to secure it, and it is almost with a determination -to be pleased that we mount five flights of dingy stairs. A faded -carpet accompanies us as far as the fourth flight, then deserts us in -disgust. - -Nothing damps our ardour, however. We decide that the smallness of the -two rooms is a decided advantage, the view into the mildewed court -quaint and charming, the fact that water is obtained from a common tap -on the landing no particular detriment. The girl, pleased that I am -pleased, becomes enthusiastic. It will be her first home. Her heart -warms to it. Scant as it is, no other will ever be quite so dear. With -the eye of fancy she sees its bareness clad and comforted. Poor lonely -house! Seeing the light ashine in the wistful blue eyes, I too become -enthusiastic, and thus we inspire each other. - -“It’s a dear little apartment,” I say. “How lucky we are to have -stumbled on it. I’m going to take it at once. We’ll pay the first -quarter’s rent right now.” - -“You must geeve somesing to the concierge,” she whispers as I pay. - -“Ah, I see! a sop to Cerebus. All right.” - -“How much you geeve?” - -“Twenty francs.” - -“Mon Dieu! Twenty francs! Ten was enough. She sink now we are made of -money.” - -Anastasia is always ready to remind me that we have entered on a -_régime_ of economy. She seems to have made up her mind that, like all -Americans, I have no idea of the value of money, and that as a thrifty -and prudent woman of the most thrifty and prudent race in the world, -it behooves her to keep a close hand on the purse strings. I am just -like a child, she decides, and she must look after me like a mother. - -What a busy week it is! She takes into her own hands the furnishing of -our home, calculating every sou, pondering every detail. Time after -time we prowl past the furnishing shops on the Avenue du Maine, trying -to decide what we had best take. There is a novel pleasure in this. -Thus I am absurdly pleased when, on our deciding to take a table at -twenty-two francs, I find a place where I can buy exactly the same for -twenty-one. - -We save money on the cleaning of the house by doing it ourselves. There -is the floor to wax and polish. For the latter operation I sit down on -a pad of several thicknesses of flannel, then she, catching my feet, -pulls me around on the slippery surface till it shines like a mirror. -We are very proud of that glossy floor, and regard our work almost with -reverence, stepping on it as one might the sacred carpet of Mecca. - -Then comes the furnishing. First, there is the bedroom. We buy two -little beds of the fold-up variety, and set them side by side. Our -bedding, though only of cotton, is, we decide, softer and nicer than -linen and wool; and the pink quilt that covers both beds, could, we -declare, scarce be told from silk. Our wardrobe--what is easier than -to make a broad shelf about six feet high, and hang from it chintz -curtains behind which a dozen hooks are screwed into the wall. - -Equally simple are our other arrangements. A cosy corner can be deftly -made of boards and cushions. She insists on me buying a superannuated -armchair, and she re-covers it, so that it looks like new. She selects -cheap but dainty curtains, a pretty table-cloth to hide the rough -table, so that you’d never know; a little buffet, a mirror for the -bedroom, pictures for the walls, kitchen things, table things--really, -it’s awful how much you require for a _ménage_, and how quickly in -spite of yourself your precious money melts. - -These are the merry days, but at last all is finished--the first home. -What if we have exceeded the margin a little? Everything is really cosy -and comforting. - -“This is an occasion,” I say. “Let us celebrate it.” - -In our little stove, heated to a cherry glow, we roast our maiden -chicken. The first time we put it on the table it is not quite enough -done. We peer at it anxiously, we probe at it cautiously, finally we -decide to put it back for another quarter of an hour. But then--ye -gods! What a bird! How plump and brown and savoury! How it sizzles in -the amber gravy! Never, think we, have we tasted fowl so delicious. We -eat it with reverence. - -After that she makes one of the seven-and-thirty salads of that land of -salads; then we have a dish of _petits pois_, and we finish off with a -great golden _brioche_ and red currant jam. - -“Now,” I say, “we’ll drink to ourselves, and to our ’appy ’ome; and, by -the gods, we’ll drink in champagne!” - -With that I triumphantly produce a half-bottle of _Mousseux_ -that I have been hiding, a graceful bottle with a cap of gold. -Appalling extravagance! _Veuve Amiot!_ Who could tell it from _Veuve -Clicquot_?--and it costs only a franc and a half. - -Cut the wire! Watch the cork start up, slowly, slowly ... then-- Pop! -away it springs, and smacks the ceiling. Quickly I fill her a foaming -glass, and we drink to “La France.” After that, sitting over the fire, -we plunge long spongy biscuits into the bubbling wine that seems to -seethe in fierce protest at being thus tormented. And if you do not -think we are as happy as the joyous liquor we sip, you do not know -Youth and Paris. To conclude the evening, we scurry off to the Cinema -theatre as merry as children. - -Most of the films are American, and what is my amazement to find -that one of them, all cowboys, breeze, and virtue rewarded, is a -cinematisation of my own book, _Rattlesnake Ranch_. Yes, there are my -characters--the sheriff’s daughter, Mike the Mule-skinner, and the -rest. A thrill runs down my back, almost a shiver. - -“How do you like it?” I ask the girl. - -“I love it. I love all sings Americaine now.” - -“Really, it’s awful rubbish. You mustn’t judge America by things like -that.” - -“I love it,” she protests stoutly. - -We get home quite tired; but after she has gone to bed, I get out -my pen and plunge into a new article. It is called, _How to be a -Successful Wife_. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THAT MUDDLE-HEADED SANTA CLAUS - - -In the morning Anastasia always has her _ménage_ to do. She sweeps till -the parquet is like a mirror, and dusts till not a speck can you find -from floor to ceiling. No priest could take his ministrations more -seriously than Anastasia her daily routine as a _femme d’intérieur_, -and on these occasions she makes me feel negligible to the point of -humility. So I kiss her, and after being duly inspected and adjured to -take precious care of myself, I am permitted to depart. - -Oh, these morning walks! How this Paris inspires and exalts me! The -year is closing with a seasonable brilliancy of starry nights and -diamond-bright mornings. How radiant the sunshine seems as I emerge -from our gloomy porch-way, with its prison-like gate! The gaunt -rue Mazarin is a lane of light, and the ancient houses, with their -inscriptions of honourable service seem to smile in every wrinkle. Each -has a character of its own. There are some that step disdainfully back -from their fellows, and there are quaint roofs and unexpected, pokey -little windows, and a dilapidated irregularity that takes one back to -the days of swashbuckling romance. - -At the end of the street I stop to give a penny to the blind man who -stamps his cold feet and holds out his red hand. On this particular -morning he stamps a little more vigorously than usual, and the red -hand is so numb that it seems insensible to the touch of the copper -coin. The Seine flashes with light. Upholstered with its long, slim -quays, it looks more than ever gilt and gracious. Yes, it is cold. The -darting _bâteaux-mouche_ are icicle-fringed, and the guardians of the -few book-bins that are open are muffled to the ears. I wear no coat, -because, except for my old mackintosh, I do not possess one. I have, -however, bought a long muffler which I wind around my throat, and allow -to flutter behind. People look oddly at me; because, where the world -wears a coat, the coatless man becomes a mark. - -From the Pont des Arts the river is yellow in colour, and seethes with -slush ice. The sun is poised above the Institute, whose dome is black -against the sky. The Ile de la Cite is a wedge of high grey houses -that seem to pierce the Pont-Neuf bridge, and protrude in a green -point, dominated by an enormous tree, through whose branches I can -dimly discern the statue of Henri Quatre. Afar, the sweeping rampart of -houses that overhang the river melts in pearly haze, and the dim ranges -of roofs uprise like an arena amid which I can see the time-defying -towers of Notre Dame and the piercing delicacy of the spire, as it -claims the sun in a lance of light. - -Here I pause to fill (with reverence) the meerschaum pipe, which is -colouring as coyly as a sunkissed peach. “What a privilege to live in -this adorable Paris!” I think: “How exasperatingly beautiful!” - -Under the statue of Voltaire I stop for a moment to regard that -enigmatic smile: then I turn to the rue Bonaparte. The École des -Beaux-Arts is disgorging its students, fantastic little fellows with -broad-brimmed hats and dark, downy faces. Here they come, these -vivacious _rapins_ drawn from all the world by that mighty magnet, -Paris. Art is in the very air. In that old quadrangle it quivers from -each venerable stone. It challenges at every turn. The shops that line -the street exude it. Since I have come here it is odd how I have felt -its inspiration, so confident and serene, making me disgusted with -everything I have done. - -Striking up the rue de Rennes I come to a doorway bearing the sign in -large letters: - - MONT DE PIETE - -Trust the French to do things gracefully. Now, if this was a sordid -Anglo-Saxon pawnshop I would be reconnoitring up and down, imagining -every one knew my errand. Then I would sneak upstairs like a thief -trying to dispose of stolen property. But a Mont de Piété--“here goes!” - -In spite, however, of its benevolent designation I find this French -pawnshop in no way disposed to generosity. Even the most hardened -London pawnbroker could hardly be more niggard in appraisal of my -silver cigarette case than this polite Mont de Pietist who offers me -twenty francs on it. Twenty! it is worth eighty; but my French is too -rudimentary for argument, and as twenty francs is not enough for my -purpose I draw forth with a sigh my precious meerschaum and realise -another five francs on that. - -“What does it matter?” I think dolefully. “’Til the tide turns no more -smoking. After all, oh mighty Nicotine, am I thy slave? Never! Here do -I defy thee! Oh, little pipe, farewell! We’ll meet again, I trust, in -the shade of the mazuma tree.” - -It is now nearly half-past eleven, and already the Parisian mind -is turning joyfully to thoughts of _déjeûner_. Portly men, to whom -eating is a religion are spurring appetite with _apéritif_. Within the -restaurants many have already lunched on a sea of Graves and gravy. “Be -it ever so humble,” I decide. “There’s no cooking like ‘Home.’” - -With which sentiment I pause before a little shop devoted to the sale -of ladies’ furs, and joyfully regard the object of my journey. It is -a large, sleek, glossy muff of the material known as electric rabbit, -and its price is twenty-five francs. It just matches a long wrap of -Anastasia’s, rather worn out but still nice looking. - -“How lucky I ran across it yesterday!” I think, as I hurry joyfully -home with the muff under my arm. “And to-morrow’s Christmas Day too. I -don’t mind giving up tobacco one bit.” - -So many others are hastening home with parcels under their arms! Such -a happy Santa Claus spirit fills the air! Every one seems so glad-eyed -and rosy. I almost feel sorry for the naked cherubs in the centre of -the basin in the Luxembourg. Icicles encase them to the toes. Poor -little Amours! so pretty in the spring sunshine, now so forlorn. - -How quietly I let myself into the apartment, I am afraid she will hear -my key scroop in the lock and run as usual to greet me. Softly I slip -into the bedroom and pushing the parcel into the suitcase I lock it -quickly. Safe! - -“Little Thing!” I shout, but there is no reply. - -I look into the kitchen, into the dining-room, into the cupboard--no -sign of her. Yet often she will hide in order to jump out on me. - -“Come out! I know you’re there,” I cry in several corners. No Little -Thing. - -Then I must confess I begin to feel just a wee bit anxious; when -cautiously I hear another key scroop in the lock. It is Anastasia, and -she has evidently been walking briskly for her eyes are radiant, and a -roseleaf colour flutters in her cheeks. I watch her steal in just as I -have done, holding behind her a largish parcel. - -“Hullo! What have you got there?” - -She jumps, then tries to conceal the package. Seeing that it is useless -she turns on me imperiously. - -“Go away one moment! Oh go, please!” - -“Tell me what’s in your parcel, then.” - -“It’s nossing. It’s not your affair. Please give it to me. Now you are -not nice. Oh thanks! Now you are nice. To-morrow I show you what it is.” - -So I leave off teasing her and make no further reference to the -mysterious packet. - -There is no doubt the Christmas spirit is getting into me, for I -find it more and more difficult to keep my mind on my work. This is -distressing, because lately I have been making but slow progress. -Often I find myself halting ten minutes or more to empale some elusive -word. Greatly am I concerned over rhythm and structure. Of ideas I -have no lack; it is form, form that holds me in travail. And the more -I perspire over my periods the more self-exacting I seem to become. -There will arrive a time, I fear, when my ideal of expression will be -so high I will not be able to express myself at all. I wonder if it is -something in the air of this Paris that calls to all that is fine and -high in the soul? - -After supper Anastasia remarks in some surprise: “Why! you do not smoke -zis hevening?” - -“No, I’m taking a rest. It’s good to leave off sometimes.” - -She seems about to say something further, but checks herself. Oh, how I -do miss that after-dinner pipe! Life suddenly seems hollow and empty. -I had always sworn that the best part of a meal was the smoke after; I -had always vowed that tobacco added twenty per cent. to my enjoyment of -life, and now-- - -“Little Thing,” I say presently, “let’s go out on the boulevard. I -can’t work to-night. It’s Christmas eve.” - -She responds happily. It is always a joy to her to go out with me. - -“You’d better put on your fur. It’s awfully cold.” - -“No, I don’t sink so this hevening, if you don’t mind. I have not cold, -not one bit.” - -As we emerge from the gloom of the rue Mazarin the river leaps at us -in a blaze of glory. Under a sky of rosy cloud it is a triumph of -jewelled vivacity. Exultantly it seems to mirror all the radiance of -the city, and the better to display its jewels it undulates in infinite -unrest. Here the play of light is like the fluttering of a thousand -argent-winged moths, there a weaving of silver foliage, traversed by -wriggling emerald snakes. Yonder it is a wimpling of purest platinum; -afar, a billowing of beaten bronze. Bridge beyond bridge is jewel-hung, -and coruscates with shifting fires. The little steamers drag their -chains of trembling gold, their trains of rippling ruby; even the black -quays seem to be supported on undulant pillars of amber. - -Over yonder on the right bank the great Magasins overspill their -radiance. They are like huge honey-combs of light, nearly all window, -and each window a square of molten gold. The roaring streets flame -in fiery dust, and flakes of gold seem to quiver skyward. Oh, how it -stirs me, this Paris! It moves me to delight and despair. To think that -I can feel so intensely its wonder and beauty yet to be powerless to -express it. I can imagine how too much beauty drives to madness; how -the Chinese poet was drowned trying to clasp the silver reflexion of -the moon. - -And so we walk along, I fathoms deep in dream, and the little grey -figure by my side trying to keep pace with me. She, too, has that -appreciation of beauty and art that seems innate in every Parisienne, -yet she cannot understand how I can stare at a scene ten, fifteen, -twenty minutes. However, she is very patient, and effaces herself most -happily. - -Never have I seen the Boul’ Mich’ so gay, and nearly all are carrying -parcels. A million messengers of Santa Claus are hastening to fill -with delight the eyes of innocence. The _Petit Jésus_ they call him -here, these charming Parisian children. Their precious letters to him, -placed so carefully in the chimney, are often wept over by mothers in -estranging after years. What joy when there comes an answer to their -tiny petitions! When there is none: “Ah! it is because you have not -been wise, Clairette. The Little Jesus is not pleased with you.” But -the Gift-bringer always relents, and the little shoes, brushed by each -tot till not a speck of dulness remains, are found in the morning -overspilling with glorious things. - -All along the outer edge of the pavement stalls have been set up, -tenanted by portly, red-faced women, who are padded against the cold -till their black-braided jackets fit tight as a drum. There are booths -of brilliant confectionery, of marvellous mechanical toys, of perfumery -and patent medicines, of appliances for the kitchen and knick-knacks -for the boudoir, of music, of magnifying glasses, of hair restorer, of -boot polish. - -And the street hawkers haranguing the crowd! There are vendors of holly -and mistletoe; men carrying umbrellas all stuck over with imitation -snails to ‘bring the good luck’; others with switches to spank one’s -mother-in-law; others with grotesque spiders on wire to make the girls -scream. - -It is nearly midnight when we reach our apartment. The cafés are -a glitter of light and a storm of revelry. The supper that is the -prelude to further merriment is just beginning, and thousands of happy, -careless people are drinking champagne, shouting, singing, laughing. -But the rue Mazarin is very dark and quiet, and the girl is very tired. - -Then when I am sure that she is asleep I steal to my suitcase and -taking out the precious muff lay it at the foot of her bed. Bending -over her, as she sleeps like a child, I kiss her. So I too fall asleep. - -I am awakened by her scream of delight. She is sitting up, fondling the -new muff. - -“Oh, I am so please. You don’t know how I am please, darleen.” - -“Oh, it’s nothing. Only I thought it would go nicely with your other -fur.” - -Her face changes oddly. Then she rises and brings me the mysterious -parcel. - -“It’s your Christmas. I’m sorry I could not geeve you anysing bettaire. -Oh, how I love my muff.” - -If it had been plucked beaver she could not have been more pleased. -I open my parcel eagerly, and a fragrant odour greets me. It is a -silver-mounted tobacco jar, full of my favourite amber flake. - -Over our _petit déjeûner_ of coffee and _croissants_ we are both very -gay. I decide not to work that day; we will go for a walk. - -“Geeve me your pipe, darleen. I feel it for you.” - -“I don’t seem to be able to find it,” I answer, searching my pockets -elaborately. - -“You have not lost it?” - -“Oh, no, just mislaid it. Never mind, it will turn up all right. Are -you ready?” - -“Yes, all ready.” She holds the precious muff up to her chin, peering -at me over it. - -“But your wrap! Aren’t you going to put that on too?” - -Then in fear and trembling she confesses. She has taken her fur to the -Mont de Piété that she might have ten francs to buy the tobacco jar. - -“Why!” I cry, “I sold my pipe so that I might have enough to buy your -muff.” - -Then I laugh loudly, and after a little she joins me; and there we -are both laughing till we are tired; which is not the worst way of -beginning Christmas Day, is it? - - - - -CHAPTER III - -THE CITY OF LIGHT - - -“Little Thing,” I say severely, “you must never say ‘Damn.’” - -“But you say it, darleen.” - -“Yes, but men may do and say things women must not even think of. Say -‘Dash’ if you want to say anything.” - -“Oh, you are funny. You tell me I must not say certeen words in -English, yet in France everybody say ‘Mon Dieu.’” - -“Yes, it’s not good form to say those words in English; just as you -tell me in France in polite society one never refers to a thousand -sacred pigs. Profanity is to some extent a matter of geography.” - -But if I succeed in prohibiting the profanity of my country, I cannot -prevent her picking up its slang. For instance, “Sure Mike” is often -on her lips. She has heard me use it, and it resembles so much her own -“Surement” that she naturally and innocently adopts it. I tremble now -when she speaks English before any punctilious stranger, in case, to -some polite inquiry, she answers with an enthusiastic: “Sure Mike.” - -I have insisted on her recovering her fur from the Mont de Piété, and -she in her turn has made me buy a long, black brigandish cape that -has previously been worn by some budding Baudelaire or some embryo -Verlaine. - -“Seems to me,” I grumble, “now I have this thing I might as well get -one of those bat-winged ties, and a hat with a six-inch brim.” - -“Oh, you will be lovely like that,” she assures me with enthusiasm. -“And you must let your hair grow long like hartist. Oh, how _chic_ you -will be!” - -“Perhaps you’d also like me to cultivate an Assyrian beard and curl my -hair into ringlets like that man we sat next to at the café du Dome -last night.” - -“No, no; I do not want that you hide your so nice mouth, darleen. I am -prefair American way now.” - -“You prefer Americans to Frenchmen, then.” - -“All French girls prefer American and English to Frenchmans. They are -so frank, so honest. One can trust them.” - -“So you would rather be married to an Englishman than a Frenchman?” - -“Mon Dieu! yes, The Frenchmans deceive the womans very much, but the -Englishman is always _comme-il-faut_. If ever I have leetle girl I want -she shall marry Englishmans. Ah! she shall be like her fazzer, that -leetle girl, wiz blue eyes, and colour so fresh; and I want she have -the lovely blond hair like all English children.” - -“What if you have a boy?” - -“Ah no! I no want boy. I know I am selfeesh. The boys have the best -sings in the life, and it is often hard for the womans. But if I have -girl, I keep her love always. If I have boy soon I lose heem. He get -marry, and zen it is feenish. But leetle girl, in trooble she always -come back to her mosser.” - -“And suppose you don’t have either?” - -“Oh, I sink zat would be very, very sad.” - -Often have I marvelled at the passion for maternity that burns in -Anastasia. Her eyes shine so tenderly on children, and she will stop to -caress some little one so yearningly. - -“By the way, have you ever noticed the child on the ground floor -apartment?--a little one with hair the colour of honey.” - -“Oh yes; she’s good friend of me. She is adorable. Oh how I love have -childs like zat. She’s call Solonge. She’s belong Frosine.” - -“Who’s Frosine?” - -“She’s girl what sew all day. She work for the Bon Marché. It’s awfool -how she have to work hard.” - -“Poor woman!” - -“Oh no; she’s very ’appy like that. She’s free, and she have Solonge. -She sing all day when she sew. Oh, she have much of courage, much of -merit, that girl.” - -“But,” I say, “would you like to have a child like that?” - -“Why not, if I can care well for it and it make me ’appy?” - -“But--it wouldn’t be moral.” - -“No, but it would be natural.” - -“Yes, but sometimes isn’t it wicked to be natural?” - -“I do not understand. I do not sink Frosine is wicked. She’s so kind -and gently. She adore Solonge. She’s brave. All day she work and sing. -You do not sink she is all bad because she have childs?” - -I did not immediately reply. I am wondering.... - -Have social conditions reached a very lofty status even yet when the -finest, truest instincts implanted in humankind are often denied? Does -not life mean effort, progress, human triumph? Can we not look forward -to a better time when present manifestly imperfect conditions will be -perfected? - -“Yes, Anastasia,” I conclude; “the greatest man that ever lived should -take off his hat to the humblest mother, for she has accomplished -something he never could if he lived to be a thousand. But come! Let’s -go out on the Grand Boulevard. I’ve been working too hard; I’m fagged, -I’m stale, there’s a fog about my brain.” - -Very proudly she dons her furs of electric rabbit, and rather ruefully -I wreathe myself in my conspiratorial cloak; then together we go down -into the city. - -The City of Light! Is there another, I wonder, that flaunts so superbly -the triumph of man over darkness? From the Mount of Parnassus to the -Mount of the Martyrs all is a valley of light. The starry sky is -mocked by the starry city, its milky way, a river gleaming with gold, -shimmering with silver, spangled with green and garnet. The Place de la -Concorde is a very lily garden of light; up the jewelled sweep of the -Champs Elysee the lights are like sheeny pearls with here and there the -exquisite intrusion of a ruby; beneath a tremulous radiance of opals -the trees are bathed in milky light, while amid the twinkling groves -the night restaurants are sketched in fairy gold. The Grand Boulevards -are fiery-walled canyons down which roar tumultuous rivers of light; -the Place de l’Opera is a great eddy, flashing and myriad-gemmed; the -_magasins_ are blazing furnaces erupting light at every point: They -are festooned with flame; they are crammed with golden lustre; they -blaze their victorious refulgence in signs of light against the sky. -And so night after night this city of sovereign splendour hurls in -flashing light its gauntlet of defiance to the Dark. - -The pavements are packed with people, moving slowly in opposing -streams. Most are garbed in ceremonial best; and many carry flowers, -for this is the sacred day of family gathering. The pavement edge is -lined with tiny booths and shrill with importunate clamour. - -We stop to gaze at some of the mechanical toys. Here are aeroplanes -that whirl around, peacocks that strut and scream, rabbits that hop and -squeak, shoe-blacks, barbers, acrobats, jugglers, all engaged in their -various ways. But what amuses us most is a little servant maid who -walks forward in a great hurry carrying a pile of plates, trips, sends -them scattering, then herself falls sprawling. How I laugh! Yet I am at -the same time laughing at myself for laughing. Am I going back to my -second childhood? No! for see; all those bearded Frenchmen are laughing -too, just like so many grown-up children. - -“Come,” I suggest, after we have ranged along a mile or so of these -tiny booths, “let’s sit down in front of one of the cafés.” - -With difficulty we find a place, and ordering two _cafés créme_ watch -the dense procession. The honest bourgeois are going to New Year’s -Dinner, and their smiles are very happy. Soon they will frankly abandon -themselves to the pleasures of the table, discussing each dish with -rapture and eating till they can eat no more. - -“What a race of gluttons are the French,” I remark severely to -Anastasia. “Food and dress is about all they seem to think of. The -other day I read in the paper that a celebrated _costumier_ had -received the cross of the Legion of Honour, and this morning I see -that a well-known _restaurateur_ has also been deemed worthy of the -decoration. There you are! Reward your tailors and your cooks while -your poets and your painters go buttonless. Oh, if there’s a people I -despise, it’s one that makes a god of its stomach! By the way, what -have we got for dinner?” - -“Oh, I got chickens.” - -“A good fat one, I hope.” - -“Yes, nice fat chickens. I pay five franc for it. You are not sorry?” - -“No, that’s all right. We can make it do two evenings, and we allow -ourselves five francs a day for grub. I fancy we don’t spend even that, -on an average?” - -“No, about four and half franc.” - -Every week she brought her expense book to me, and very solemnly I -wrote beneath it: Examined and found correct. Another habit was to -present for my approval a menu of all our meals for the coming week -beneath which I would, in the same serious spirit, write: Approved. To -these impressive occasions she contributed a proper dignity; yet at a -hint of praise for her house-keeping nothing could exceed her delight. - -Presently we rise and continue our walk. Everywhere is the same holiday -spirit, the same easily amused crowd. There are song writers hawking -their ditties, poor artists peddling their paintings, a “canvas for a -crust.” Every needy art is gleaning on the streets. - -“Stop!” she cries suddenly. Drawing me in the direction of a small -crowd; “let’s watch the silhouette man.” - -He is young, glib, good-looking. He has audacious eyes and a -rapscallion smile. This smile is sometimes positively impish in its -mockery; yet otherwise he is rather like a cherub. His complexion is -pinkish, his manner mercurial, his figure shapely and slim. He is -dressed in the cloak, broad-brimmed hat, and voluminous velveteen -trousers of the _rapin_. I stare at him. Something vaguely familiar in -him startles me. - -In one hand he holds a double sheet of black paper, in the other a pair -of scissors. For a moment he looks keenly at his subject, then getting -the best angle for the profile, proceeds without any more ado to cut -the silhouette. It is a very deft, delicate performance and all over in -a minute. - -“Just watch him, Anastasia,” I say after a pause; “I think there’s -something interesting going to happen.” Then in a drawling voice I -remark: - -“Well, if that’s not a dead ringer for Livewire Lorrimer!” - -He hears me, looks up like a flash, scrutinises me in a puzzled way. - -“I haven’t heard that name for fifteen years. Of all the--why, if it -isn’t Jimmy Madden, Mad Madden, Blackbeard the pirate, Red Hand the -scout, friend of my boyhood! I say! there’s a dozen people waiting and -this is my busy day. Ask your friend to stand up to the light and I’ll -make a silhouette of her while we talk.” - -“My wife.” - -“Bless us! Married too! Well, congratulations. Charmed to meet Madame. -There! Just stand so.” - -With great dexterity he proceeds to cut Anastasia’s delicate features -on the black paper. - -“Great Scott! I haven’t heard a word about you since I left home. But -then I’ve lost track of all the crowd. Well, what in the world are you -doing here?” - -“I’m trying to break into the writing game. And you?” - -“For ten years I’ve been trying to become an artist. Occasionally I get -enough to eat. I have to work for a living, as you see at present; but -when I get a little ahead I go back to my art. Where do you live?” - -I tell him. - -“Oh, I know, garden and statuary in the court. I lived in that street -myself for a time, but my landlord and I did not agree. He had -ridiculous ideas on the subject of rent. My idea of rent is money you -owe. He was so prejudiced that one night I lowered all my effects to a -waiting friend with a _voiture à bras_, and since then rue Mazarin has -seen little of me. But I’d like to come and see you. We’ll talk over -old days.” - -“Yes, I do wish you would come.” - -“I will. Ah, Madame, here is your charming profile. I only regret that -my clumsy scissors fail to do you justice. Yes, Madden, I’ll come. And -now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a dozen people waiting. I must make -my harvest while the sun shines. Good-bye, just now. Expect me soon.” - -He waves us an airy farewell, and a moment after, with the same intent -gaze, he is following the features of a fat Frenchwoman, who laughs -immoderately at his pleasantries. - -We walk home almost without speaking. Anastasia has got into the way of -respecting my thoughts. To her I am Balzac, Hugo and Zola rolled into -one, and labelled James Horace Madden. Who is she that should break -in on the dreams of this great author? Rather let her foster them by -sympathetic silence. Yet on this occasion she looks up in my face and -sighs wistfully: - -“What are you sinking of, darleen?” - -_Now, here’s what I think she thinks I am thinking_: - -“Oh, this fiery, fervid Paris, how can my pen proclaim its sovereignty -over cities, its call to high endeavour, its immemorial grace? How -can I paint its folly and its faith, its laughter and its tears, its -streets where tragedy and farce walk arm in arm, where parody hobnobs -with pride, and beauty bends to ridicule! Oh, exquisite Paris! so old -and yet so eternally young, so peerless, yet ever prinking and preening -to make more exorbitant demands on our admiration....” And so on. - -_Here’s what I am really thinking_: - -“Funny I should run into Livewire like that. To think of it! We -swapped the same dime novels, robbed the same cherry-trees. Together -we competed for the bottom place in the class. (I think I generally -won.) By pedagogic standards we were certainly impossible. And yet -at some studies how precocious! How I remember that novel I wrote, -_The Corsair’s Crime, or the Hound of the Hellispont_, illustrated by -Livewire on every page. Oh, I’d give a hundred dollars to have that -manuscript to-day!” and so on. - -_Here’s what I say I am thinking_: - -“I was wondering, Anastasia, if when you bought that chicken, you let -them clean it in the shop. Because if you do they just take it away -and bring you back an inferior one. You can’t trust them. You should -clean it yourself. Be sure you roast it gently, so as to have it nicely -browned all over....” And so on. - -It is night now and I am working on my articles while she sews -steadily. It has been a long silent evening, a fire of _boulets_ throws -out a gentle heat, and she sits on one side, I on the other. About ten -o’clock she complains of feeling tired, and decides to go to bed. After -our habit I lie down on my own bed, to wait with her till she goes to -sleep; for she is just like a child in some ways. I am reading, and the -better to see, I lie with my head where my feet should be. - -As she is dropping off to sleep, suddenly she says: - -“Will you let me hold your foot, darleen?” - -“Yes, it’s there. But if you want to look for holes in the sock, you -won’t find any.” - -“No, it’s not zat. I just want to pretend it’s leetle _bébé_.” - -“So she holds it close to her breast, and ever since then she will not -sleep unless she is holding what she calls ‘her _poupée_.’” - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE CITY OF LAUGHTER - - -The last few weeks have passed so swiftly I scarce can credit it. In -the mornings my vitalising walks; in the afternoons my lapidary work -in prose. I have begun a series of articles on Paris, and have just -finished the first two, bestowing on them a world of loving care. Never -have I known such a steady glow of inspiration. A pure delight in -form and colour thrills in me. I begin to see beauty in the commonest -things, to find a joy in the simplest moments of living. - -It is rather curious, this. For instance, I gaze in rapture at a -shop where vegetables are for sale, charmed with its oasis of fresh -colouring in the grey street, the globular gold of turnips, the rich -ruby of radishes, the ivory white of parsnips. Then a fish shop charms -me, and I turn from the burning orange of the dories to the olive and -pearl of the merlin; from the jewelled mail of the mackerel, to the -silver cuirass of the herring. And every day seems fresh to me. I hail -it with a newborn joy. I seem to have regained all the wonder and vital -interest of the child point of view. In my work, especially, do I find -such a delight that I shall be sorry to die chiefly because it will end -my labour. “So much to do,” I sigh, “and only one little lifetime to do -it in.” - -Then there are long, serene evenings by the fire, where I ponder over -my prose, while Anastasia sits absorbed in her work. What a passion -she has for her needle! She plies it as an artist, delighting in -difficulties, in intricate lacework, in elaborate embroidery. In little -squares of fine net she works scenes from Fontaine; or else over a -great frame on which a sheet of satin is tightly stretched, she makes -wonderful designs in silks of delicate colouring. At such times she -will forget everything else, and sit for hours tranquilly happy. So I -write and dream; while she plies that exquisite needle, and perhaps -dreams too. - -“Oh, how good it is to be poor!” I said last night. “What a new -interest life takes on when one has to fight for one’s bread! How much -better to have nothing and want everything, than to have everything and -want nothing! Just think, Little Thing, how pleased we are at the end -of the week if we’ve spent five francs less than we thought! Here’s a -month gone now and I’ve done four articles and a story, and we still -have three hundred francs left.” - -“When it will be that you will send them to the journals?” - -“Oh, no hurry, I want to stack up a dozen, and then I’ll start shooting -them in.” - -“We have saved four francs and half last week.” - -“The deuce we have! Then let’s go to Bullier to-night. We both want a -touch of gay life. Come! we’ll watch Paris laugh.” - -So we climbed the Boul’ Mich’, till at its head in a crescent of light -we saw the name of the famous old dance-hall. Threading our way amid -the little green tables, past the bowling alley and the bar, we found a -place in the side-gallery. - -We were looking down on a scene of the maddest gaiety. The great floor -was dense with dancers and kaleidoscopic in colouring. In the wildest -of spirits five hundred men and girls were capering, shuffling, jigging -and contorting their bodies in time to tumultuous music. Some danced -limb to limb, others were bent out like a bow; some sidled like a crab, -others wriggled like an eel; some walked, some leaped, some slid, some -merely kicked sideways: it was dancing in delirium, Bedlam in the -ball-room. - -And what conflicting colours! Here a girl in lobster pink galloped -with another whose costume was like mayonnaise. There a negress in -brilliant scarlet with a corsage of silver darted through the crowd -like a flame. A hideous negro was dancing with a pretty grisette who -with fluffy hair and flushed cheeks looked at him adoringly as he pawed -her with his rubber-blue palms. An American girl in shirt waist and -bicycle skirt zig-zagged in and out with a dashing Spaniard. A tall, -bashful Englishman pranced awkwardly around with a _midinette_ in -citron and cerise, while a gentleman from China solemnly gyrated with -a _mannequin_ in pistachio and chocolate. Pretty girls nearly all; and -where they lacked in looks, full of that sparkling Parisian charm. - -“There’s your friend, Monsieur Livwir,” said Anastasia suddenly. Sure -enough, there in that maelstrom of merriment I saw Lorrimer dancing -with a girl of dazzling prettiness. Presently I caught his eye and -after the dance he joined us. - -“You haven’t been to see me yet,” I remarked. - -“No, been too busy,--working every moment of my time.” Then realising -that the present moment rather belied him he shrugged his shoulders. - -To tell the truth I have been feeling a little hurt. We sentimentalists -are so prone to measure others by our own standards. Our meeting, so -interesting to me, had probably never given him another thought. Now I -saw that while I was an egoist, Lorrimer was an egotist; but with one of -his boyish smiles he banished my resentment. - -“Let me introduce you to Rougette,” he said airily; “she’s my model.” - -He beckoned to the tall blonde. Rarely have I seen a girl of more -distracting prettiness. Her hair was of ashen gold; Parma violets might -have borrowed their colour from her eyes; Nice roses might have copied -their tint from her cheeks, and her tall figure was of a willowy grace. -Her manner had all the winning charm of frank simplicity. She was -indeed over pretty, one of those girls who draw eyes like a magnet, so -that the poor devil who adores them has little peace. - -“The belle of all Brittany,” said Lorrimer proudly. “I discovered her -when I was sketching at Pont Aven last summer. I’m going to win the -Prix de Rome with a picture of that girl. I’m the envy of the Quarter. -Several Academicians have tried to get her away from me; but she’s -loyal,--as good as she looks.” - -I did not find it easy to talk to Rougette. Her French was the _argot_ -of the Quarter, grafted on to the _patois_ of the Breton peasant; mine, -of the school primer. Our conversation consisted chiefly of smiles, and -circumspect ones at that, as Anastasia had her eye on me. - -“After another dance,” suggested Lorrimer, “let’s go over to the Lilas. -We’ll probably see Helstern there. I’d like you to meet him. Besides -it’s the night the Parnassian crowd get together. Perhaps you’ll be -amused.” - -“Delighted.” - -“All right.” - -Off they went with their arms around each other’s necks, and I -watched them swiftly mingle with the dancers. What a pretty couple -they made!--Lorrimer so dashing and debonair, with his face of a -sophisticated cherub, and his auburn hair that looked as if it might -have been enamelled on his head, so smooth was it; Rougette with the -mien of a goddess and the simple soul of a Breton fishwife. - -But it was hard to follow them now, for the throng on the floor had -doubled. In ranks that reached to the side galleries the spectators -hemmed them in. The variety of costume grew more and more bewildering. -Men were dressed as women, women as men. Four monks entered arm in -arm with four devils; Death danced with Spring, an Incroyable with a -stone-age man, an Apache with a Salomé. More and more _négligé_ grew -the costumes as models, mannequins, milliners, threw aside encumbering -garments. Every one was getting wound up. Yells and shrieks punctuated -the hilarity; then the great orchestra burst into a popular melody and -every one took up the chorus: - - “Down in Mozambique, Mozambique, Mozambique, - It’s so _chic_, oh so _chic_; - No need to bother over furs and frills. - No need to worry over tailor’s bills; - Down in Mozambique, Mozambique, Mozambique, - You may wear fig-leaves there - When you go a-mashing in the open air - In Mo-zam-bique.” - -As they finished men tossed their partners in the air and carried them -off the floor. Every one was hot and dishevelled; the air reeked of -pachouli and perspiration, and seeing Lorrimer signalling to us we made -our escape. - -I remember how deliciously pure seemed the outside air. The long -tree-clad Avenue de l’Observatoire was blanched with hoar frost and -gleamed whitely. The face of the sky was pitted with stars, and the -crescent moon seemed to scratch it like the manicured nail-tip of a -lovely woman. Across the street amid the trees beaconed the lights of a -large corner café, and to this we made our way. - -A long room, lined with tables, dim with tobacco smoke, clamorous with -conversation. We found a vacant table, and Lorrimer, after consulting -us, ordered “ham sandveeches et grog American.” In the meantime I was -busy gazing at the human oddities around me. It seemed as if all the -freaks of the Quarter had gathered here. Nearly all wore their hair of -eccentric length. Some had it thrown back from the brow and falling -over the collar in a cascade. Others parted it in the middle and let it -stream down on either side, hiding their ears. Some had it cut square -to the neck, and coming round in two flaps; with others again it was -fuzzy and stood up like a nimbus. Many of the women, on the other hand, -had it cut squarely in the Egyptian manner; so that it was difficult to -tell them at a distance from their male companions. - -“It’s really a fact,” said Lorrimer, “that long hair is an aid to -inspiration. Every time I cut mine it’s good-bye work till it grows -again. And as I really hate it long my work suffers horribly.” - -The centre of attraction seemed to be a tall man whose sallow face -was framed in inky hair that detached itself in snaky locks. As if to -accentuate the ravenish effect he wore an immense black silk stock, and -his pince-nez dangled by a black riband. This was Paul Ford, the Prince -of the Poets, the heritor of the mantle of Verlaine. - -“There’s a futurist poet,” said Lorrimer, pointing to a man in a corner -who had evidently let his comb fall behind the bureau and been too lazy -to go after it. He had a peaked face overwhelmed by stringy hair, with -which his beard and whiskers made such an intimate connection that -all you could see was a wedge of nose and two pale-blue eyes gleaming -through the tangle. - -“See that man to the right,” went on my informer; “that’s the cubist -sculptor, a Russian Jew.” - -The sculptor looked indeed like a mujic, with coarse, spiky hair -growing down over his forehead, eyebrows that made one arch over his -fierce little eyes, up-turned nose, a beard and moustache, which, -divided by his mouth, looked exactly like a scrubbing-brush the centre -of which has been rubbed away by long usage. - -“Look! There’s an Imagist releasing some of his inspirations.” - -This was a meagre little man in evening dress, with a bony skull -concealed by the usual mop of hair. He had a curiously elongated face, -something like a horse, the eyes of a seraph, the shell-like colour of -a consumptive, large, vividly-red lips, and an ineffable smile which -exposed a small cemetery of decayed teeth. - -“Ah!” said Lorrimer suddenly; “see that chap sitting lonely in the -corner with his arms folded and a sort of Strindberg-Nietzsche-Ibsen -expression? Well, that’s Helstern.” - -I saw a tall, youngish-oldish sort of man with a face of distinguished -taciturnity. His mouth was grimly clinched; two vertical lines were -written between his eyebrows, and a very high forehead was further -heightened by upstanding iron-grey hair. On the other hand his brown -eyes were soft, velvety and shy. He was dressed in dead black, with a -contrast of very white linen. Close to his elbow stood a great stein -of beer, while he puffed slowly from a big wooden pipe carved into a -fantastic Turk’s head. - -“Poor old Helstern!” said Lorrimer; “he takes life so seriously. Take -life seriously and you’re going to get it in the neck: laugh at it and -it can never hurt you.” - -This was his gay philosophy, as indeed it was of the careless and -merry Quarter he seemed to epitomise. Treat everything in a cynical -and mocking spirit, and you yourself are beyond the reach of irony. It -is so much easier to destroy than to build up. Yet there was something -tart and stimulating in his scorn of things as they are. - -“Too bad to drag him from sublime heights of abstraction down to our -common level. Doesn’t he look like a seer trying to discern through the -anarchy of the present some hope for the future? Well, I’ll go over and -see if he’ll join us. He’s shy with women.” - -So the Cynic descended on the Seer, and the Seer listened, drank, -smoked thoughtfully, looked covertly at the two girls, then rose and -approached us. With a shock of pity I saw that one of his legs was -shorter than the other, and terminated in a club foot. Otherwise he -was splendidly developed, and had one of the deepest bass voices I have -ever heard. - -“Well, old man, alone as usual.” - -Somewhat self-conscious and embarrassed, Helstern spoke rather stiffly. - -“My dear Lorrimer, much as I appreciate your charming society there are -moments when I prefer to be alone.” - -“Oh, I understand. Great thoughts incubated in silence. Own up now, -weren’t you thinking in nations?” - -“As it happens,” answered the Seer in his grave, penetrating tones, “I -was thinking in nations. As a matter of fact I was listening to the -conversation of two Englishmen near me.” - -He paused to light his pipe carefully, then went on in that deep, -deliberate voice. - -“They were talking of International Peace--fools!” - -“Oh, come now! You believe in International Peace?” - -He stared gloomily into the bowl of his pipe. - -“Bah! a chimera! futile babble! No, no; there are too many old scores -to settle, too many wrongs to right, too many blood feuds to be fought -to a finish. But there will be International War such as the world -has never seen. And why not? We are becoming a race of egotists, -civilisation’s mollycoddles; we set far too high a value on our lives. -Oh, I will hate to see the day when grand old war will cease, when we -will have the hearts of women, and the splendid spirit of revenge will -have passed away!” - -“Don’t listen to him,” said Lorrimer; “he isn’t so bloodthirsty as he -sounds. He wouldn’t harm a fly. He’s actually a vegetarian. What work -are you doing now, you old fraud?” - -Helstern looked round in that shy self-conscious way of his: - -“I’m working on an allegorical group for the Salon.” - -“What’s the subject?” - -“Well, if I must confess it, it’s International Peace. Of course, it’s -absurd; but the only consolation for living in this execrable world is -that one can dream of a better one. To dream of beauty and to create -according to his dream, that is the divine privilege of the artist.” - -“Yes, what dreamers are we artists!” said Lorrimer thoughtfully. “You, -Helstern, dream of leaving the world a little better than you find it; -I dream of Fame, of doing work that will win me applause; and you, -Madden--what do you dream of?” - -“Oh, I don’t take myself quite so grandiosely,” I said with a laugh. -“I dream of making enough money to take me back to the States, to show -them I’m not a failure.” - -“Failure!” said Lorrimer with some feeling; “it’s those who stay at -home that are the failures. Look at them--small country ministers, -provincial lawyers, flourishing shopkeepers; such are the shining -lights of our school-boy days. Tax-payers, pillars of respectability, -good honest souls, but--failures all.” - -“A few are drummers,” I said. “The rest are humdrummers.” - -“Yes,” said Lorrimer. “By way of example, let me relate the true -history of James and John.” - -“James was the model boy. He studied his lessons, was conscientious -and persevering. He held the top of the class so often that he came -to consider he had an option on it. He nearly wore his books out with -study, and on prize-giving days he was the star actor on the programme. -Brilliant future prophesied for James. - -“Twin brother John, on the other hand, as consistently held down the -bottom of the class. He was lazy, unambitious, irreverent. He preferred -play to study, and was the idol of the unregenerate. Direst failure -prophesied for John. - -“James went into the hardware store and commenced to save his earnings. -Soon he was promoted to be salesman. He began to teach in the Sunday -School. He was eager to work overtime, and spent his evenings studying -the problems of the business. - -“John began to take the downward path right away. He attended -race-courses, boldly entered saloons, haunted low music-halls. The -prophets looked wiser than ever. He lost his job and took to singing -at smoking concerts. He spent his time trying to give comic imitations -of his decent neighbours, and practising buck-and-wing dances till his -legs seemed double-jointed. - -“James at this period wore glossy clothes, and refused to recognise -John on the street. John merely grinned. - -“James stayed with the home town, married respectably, and had six -children in rapid succession as every respectable married man should. -He owned the house he lived in and at last became head of the hardware -store. - -“John one day disappeared; said the village was too small for him; -wanted to get to a City where he could have scope for his talents. -Said the prophets: ‘I told you so.’ - -“And to-day James, my friends, is a school trustee, an alderman, a -deacon of the church. He is pointed out to the rising generation as a -model of industry and success. But John--where is John? - -“Alas! John is, I regret to say, at present touring in the Frobert & -Schumann Vaudeville Circuit. He is a headliner, and makes five hundred -dollars a week. All he does for it is to sing some half a dozen songs -every night, in which he takes off his native townsmen, and to dance -some eccentric steps of his own invention. He has a limousine, a house -on Riverside Drive, and a box of securities in the Safety Deposit Vault -that makes the clerk stagger every time he takes it out. He talks of -buying up his native village some day and the prophets have gone out of -business. - -“And now, friends, let’s pry out the unmoral moral. Honest merit may -cinch the boss job in the hardware store, but idle ignorance often -cops the electric sign on Broadway. The lazy man spends his time -scheming how to get the easy money--and often gets it. The ignorant -man, unwarped by tradition, develops on original lines that make for -fortune. Even laziness and ignorance can be factors of success. All of -which isn’t according to the Sunday School story book, but it’s the -world we live in. And now as I see Madam is tired, let’s bring the -session to a close.” - -That night, as I was going home, with Anastasia clinging on my arm, I -said: - -“And what is it you dream of, Little Thing?” - -“Me! Oh, I dream all time I make good wife for the Beautiful One I -have.” - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE CITY OF LOVE - - -This morning in the course of my walk I was passing Cook’s corner in -the Place de l’Opera, when I was accosted from behind by an alcoholic -voice: - -“Want to see the Crystal Palace to-day, sir?” - -Now the Crystal Palace is one of these traps for the stranger with -which Paris is baited. Your Parisian knows these places as part of the -city’s life which is not there for the Frenchman but for the tourist -and stranger. These people look for these things as a part of the life -of Paris, your Parisian says, and in consequence they are there. - -I was going on, then, when something familiar in the voice made me turn -sharply. Lo and behold!--O’Flather. - -“Hullo, Professor!” I said, with a grin. “Gone out of the flea-taming -business?” - -For a moment he stared at me. - -“Hullo! young man. Yep. Met with a dirty deal. One of my helpers doped -the troupe. Them as wasn’t stiff and cold was no more good for work. -Busted me up.” - -“Too bad. What are you doing now?” - -“Working as a guide.” - -“But you don’t know Paris!” - -“’Tain’t necessary. Mighty few Paris guides know Paris. Don’t have to.” - -“Well, I wish you luck,” I said, and left him. He looked after me -curiously. His eyes were bloodshot from excessive drinking, and his -dewlaps were blotched and sagging. “Vindictive brute!” I thought. “If -he only knew wouldn’t he be mad! What a ripping villain he’d make if -this was only fiction instead of real life!” - -It was this morning, too, I made the acquaintance of Frosine. Passing -through the mildewed court I saw peering through the window of a -basement room the wistful face of little Solonge. Against the dark -interior her head of silky gold was like that of a cherub painted on a -panel. Struck with a sudden idea, I knocked at their door. - -Solonge opened it, turning the handle, after several attempts, with -both hands, and very proud of the feat. She welcomed me shyly, and a -clear voice invited me to enter. If the appearance of the child had -formerly surprised me, I was still more astonished when I saw the -mother. She was almost as dark as the little one was fair. The contrast -was so extreme that one almost doubted their relationship. - -Scarcely did she pause in her work as I entered. She seemed, indeed, a -human sewing machine. With lightning quickness she fed the material to -the point of her needle, and every time she drew it through a score of -stitches would be made. Already the bed was heaped with work she had -finished, and a small table was also piled with stuff. A wardrobe, a -stove, and two chairs completed the furniture of the room. - -But if I felt inclined to pity Frosine the feeling vanished on looking -into her face. It was so brave, so frank, so cheerful. There was -no beauty, but a piquant quality that almost made up for its lack. -Character, variety, appeal she had, and a peculiar fascinating quality -of redemption. Thus the beautiful teeth redeemed the rather large -mouth; the wide-set hazel eyes redeemed the short, irregular nose; the -broad well-shaped brow redeemed the somewhat soft chin. Her skin was -of a fine delicacy, one of those skins that seem to be too tightly -stretched; and constant smiling had made fine wrinkles round her mouth -and eyes. - -“A female with an active sense of humour,” I thought. Anastasia’s sense -of humour was passive, Rougette’s somewhat atrophied. So Mademoiselle -Frosine smiled, and her smile was irresistible. It brought into -play all these fine wrinkles; it was so whole-hearted, so free from -reservations. That tonic smile would have made a pessimist burn his -Schopenhauer, and take to reading Elbert Hubbard. - -“Mademoiselle,” I began in my fumbling French, “I have come to beg -a favour of you. You would be a thousand times amiable if you could -spare Solonge for an hour or two in the afternoon, to go with us to the -Luxembourg Gardens. There she may play in the sunshine, and it will -give my wife infinite gladness to watch her.” - -Frosine almost dropped her needle with pleasure. “Oh, you are so good. -It will be such a joy for my little one, and will make me so happy. -Madame loves children, does she not?” - -“It is truly foolish how she loves them. She will be ravished if you -will permit us to have your treasure for a little while.” - -“Ah, monsieur, you are entirely too amiable.” - -“Not at all. It is well heard, then?” - -“But, yes, certainly. You make me too happy.” - -“Ah, well! this afternoon at three o’clock?” - -“At three o’clock.” - -So I broke the news to Anastasia. “Little Thing, I’ve borrowed a baby -for you this afternoon. Solonge is coming with us to the gardens.” - -(Really, if I had given her a new hat she could not have been more -enchanted.) - -“Oh, that will be lovely! Then will I have my two childrens with me. -You don’t know how I am glad.” - -So we gaily descended the timeworn stairs, and found the youngster -eagerly awaiting us. In her navy blue coat and hat her wealth of long -hair looked fairer and silkier than ever. For a child of four and -a half she was very tall and graceful. Then we bade the mother _au -revoir_, and with the youngster chattering excitedly as she held the -hand of Anastasia, and me puffing at the cheap briar I had bought in -the place of the ill-fated meerschaum, we started out. - -“I suppose if it hadn’t been for Solonge,” I observed, “Frosine would -have thrown up the sponge long ago. How awful to be alone day after -day, sewing against time, so to speak; and that for all one’s life!” - -“Oh, no. There is many girl like that in Paris. They work till they -die. They are brought up in the _couvent_. That make them very serious.” - -Anastasia had certainly the deepest faith in her religion. - -After its long winter _relâche_ the glorious old garden was awakening -to the symphony of Spring. The soft breeze that stirred the opening -buds came to us laden with fragrance, arousing that so exquisite -feeling of sweet confused memory that only the Spring-birth can evoke. -The basin of the Fontaine de Médicis was stained a delicate green by -peeping leaves, and a flock of fat sparrows with fluttering feathers -and joyous cries were making much ado. We sat down on one of the stone -benches, because the pennies for the chairs might buy many needful -things. - -That dear, dear garden of the Luxembourg, what, I wonder, is the secret -of its charm? Is it that it is haunted by the sentiment and romance of -ages dead and forgotten? Beautiful it is, yet other gardens are also -beautiful, and--oh, how different! Surely it should be sacred, sacred -to children, artists and lovers. There, under the green and laughing -leaf, where statues glimmer in marble or gloom in bronze, and the -fountain throws to the tender sky its exquisite aigrette of gold--there -the children play, the artists dream, and the lovers exchange sweet -kisses. Oh, Mimi and Musette, where the bust of Murger lies buried -in the verdure, listening to the protestations of your Eugene and -Marcel!--do you not dream that in this self-same spot your mothers in -their hours listened to the voice of love, nay, even _their_ mothers in -their hours. So over succeeding generations will the old garden cast -its spell, and under the branches of the old trees lovers in days to -come will whisper their vows. Yea, I think it is haunted, that dear, -dear garden of the Luxembourg. - -Solonge, whom I had decided to call “The Môme,” had a top which she -kept going with a little whip. To start it she would wind the lash -of the whip around its point, then standing it upright in the soft -ground, give it a sharp jerk. But after a little she tired of this, -and began to ask questions about fairies. Never have I seen a child so -imaginative. Her world is peopled with fairies, with whom she holds -constant communion. There are tree fairies, water fairies, fairies that -live in the ground, fairies that lurk in the flowers--she can tell you -all about them. Her faith in them is touching, and brutal would he be -who tried to shatter it. - -“You that make so many stories,” said Anastasia, as she listened to the -prattle of the Môme, “have you no stories for children? Can you not -make one for little Solonge?” - -“Yes, of course, I might; but you will have to put it in French for -her.” - -“All right. I try.” - -So I thought a little, then I began: - - Once upon a time there was a little boy who was very much alone and - who dreamed greatly. In his father’s garden he had a tiny corner of - his own, and in this corner grew a large pumpkin. The boy, who had - never seen a pumpkin so big, thought that it might take a prize at - the yearly show in the village, and so every day he fed it with milk, - and always with the milk of the brindled cow, which was richest of - all. - - So the pumpkin grew and grew, and the little boy became so wrapt up - in it he thought of little else. At last it grew to such a size that - other people began to look at it, and say it would surely take a - prize. The little boy became more proud of it than ever, and fed it - more and more of the milk of the brindled cow, and took to rubbing it - till it shone--with his big brother’s silk handkerchief. - - Then one night as he lay in bed he heard a great to-do in the - garden, and ran out in his night-dress. There was a patch of ground - where grew the pumpkins, and another where grew the squashes, and - both seemed greatly disturbed. Fearing for his favourite he hurried - forward. No, there it was, great and glossy in the moonlight. He - kissed it, and even as he did so it seemed as if he heard from within - it a tiny, tinny voice calling his name. In surprise he stepped back, - and the next moment a door opened in the side of the pumpkin and a - fairy stepped forth. - - “I am the Pumpkin King,” said the fairy, “and in the name of the - Pumpkin People I bid you welcome.” - - Then the boy saw that the inside of the great gourd was hollow, and - was lit with a wondrous chandelier of glow-worms. It was furnished - like a little chamber, with a bed, table, chairs--such a room as you - may see in a house for dolls. The boy wished greatly that he might - enter, and even as he wished he found that he had grown very small, - as small, indeed, as his own finger. - - “Will you not enter?” asked the King with a smile of welcome. - - So the boy and the King became great friends, and each night when - every one else was a-bed he would steal forth and sit in the chamber - of the Pumpkin King. The King thanked him for his care of the royal - residence, and told him many things of the vegetable world. But - chiefly he talked of the endless feud between the pumpkins and their - hereditary enemies, the squashes. Whenever the two came together - there was warfare, and when the squashes were more numerous the - pumpkins were often defeated. Yonder by the gate dwelt the Squash - King, a terrible fellow, of whom the Pumpkin King lived in fear. - - “Can I not kill him for you?” said the little boy. - - “No, no,” answered the King. “No mortal can destroy a fairy. Things - must take their course.” - - At this the little boy was very sad, and began to dread all kinds of - dangers for his friend the King. Then one day he was taken ill with a - cold, and the window was closed at night so that he could not steal - out as usual. And as he lay tossing in his bed he heard a great noise - in the garden. At once he knew that a terrible battle was raging - between the squash and the pumpkin tribes. Alas! he could do nothing - to help his friends, so he cried bitterly. - - And next morning his father came to his bedside and told him that all - the pumpkins had been destroyed, including his big one. - - “It was that breechy brindled cow,” said the father. “It must have - broken into the garden in the night.” - - But the little boy knew better. - -As I finished a deep, strongly vibrating voice greeted us. - -“What a pretty domestic scene. Didn’t know you had a youngster, Madden. -Must congratulate you.” - -Looking up I saw Helstern. He was leaning on a stout stick, carved like -a gargoyle. All in black, with that mane of iron-grey hair and his -keen, stern face he made quite a striking figure. There is something -unconsciously dramatic about Helstern; I, on the other hand, am -consciously dramatic; while Lorrimer is absolutely natural. - -“Sorry,” I said, “she doesn’t belong to us. We’ve just borrowed her for -the afternoon.” - -“I see. What a beautiful type! English, I should imagine?” - -“No, that’s what makes her so different--French.” - -He looked at her as if fascinated. - -“I’d like awfully to make a sketch of her, if you can get her to stand -still.” - -At that moment there was no difficulty, for the Môme was gazing in -round-eyed awe at the ferocious Turk’s head pipe in the sculptor’s -mouth. So Helstern took a chair, whipped out his sketch-book, and -before the fascinated child could recover he had completed a graceful -little sketch. - -“Splendid!” I said. - -Anastasia, too, was enthusiastic; but when the Môme, who was now -nestling in her arms, saw it she uttered a scream of delight. - -“If you just sit still a little,” said Helstern eagerly, “while I do -another one for myself, I’ll give you this one to take home to your -mother.” - -The Môme was very timid; but we posed her sitting on the end of the -stone seat, with one slim leg bent under her and the other dangling -down, while she scattered some crumbs for the fat sparrows at her feet. -Against the background of a lilac bush she made a charming picture, -and Helstern worked with an enthusiasm that made his eyes gleam, and -his stern face relax. This time he used a fine pencil of sepia tint, -working with the broad of it so as to get soft effects of shadow. True, -he idealised almost beyond resemblance; but what a delicate, graceful -picture he made! - -“It isn’t such a good likeness as the first one,” I remarked, after I -had murmured my admiration. - -“Ah!” he said, with the pitying superiority of the artist. “But you -don’t see her as I see her.” - -There, I thought, is Art in a nutshell; the individual vision, the -divination of the soul of things, hidden inexorably from the common -eye. To see differently; a greener colour in the grass, a deeper blue -in the sky, a madonna in a woman of the street, an angel in a child, -God in all things--oh, enchanted Vision! they who have thee should be -happier than kings. - -“There, little one!” said the sculptor, giving her the first sketch; -“take that to your mother and say I said she should be very proud of -you. Heavens, I wish I could do a clay figure of her. I wish--” - -He looked at her in a sort of ecstasy, sighed deeply, then stumped away -looking very thoughtful. - -“Is he not distinguished,” I said, “in spite of that foot of his?” - -“Ah! that is so sad, I sink. But perhaps it is for the best he have -foot like that. It make him more serious; it make him great artist.” - -Trust Anastasia to find some compensation in all misfortune! - -Frosine was plying that lightning needle when we returned. She looked -up joyfully as the little one rushed to her with the sketch. - -“Who did this? It is my little pigeon--truly, it is her very self.” - -“It was a friend of ours,” said Anastasia, “who is a great sculptor, -or, at least, who is going to be. He has fallen in love with your -daughter, as indeed we all have.” - -“Oh, it is so good of you to take her out. Already I see a difference -in her. I would not have her grow up like the children of the streets, -and it is so hard when one is poor and has to work every moment of -one’s time. As for this picture, thank the Monsieur. Say I will -treasure it.” - -We promised to do so, and left her singing gaily by the open window as -she resumed her everlasting toil. - -So it has come about that nearly every afternoon we sit in the -Luxembourg enjoying the mellow sunshine, with the little girl playing -around us. We know many people by sight, for the same ones come day -after day. There by the terrace of the Queens we watch the toy yachts -careening in the basin, the boys playing diabolo, the sauntering -students with their sweethearts. Anastasia works industriously on -some Spanish embroidery, I read for the twentieth time one of my -manuscripts, while the Môme leaps and laughs as she keeps a shuttlecock -bounding in the air. Her eyes are very bright now, and her delicate -cheeks have a rosy stain. Then, when over the great trees the Western -sky is aglow, when the fountain turns to flame, and a charmed light -lingers in the groves, slowly we go home. Days of grateful memory, for -in them do I come to divine the deepest soul of Paris, that which is -Youth and Love. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -GETTING DOWN TO CASES - - -“Anastasia,” I said with a sigh, “did I ever tell you of Gwendolin?” - -“No; what is it?” she asked, and her face had rather an anxious -expression. - -“Gwendolin was a girl, a very nice girl, a trained nurse; and we were -engaged.” - -“What you mean? She was your _fiancée_?” - -“Yes, she was one of my _fiancées_.” - -“What! You have more than one?” The poor girl was really horrified. - -“Oh, several. I don’t just remember how many. I quarrelled with one -because we couldn’t agree over the name we would give the first baby. -I broke it off with another because her stomach made such funny noises -every time I tried to squeeze her. It made me nervous. But Gwendolin--I -must tell you about her. I was very ill with diphtheria in a lonely -house by the sea, and she had come to nurse me. She would let no one -else come near me, and she waited on me night and day.” - -(Anastasia suspended operations on the heel of my sock she was darning.) - -“She was a nervous, high-strung girl, and she watched over me with an -agony of care. There was a doctor, too, who came twice a day, yet, in -spite of all, I hourly grew more weak. My dreary moans seemed to be -echoed by the hollow moans of the sea.” - -(Anastasia seemed divided between resentment of Gwendolin and pity for -me.) - -“Well, the poor girl was almost worn to a shadow, and one night, as she -sat by me, pale and hollow-eyed, I saw a sudden change come over her. - -“‘I can stand it no longer,’ she cried. ‘His every moan pierces me to -the heart. I must do something, something.’ - -“Then she rose, and I was conscious of her great, pitiful eyes. -Suddenly I thrilled with horror, for I realised that they were the eyes -of a mad woman. The strain of nursing had unhinged her mind. - -“‘The doctor tells me there is no hope,’ she went on. ‘Oh, I cannot -bear to hear him suffer so; I must give him peace;--but how?’ - -“On a table near by there was a small pair of scissors. She took them -up thoughtfully. - -“‘Dearest,’ she said to me, ‘your sufferings will soon be over. I am -going to cut your poor throat, that gives you such pain.’ - -“I struggled, twisting my head this way and that, but she held me like -a vice, and over my throat I felt two edges of cold steel.” - -(Anastasia was gazing in horror.) - -“Steadily they closed, tighter, tighter. Now I could feel them bite -the flesh and the blood spout. Then I, who for days had been unable to -utter a word, suddenly found my voice. - -“‘Don’t butcher me,’ I whispered hoarsely. ‘Cut my accursed throat by -all means, but do it neatly. Your scissors are far too blunt.’ - -“‘But how may I sharpen them, darling?’ she cried piteously. - -“I remembered how I had seen other women do it. - -“‘Try to cut on the neck of a bottle.’ - -“‘Will that do?’ - -“‘Yes, yes. Keep cutting on the smooth round glass. It’s astonishing -the difference it makes.’ - -“‘What kind of a bottle, sweetheart?’ - -“‘An ink-bottle’s best. You’ll find one downstairs on the dining-room -mantelpiece. Hurry.’ - -“‘All right, I’ll get it.’ - -“She flew downstairs. Now was my chance. With my remaining strength I -crawled to the door and locked it. When I recovered from a faint her -struggles to force it had ceased, and at the same moment I heard the -honk of the doctor’s auto. Going to the window, I bellowed like a bull. -Then I was conscious of a strange thing: by the pressure on my throat, -by my struggles, the malignant growth had broken. I was saved.” - -Anastasia shuddered. “And that Gwendolin?” she queried. - -“Was taken to an asylum, where she died,” I said sadly. - -“Poor sing,” said Anastasia. - -To tell the truth, the whole thing had happened to me the night before -in a very vivid dream. Often, indeed, I get ideas in this way, so I -promptly made a story of Nurse Gwendolin. - -I was putting the finishing touches to it when a knock came to the -door. It was Helstern, panting, perspiring. - -“Heavens! but it’s hard climbing that stairway of yours with a game -leg. Sorry to disturb you, Madden, but where does the mother of your -little girl live? You don’t know how that youngster inspires me. I -feel that if I could do a full-length of her it would get me into the -Salon. See! here’s a sketch. _Spring_, it’s called. Of course, I mean -to follow up with the other seasons, but I want a child for my Spring.” - -He showed me a tender _fillette_ in a state of nature, trying to avoid -tripping over a tame lamb as she scattered abroad an armful of flowers. - -“Stunning!” I said. “So original! Let’s go down and interview the -mother.” - -Into his brown eyes came a look of distress. “I’m a bit awkward with -women, you know. Would you mind doing the talking?” - -“Right O! Follow me.” - -So we descended the narrow, crumbling stairs, from each stage of which -came a smell of cookery. Thus we passed through a stratum of ham and -eggs, another of corned beef and cabbage, a third of beefsteak and -onions, down to the fried fish stratum of the _entresol_. - -Frosine was in the midst of dinner. The Môme regarded us over a -spoonful of milk soup, and as he wiped the perspiration from his -brow, Helstern looked at her almost devouringly. But in the presence -of Frosine he seemed almost tongue-tied. To me, who have never known -what shyness was, it seemed pitiable. However I explained our mission, -and even showed the sketch at a flattering angle. Frosine listened -politely, seemed to want to laugh, then turned to the sculptor with -that frank, kindly smile that seemed to radiate good fellowship. - -“You do me too great honour, Monsieur. I am sure your work would be -very beautiful. But alas! Solonge is very shy and very modest. One -could never get her to pose for the figure. I am sorry, but believe -me, the thing is impossible.” - -“Thank you, Madam. I am sorry too,” he said humbly. He stumped away -crestfallen, and with a final, sorrowful look at the Môme. - -Anastasia was keeping supper hot for me. “Poor Helstern,” I remarked -over my second chop, “I’m afraid he’ll have to look out for another -vernal infant. But talking of Spring reminds me, time is passing, and -we’re not getting any richer. How’s the family treasury?” - -An examination of the tea-canister that contained our capital revealed -the sum of twenty-seven francs. I looked at it ruefully. - -“I never dreamed we were so low as that. With care we can live for a -week on twenty-seven francs--but what then?” - -“You must try and sell some of your work, darleen; and I--I can sell -some _hem-broderie_.” - -“Never! I can’t let you sell those things. They’re lovely. I want to -keep them.” - -“But I easily do some more. It is pleasure for me.” - -“No, no; at least, hold on a bit. I’ll make some money from my work. -I’m going to send it off to-morrow.” - -Yes, we were surely “getting down to cases.” But what matter! Of course -my work will be accepted at once, and paid for on the spot. True, -I have no experience in this kind of peddling. My stuff has always -appeared virgin in a book. Not that I think I am prostituting it by -sending it to a magazine, but that no sooner do I see it in print than -my interest in it dies. It belongs to the public then. - -Next day I bought a box of big envelopes, a quantity of French and -English stamps, and a manuscript book in which I entered the titles of -the different items. I also ruled columns: Where Sent: When Sent; even -When Returned, though I thought the latter superfluous. Here then was -my list: - - The Psychology of Sea-sickness. - An Amateur Lazzarone. - A Detail of Two Cities. - The Microbe. - How to be a Successful Wife. - Nurse Gwendolin. - The City of Light. - The City of Laughter. - The City of Love. - and - Three Fairy Stories. - -Twelve items in all. So I prepared them for despatch; but where? That -was the question. However, after examining the windows of several -English book-shops, I took a chance shot, posted them to twelve -different destinations, and sat down to await results. - -Since then, with a fine sense of freedom, I have been indulging in my -mania for old houses. I do not mean houses of historic interest, but -ramshackle ruins tucked away in seductive slums. To gaze at an old -home and imagine its romance is to me more fascinating than trying -to realise romance you know occurred there. I examine doors studded -with iron, search mouldering walls for inscriptions, peer into curious -courtyards. I commune with the spirit of Old Paris, I step in the -footprints of Voltaire and Verlaine, of Rousseau and Racine, of -Mirabeau and Molière. - -One day I visit the room where an English Lord of Letters died more -deaths than one. A gloomy, gruesome hotel, with an electric night-sign -that goes in and out like some semaphore of sin. A cadaverous, -miserable-looking man tells me that the room is at present occupied. -I return. A cadaverous, miserable-looking woman whines to a dejected -looking valet-de-chambre that I may go up. - -It is on the first floor and overlooks a court. There is the bed of -varnished pine in which he died; the usual French hotel wardrobe, the -usual plush armchair, but not, I note, the usual clock of chocolate -marble. Everything so commonplace, so sordid; yet for a moment I could -see that fallen demi-god, as with eyes despairful as death in their -tear-corroded sockets, he stared and stared into that drab, rain-sodden -court. - - For who can tell to what red Hell - His sightless soul may stray. - -And so in sweet, haphazard wanderings amid the Paris of the Past time -sped ever so swiftly. I forgot my manuscripts, my position, everything -in my sheer delight of freedom; and how long my dream would have -continued I know not if I had not had a sudden awakening. It was on my -return from one of my rambles when I drew up with a start in front of a -shop that showed all kinds of woman’s work for sale. - -“Heavens! Surely that isn’t Anastasia’s cushion?” - -I was staring at a piece of exquisite silk embroidery, an imitation of -ancient tapestry. No, I could not be mistaken. Too well I remembered -every detail of it; how I had watched it take on beauty under her -patient fingers; how hour after hour I could hear the crisp snap as the -needle broke through the taut silk. Over a week had she toiled on it, -rising with the first dawn, so that she might have more daylight in -which to blend her colours. And there it was, imbedded in that mass of -cheap stuff, and marked with a smudgy paper, “Forty-five francs.” Yes, -I felt sick. - -How careless I had been! I had never given the financial situation -another thought, yet we had wanted for nothing. There was that -excellent dinner we had had the night before; why, she must have sold -this to buy it! Even now I was living on the proceeds of her work. - -“What a silly girl! She wouldn’t say a word, in case I should be -worried. Just like women; they take a fiendish delight in humiliating a -man by sacrificing themselves for him. But I can’t let her support me. -Let’s see.... There’s my watch and chain. What’s a chain but a useless -gaud, a handhold for a pick-pocket. Maybe this very afternoon I’ll have -the whole thing snatched. I’ll take no chances; it’s a fine, heavy -chain, and cost over a hundred dollars; maybe the Mont de Pietists will -give me fifty for it.” - -They wouldn’t. Twenty-five was their limit, so I took it meekly. -Then, returning hastily to the embroidery shop, I bought the cushion -cover, carried it home under my coat, and locked it safely away in the -alligator-skin suitcase. - -Though her greeting was bravely bright, it seemed to me that Anastasia -had been crying, and of the nice omelette she had provided for my lunch -she would scarcely taste. - -“What’s the trouble, Little Thing; out with it.” - -She hesitated; looked anxious, miserable, apologetic. - -“I don’t like trouble you, darleen, but the _concierge_ have come for -the rent tree time, and I don’t know what I must say.” - -“The rent! I quite forgot that. Why, yes, we pay rent, don’t we? How -much is it?” - -“Don’t you remember? One ’undred twenty-five franc.” - -“Well, there’s only one thing to do--pay it. But to do so I must put my -ticker up the spout.” - -“Oh, my poor darleen, I’m so sorry. I sink it is me bring you so much -trouble. If it was not for me you have plenty of money, I sink.” - -“Don’t say that. If it wasn’t for your economies I’d be rustling for -crusts in the gutter. And anyway, what’s the good of a watch when I can -see the time in every shop I pass? Besides, I might lose it; so here -goes.” - -It is quite in tune with the cheerful philosophy of the French to find -a virtue in misfortune. Whether they break a glass, spill red wine, or -step in dirt, it’s all the same: “Ah! but it will carry the good luck.” - -For my gold watch I received two hundred francs, though it had cost -over a thousand; and with this I returned. Much the shape and colour of -a bloated spider, the _concierge_ emerged from her den, and to her I -paid the rent. Then, leaping upstairs, I poured the balance remaining -from both transactions into Anastasia’s lap. - -“There! That ought to keep away the wolf for a month. A hundred and -fifty francs and the rent paid for another quarter. Aren’t we the lucky -things? The roof’s overhead; the soup’s in the pot; let’s sing. Now do -I know why the very wastrels in the street are not so much to be pitied -after all; a warm corner and a full belly, that’s happiness to them. -Wealth’s only a matter of wants. Well, we’re wealthy, let’s go to the -cinema.” - -“No, darleen, that would not be serious. I must guard your money now. -When you sink you begeen work once more?” - -“I don’t know. I’m having one of my bad spells. Funny how it takes one. -Times ideas come in a perfect spate, and I miss half grabbing for the -others. At present the divine afflatus is on a vacation. I’m trying to -start a novel and I haven’t got the Idea. You see this short story and -article stuff is all very well to boil the _marmite_, but a novel’s my -real chance. A successful novel would put me on my feet. Pray, Little -Thing, I get the idea for a novel.” - -“Yes, I will, I will indeed,” she answered me quite seriously. - -And indeed she did: for one day I strolled into Notre Dame, and there -by one of those hard, high-backed chairs before the mighty altar I -discovered her imploring (I have no doubt) the “bon Dieu” that the idea -might come. - -For simple, shining faith I’m willing to bet my last dollar on -Anastasia. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY - - - _May 1st._ - -This morning in the course of my walk I saw a hungry child trying to -sell violets, a girl gazing fearfully at the Maternity Hospital, an -old woman picking, as if they were gold, coals from the gutter. At -times what a world of poignant drama these common sights reveal! It is -like getting one’s eye to a telescope that is focussed on a world of -interesting misery. I want to write of these things, but I must not. -First of all I must write for money; that gained, I may write for art. - -So far I haven’t hit on my novel _motif_, though I’ve lain awake at -nights racking my poor brains. What makes me fret so is that never have -I felt such confidence, such power, such hunger to create. I think it -must be Paris and the Springtime. The combination makes me dithyrambic -with delight. I thrill, I burn, I see life with eyes anointed. -Yesterday in the Luxembourg I wrote some verses that weren’t half bad; -but writing verses does not make the thorns crackle under the pot, far -less supply the savoury soup. Oh, the Idea, the Idea! - -To my little band of manuscripts I have never given another thought. -But that is my way. I am like a mother cat--when my kittens are young I -love them; when they grow to be cats I spit at them. My work finished, -I never want to see it again. - -One day as I fumed and fussed abominably Lorrimer called. - -“Look here, Madden, I don’t know what kind of writing you do, but I -suppose you’re not any too beastly rich; you’re not above making an -honest dollar. Now, I’m one of the future gold medallists of the Spring -Salon, _cela va sans dire_, but in the meantime I’m not above doing -this.” - -“This” was a paper covered booklet of a flaming type. I took it with -some disfavour. The paper was muddy, the type disreputable, the -illustrations lurid. Turning it over I read: - - THE MARVELLOUS PENNYWORTH LIBRARY OF WORLD ADVENTURE. - -“Pretty rotten, isn’t it?” said Lorrimer. “Well, you wouldn’t believe -it, some of these things sell to nearly quarter of a million. They give -the best value for the money in their line. Fifty pages of straight -adventure and a dozen spirited illustrations for a humble copper; could -you beat it?” - -“Well, what’s it got to do with me?” - -“It’s like this: I’ve been guilty of the illustrations of two of these -masterpieces. They were Wild West stories. Being an American, though -I’ve never lived out of Connecticut, I’m supposed to know all about -Colorado. Well, it’s the firm of Shortcake & Hammer that publish them, -and I happened to meet young Percy Shortcake when he was on a jamboree -in Paris. Over the wassail we got free, so he promised to put some -work my way. Soon after I got a commission to illustrate _Sureshot, or -the Scout’s Revenge_; then some months after I adorned the pages of -_Redhand the Nightrider, or the Prowler of the Prairies_.” - -“I see. What’s the idea now?” - -“The idea is that you write one of these things and I illustrate it.” - -“My dear fellow, you have too high an opinion of my powers.” - -“Oh, come now, Madden, try. You won’t throw me down, old man. I need -the money. Supposing we place it we’ll get a ten pound note for it; -that will be seven for you and three for me. Three pounds, man, that -will keep me for a month, give me time to finish my prize picture -for the Salon. Just think what it means to me, what a crisis in my -fortunes. Fame there ready to crown me, and for the want of a measly -three quid, biff! there she chucks her crown back in the laurel bin for -another year. Oh, Madden, try. I’m sure you could rise to the occasion.” - -Thus approached, how could a kind-hearted Irishman refuse? Already I -saw Lorrimer gold-medalled, glorified; then the reverse of the picture, -Lorrimer writhing in the clutches of dissipation and despair. Could I -desert him? I yielded. - -“Good!” whooped Lorrimer; “we’ll make a best-seller in Penny-dreadfuldom. -Take _Sureshot_ here as a model. Here, too, are your illustrations.” - -“My what?” - -“The pictures. Oh, yes, I did them first. It doesn’t make any -difference, you can make them fit in. It’s often done that way. Half -the books published for Christmas sale are written up to illustrations -that the publishers have on hand.” - -“All right. The illustrations may suggest the story.” - -Lorrimer went away exultant. After all, I thought, seven pounds won’t -be bad for a week’s work. So I read _Sureshot_ with some care. It was -divided into twenty chapters of about a thousand words each, and every -chapter finished on a situation of suspense. The sentences were jerkily -short; each was full of pith and punch, and often had a paragraph all -to itself. For example: - - By one hand Sureshot clung to that creaking bough. Below him was - empty space. Above him leered his foe, Poisoned Pup, black hate in - his face. - - The branch cracked ominously. - - With a shudder the Lone Scout looked down to the bottom of the abyss. - No way of escape there. He looked up once more, and even as he looked - Poisoned Pup raised his tomahawk to sever the frail branch. - - “Perish! Paleface,” he hissed; “go down to the Gulf of the Lost Ones, - and let the wolves pick clean your bones.” - - Sureshot felt that his last hour had come. - - “Accursed Redskin,” he cried, “do your worst. But beware, for I will - be avenged. And now, O son of a dog, strike, strike!” - - And there with gleaming eyes the intrepid scout waited for that - glittering axe to fall. - -End of chapter; the next of which artfully switches, and takes up -another thread of the story. - -The result of my effort was that in six days I produced _Daredeath -Dick, or the Scourge of the Sierras_. Lorrimer was enthusiastic. - -“Didn’t think you had it in you, old man. I’ll get it off to Shortcake -& Hammer at once. It will likely be some weeks before we can hear from -them.” - -Since then I have been seeing quite a lot of Lorrimer. After all, our -little apartment is cosiness itself, and beer at four sous a litre is -ambrosia within reach of the most modest purse. He talks vastly of -his work (with a capital W). He arrives with the announcement that he -has just dropped in for a quiet pipe; in an hour he must be back at -his Work. Then: “Well, old man, just another short pipe, and I must -really be off.” But in the end he takes his departure about two in the -morning, sometimes talking me asleep. - -How he lives is a mystery. Any evening you can see him in the Café -d’Harcourt, or the Soufflet, and generally accompanied by Rougette. -When he is in funds he spends recklessly. Once he gained a prize for a -Moulin Rouge poster, and celebrated his success in a supper that cost -him three times the value of his prize. Sometimes he contributes a very -naughty drawing to _Pages Folles_, and I know that he does _aquarelles_ -for the long-haired genius who sells them on the boulevards, and who, -though he can draw little else than a cork from a bottle, in appearance -out-rapins the _rapins_. - -One afternoon I heard Helstern painfully toiling upstairs. - -“I’ve got an idea,” he began. “You know as soon as I set eyes on the -mother of your little Solonge I saw she was just the type I’ve been -looking for for my group, Maternity. That woman’s a born mother, a -mother by destiny. See, here’s a sketch of my group.” - -Helstern’s statues, I notice, seldom get beyond the sketch stage. This -one showed a mother suckling an infant and gazing fondly at another -little girl, who in her turn was looking maternally at the baby. - -“That’s all very well,” I objected banally; “but Frosine hasn’t got a -baby.” - -“Pooh! a mere trifle. I’ll soon supply the baby. Already I see my group -crowned in the Salon. The thing’s as good as done. It only remains for -you to go down and get the consent of Madam.” - -“Me!” - -“Why, yes. You know I’m no good at talking to women. It takes an -Irishman to be persuasive. Go on, there’s a good fellow.” - -Was I ever able to resist an appeal to my vanity? But pretty soon I -returned rather crestfallen. - -“It’s no use, old man. Can’t make anything of the lady. I showed -her your sketch; I offered to provide the infant; I pointed out the -sensation it would make in the Salon; no use. She positively refuses to -pose; prefers to sew lingerie. If she would be serious I might be able -to wheedle her; but she only laughs, and when a woman laughs I’ve got -to laugh with her. But I can’t help thinking there’s something at the -back of her refusal.” - -“Well, well,” sighed the big sculptor, “I give her up. And already I -could see the crowds admiring my group as it stood under the dome of -the Grand Palace; already I could hear their plaudits ringing in my -ears; already....” - -Once more he sighed deeply, and went away. - - - _May 15th._ - -It is so hot to-day that I think Summer must have taken the wrong cue. -On the Boul’ Mich’ the marronniers sicken in the stale air composed -equally of asphalt, petrol and escaping gas. Assyrian bearded students -and Aubrey Beardsley _cocottes_ are sitting over opaline glasses in -front of the stifling cafés, and the dolphins in the fountains of -the Observatory spout enthusiastically. Now is the time to loll on a -shaded bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, and refrain from doing anything -strenuous. - -So I sit there dreaming, and note in a careless way that I am becoming -conspicuously shabby. Because the necessary franc for the barber cannot -well be spared, I have allowed my hair to accumulate æsthetically. -Anastasia loves it like that--says it makes me look like the great man -of letters I am; and with a piece of silk she has made me a Lavallière -tie. More than ever I feel like a character in a French farce. - -My boots, I particularly note, need heeling. Every morning I -conscientiously brush them before I go out, but invariably I am called -back. - -“Show me your feet.” - -I bow before this domestic tyrant. - -“Oh, what a dirty boy it is. What shame for me to have husbands go out -like that.” - -“But look!” I protest; “they’re clean. They shine like a mirror. Why, -you can see your face in them--if you look hard enough.” - -“But the heels! Look at the heels. Why you have not brush them. Oh, I -nevaire see child like that. You just brush in front.” - -“Well, how can I see the heels? I’m no contortionist.” - -“Oh, _mon Dieu_! He brush his boots after he puts them on. Oh, what a -cabbage head I have for husband!” - -“Well, isn’t that the right way?” - -“_Nom d’un chien!_ Give me your _patte_.” - -Then what a storm if I try to go out with a hole in my socks! - -“Oh, dear! I nevaire see man like that. Suppose you get keel in the -street, and some one take off your boots, sink how you are shamed. What -shame for me, too, if I have husbands keel wiz hole in his sock!” - -In addition to her other duties I have made her my Secretary. Alas! I -must confess some of my valiant manuscripts have come sneaking back -with unflattering promptitude. It is a new experience and a bitter one. -Yet I think my chief concern is that Anastasia’s faith in me should be -shattered. After the first unbelieving moment I threw the things aside -in disgust. - -“They’re no good. I’ll never send them out again.” - -“Oh, don’t say that, darleen. You geeve to me and I send away some -more.” - -“Do what you like,” I answered savagely. “But don’t let me see the -beastly things again. And don’t,” I added thoughtfully, “send them -twice to the same place.” - -So what is happening I know not, though the expense for stamps is a -grievous one. She has a list of periodicals and is posting the things -somewhere. Perhaps she may blunder luckily. Anyway, I don’t care. I’m -sick of them. - - - _May 30th._ - -Some days ago I was sitting by the gate of the Luxembourg that fronts -the bust of St. Beuve. That fine, shrewd face seemed to smile at me -with pawky kindliness, as if to say: “Don’t despair, young men; seek, -seek, for the luminous idea will come.” - -But just then it was more pleasant to dream than to seek. A slim pine -threw on the sun-flooded lawn its purple pool of shadow; in the warm -breeze a thickset yew heaved gently; a lively acacia twinkled and -fluttered; a silver-stemmed birch tossed enthusiastic plumes. Over a -bank of golden lilies bright-winged butterflies were hovering, and in -a glade beyond there was a patch of creamy hyacinths. Against the ivy -that mantled an old oak, the white dress of a girl out-gleamed, and her -hat, scarlet as a geranium, made a sparkling note of colour. - -Then, as she drew near I saw it was Anastasia, and she was much -excited. I wondered why. Is there anything in this world, I asked -myself, worth while getting excited about? Just then I was inclined to -think not; so I smoked on imperturbably. The vacuum in my life made by -the lack of tobacco had been more than I could bear, and I had taken to -those cheap packets of Caporal, _cigarettes bleues_, whose luxuriant -whiskers I surreptitiously trimmed with Anastasia’s embroidery -scissors. Never shall I be one of those kill-joys who recommend young -men not to smoke--in the meantime filling up their own pipes with -particular gusto. - -“Hullo, Little Thing! Why this unexpected pleasure?” - -“Oh, I search you everywhere. See! There’s letter from editor.” - -“So it is; and judging by your excitement it must contain at least -twenty pounds. Already I wallow in the sands of Pactolus.... Yes, -you’re right: A cheque. How long it seems since I’ve seen a cheque! -Let’s see--why! it’s for a whole guinea.” - -Her eyes gleamed with pleasure, and she clapped her hands. - -“In payment,” I went on, “of the article _How to be a Successful Wife_, -from the editor of _Baby’s Own_ a weekly Magazine specially devoted to -the Nursery.” - -“Yes, yes. I send heem zere. I sink it’s so _chic_, that magazine.” - -“Well, I congratulate you on your first success as a literary agent. -You deserve your ten per cent. commission. It isn’t the Eldorado of -our dreams, but it will enable us to carry out some needed sartorial -reforms. For example, I may now get my boots persuaded to a new lease -of life, while you can buy some stuff for a blouse. How much can we do -on twenty-six francs?” - -Between Necessary Expenditure and Cash in Hand the difference was -appalling, but after elaborate debate the money was duly appropriated. -From this time on Anastasia became more energetic than ever in her -consumption of postage. It was about this time, too, I noticed she ate -very sparingly. On my taxing her, she declared she was dieting. She was -afraid, she said, of getting fat. On which I decided I also was getting -fat: I, too, must diet. Every one, we agreed, ate too much. I for one -(I vowed) could do better work on a mess of pottage than on all the -fleshpots of Egypt. So the expenses of our ménage began to take a very -low figure indeed. - -At the same time “Soup of the Onion” began to make its appearance with -a monotonous frequency. It is made by frying the fragments of one of -these vegetables till it is nearly black. You then add hot water, boil -a little, strain. The result is a warm, yellowish liquor of onionish -suggestion, which an ardent imagination may transform into a delicate -and nourishing soup--and which costs about one sou. - -A sudden reversion, however, to a more generous _cuisine_ aroused -my suspicion, and, on visiting the little embroidery shop, again I -saw some of her work. I made a rapid calculation. Of my personal -possessions there only remained to me my gold signet ring, and the seal -that had hung at the end of my chain. For the first I got fifty francs, -for the second, twenty. So for thirty francs I bought her work, and -locked it away with the cushion cover. - -I am really beginning to despair, to think I shall have to give in. Oh, -the bitterness of surrender! All that is mulish in me revolts at the -thought. For myself rather would I starve than be beaten, but there is -the girl, she must not be allowed to suffer. - - - _May 31st._ - -This has been a happy day, such a happy day as never before have I -known. This morning Lorrimer burst into my apartment flourishing a -cheque for _The Scourge of the Sierras_. Shortcake & Hammer expressed -themselves as well pleased, and sent--not ten pounds but twelve. - -“I tell you what!” cried the artist excitedly, “we’ve got to celebrate -your success as a popular author. We’ll spend the extra two pounds on a -dinner. We’ll ask Rougette and Helstern, and we’ll have it to-night in -the Café d’Harcourt.” - -He is one of these human steam-rollers who crush down all opposition; -so that night we five met in the merriest café in the Boul’ Mich’. -Below its bizarre frescoes of student life we had our table, and -considering that four of us did not know where the next month’s rent -was coming from we were a notably gay party. - -Oh, you unfortunates who dine well every day of your lives, little -do you guess the gastronomic bliss of those whose lives are one long -Lent! Never could you have vanquished, as we, that host of insidious -_hors-d’œuvres_; never beset as we that bouillon with the brown bread -drowned in it. How the crisp fried soles shrank in their shrimp sauce -at the spectacle of our devouring rage, and the _filet mignon_ hid in -fear under its juicy mushrooms! The salad of chicken and _haricots -verts_ seemed to turn still greener with terror, and, as it vanished in -total rout, after it we hurled a bomb of Neapolitan ice cream. And the -wine! How splendid to have all the Beaune one wants after a course of -“Château La Pompe!” And those two bottles of sunshine and laughter from -the vaults of Rheims--not more radiantly did they overflow than did our -spirits! And so sipping our _cafés filtre_, we watched the crowd and -all the world looked glorious. - -The place had filled with the usual mob of students, models and -_filles-de-joie_, and the scene was of more than the usual gaiety. -The country had just been swept by a wave of military enthusiasm; -patriotism was rampant; the female orchestra perspired in its efforts -to be heard. Every one seemed to be thumping on tables with bocks, and -two hundred voices were singing: - - “Encore un petit verre de vin pour nous mettre en route; - Encore un petit verre de vin pour nous mettre en train.” - -Some one started Fragson’s _En avant, mes petits Gars_, and there was -more stamping, shouting and banging of bocks. Then the orchestra broke -into the melody for which all were longing: - - “Allons, enfants de la Patrie, - Le jour de gloire est arrivé.” - -All were up on their seats now, and the song finished in a furore of -enthusiasm. - -The generous wine had affected us three men differently. Lorrimer was -loquacious, Helstern gloomy, while I was inclined to sleep. - -“Bah!” Helstern was saying: “This fire and fury, what is it? A mask -to hide a desperate uneasiness. Poor France! There she is like some -overfat ewe; there is the Prussian Wolf waiting; but look! between them -the paw of the Lion.”[A] - -He represented the fat ewe with the sugar bowl, the Wolf with the cream -jug, and laid his big hand in between. - -“Poor France!” broke in the girls; Rougette was more brilliantly pretty -than ever, and her eyes flashed with indignation. Even the gentle -Anastasia was roused to mild resentment. - -“Yes,” went on Helstern, “you’re a great race, but you’re too old. -You’ve got to go as they all went, Greece, Rome, Italy, Spain. England -will follow, then Germany, last of all Russia.” - -“For Heaven’s sake!” broke in Lorrimer noisily, “don’t let him get on -the subject of International Destinies. What does it matter to us? -To-day’s the only time worth considering. Let’s think of our own -destinies: mine as the coming Gérôme, Helstern’s as the coming Rodin, -and Madden’s as the coming Sylvanus Cobb.” - -But I did not heed him. Drowsy content had possession of me. “Seven -pounds,” I was thinking; “that means the sinews of war for another -month. Oh, if I could only get some kind of an idea for that novel! -What is Lorrimer babbling about now?” - -“Marriage,” he was saying; “I don’t believe in marriage. The first year -people are married they are happy, the second contented, the third -resigned. There should be a new deal every three years. Why, if a -general dispensation of divorce were to be granted, half of the married -couples would break away so quick it would make your head swim.” - -“Oh, Monsieur, you are shocking,” said Anastasia. - -“What shocks to-day is a commonplace to-morrow. There will come a time -when the custom that condemns a couple to bore one another for life -will be considered a barbaric one. Why penalise people eternally for -the aberration of a season? Three year marriages would give life back -its colour, its passion, its romance. People so soon grow physically -indifferent to each other. Flavoured with domesticity kisses lose their -rapture.” - -“You have the sentiments _épouventable_,” said Anastasia. “Wait till -you have marry.” - -“Me! You’ll never see me in the valley of the shadow of matrimony. -Would you spoil a good lover by making an indifferent husband of him? -No, we never care for the things we have, and we always want those -we haven’t. If I were married to Helen of Troy I’d be sneaking side -glances at some little Mimi Pinson across the way. And by the same -token, Madam, keep your eye on that husband of yours, for even now he’s -looking pretty hard at some one else.” - -And indeed I was, for there across the room was the girl from Naples, -Lucrezia Poppolini. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -“TOM, DICK AND HARRY” - - -The partner who managed the forwarding department of the firm of Madden -& Company reported to the partner who represented its manufacturing end -that the editor of the _Babbler_ had accepted his story _The Microbe_, -for one of his weekly Tabloid Tales. A cheque was enclosed for three -guineas. - -The manufacturing partner looked up in a dazed way from his manuscript, -tapped his mighty brain to quicken recollection of the story in -question, signified his approval, and bent again to his labours. -Being in the heart of a novel he dreaded distraction. These necessary -recognitions of every day existence made it harder for him to lift -himself back again into his world of dream. - -However, in his sustained fits of abstraction he had a worthy ally in -the forwarding partner. Things came to his hand in the most magical -way, and his every wish seemed anticipated. It was as if the whole -scheme of life conspired to favour the flow of inspiration. Thus, when -he was quietly told that lunch was ready, and instead of eating would -gaze vacantly at the butter, there was no suggestion of his impending -insanity; neither, when he poured tea into the sugar basin instead of -into his cup, was there any demonstration of alarm. - -On the other hand the forwarding partner might often have been -seen turning over the English magazines displayed in front of the -booksellers, and noting their office addresses. She was wonderfully -persistent, but wofully unfortunate. Even the New York-London article, -which the manufacturing partner had told her to send to the _Gotham -Gleaner_, had been returned. The editor was a personal friend of his, -and had the article been signed in his own name would probably have -taken it. As it was it did not get beyond a sub-editor. - -“Throw the thing into the fire,” he said savagely when she told him; -but she promptly sent it to the Sunday Magazine section of the _New -York Monitor_. After that she was silent on the subject of returned -manuscripts. - - * * * * * - -I have forbidden Anastasia to sell any more embroidery, so that she no -longer spends long and late hours over her needle. Instead she hovers -about me anxiously, doing her work with the least possible commotion. - -I have given her the forty francs remaining from the sale of my seal -and ring, and that, with the three guineas from the _Babbler_, is -enough to carry us on for another month. It is extraordinary how we -just manage to scrape along. - -I wish to avoid all financial worry just now. My story has taken hold -of me and is writing itself at the rate of three thousand words a day. -No time now to spend on meticulous considerations of style; as I try to -put down my teeming thoughts my pencil cannot travel fast enough. It -is the same frenzy of narration with which I rattled off _The Haunted -Taxicab_ and its fellow culprits. If at times that newborn conscience -of mine gives me qualms, I dull them with the thought that it is just a -tale told to amuse and--oh, how I need the money! - -And now to come to my novel, _Tom, Dick and Harry_. - -Three cockney clerks on a ten days’ vacation, are tramping over a -desolate moor in Wales. Tom is a dreamer with a turn for literature; -Dick an adventurer who hates his desk; Harry an entertainer, with -remote designs on the stage. - -The scenery is wild and rugged. The road winds between great boulders -that suggest a prehistoric race. The wind of the moor brings a glow to -their cheeks, and their pipes are in full blast. Suddenly outspeaks Tom: - -“Wouldn’t it be funny, you fellows, if a man clad in skins were -suddenly to dodge out from behind one of these rocks, and we were to -find that we were back in the world of a thousand years ago--just as we -are now, you know, with all our knowledge of things?” - -“It wouldn’t be funny at all,” said Dick. “How could we make use of our -knowledge? What would we do for a living?” - -“Well,” said Tom thoughtfully, “I think I would go in for the prophecy -business. I could foretell things that were going to happen, and--yes, -I think I’d try my hand at literary plagiarism. With all my reading I -could rehash enough modern yarns to put all the tribal story-tellers -out of business. I’d become the greatest yarn-spinner in the world. -What would you do, Hal?” - -“Oh, I don’t think I’d have any trouble,” said Harry. “I’d become the -King’s harper. I think I could vamp on the harp all right. I’d revive -all the popular songs of the last ten years, all the minstrel songs, -all the sentimental ballads, all the national airs, and I’d set them -to topical words. I’d become the greatest minstrel in the world. Now, -Dick, it’s your turn.” - -Dick considered for so long that they fancied he was at a loss. At last -he drew a deep breath. - -“I know--I’d discover America.” - -They thought no more about it, and next day went gaily a-climbing a -local mountain. But Tom, who was a poor climber, lagged behind his -companions, and began to slip. Clawing frantically at the rough rock -over the edge of the bluff he went, and fell to the bottom with a crash. - -When he opened his eyes his head ached horribly. Putting up his hand he -found his scalp clotted with blood. The heavy mist shut off everything -but a small circle all round him. As he lay wondering what had become -of his companions, suddenly he became aware of strange people regarding -him. Gradually they came nearer and he saw that they were clad in skins. - -Well, they take him prisoner and carry him off to their village, where -their head-man questions him in an uncouth dialect. Then they send for -a sage who also questions him, and is much mystified at his replies. -“This wise greybeard,” thinks Tom, “seems to know less than an average -school-boy.” - -Then comes the news that two more of the strange creatures have been -captured. Once again the trio are united. - -“It’s a rum go,” said Dick. “Seems we’ve slipped back a thousand -years.” - -“What particular period of history have we climbed off at?” demanded -Harry. - -“It looks to me,” said Tom, “as if we were in Saxon England, just -before the Norman Invasion. From what the old gentleman tells me Harold -is the big chief.” - -“What will we do?” - -“Seems to me we’ll be all right. With a thousand years or so of -experience ahead of those fellows we ought to become great men in this -land. We were mighty small fry in old London. I wish I was an engineer, -I’d invent gunpowder or something.” - -“We’d better carry out our original plans,” said Dick. - -By and by came messengers from the king, who wished to see these -strange beings descended on his earth from a star. And, indeed, it -seemed to the three friends as if they had really dropped on some -planet a thousand years less advanced than ours (for given similar -beginnings and conditions, will not history go on repeating itself?). -In any case, the king received them with wonder and respect, and -straightway they were attached to the royal household. - -Gradually they adapted themselves to mediæval ways, became accustomed -to sleeping on straw, and to eating like pigs; but even to the last -they did not cease to deplore the absence of small-tooth combs in the -toilet equipment of the royal family. - -The book goes on to trace the fortunes of each of its three heroes. It -tells how Harry captivated the court with a buck-and-wing dance, set -them turkey-trotting to the strains of “Hitchy Koo,” and bunny-hugging -to the melody of “Down the Mississippi.” He even opened a private -class for lessons in the Tango, and initiated Tango Teas in which -mead replaced the fragrant orange pekoe. He invented the first banjo, -demoralised the court with the first ragtime. You should have heard -King Harold joining in the chorus of “Waiting for the Robert E. Lee,” -or singing as a solo “You Made Me Love You.” Decidedly Harry bid fair -to be the most popular man in the kingdom. - -But Tom was running him a pretty close race. He had become the Royal -Story-teller, and nightly held them breathless while he thrilled them -with such marvels as horseless chariots, men who fly with wings, and -lightning harnessed till it makes the night like day. Yet when he -hinted that such things may even come to pass, what a howl of derision -went up! - -“Ah, no!” cried King Harold, “these be not the deeds of men but of the -very gods.” And all the wise men of the land wagged their grey beards -in approval. - -So after that he gave Truth the cold shoulder, and found fiction more -grateful. He reconstructed all the stock plots of to-day, giving them -a Saxon setting; and the characters that had taken the strongest hold -on the popular imagination he rehabilitated in Saxon guise. The most -childish tales would suffice. Night after night would he rivet their -attention with “Aladdin” or “Bluebeard,” or “Jack and the Beanstalk.” -Just as Harry had made all the minstrels rend their harp-strings, in -despair, so Tom made all the story-tellers blush with shame, and take -to the Hinterlands. - -Poor Dick, however, was having a harder time of it. Like a man inspired -he was raving of a wonderful land many days sail beyond the sea. But -the stolid Saxons refused to believe him. “Fancy believing one who -says the world is round! Surely the man is mad.” - -At last he fell in with some Danes who, seeing an opportunity for -piracy, agreed to let him be their pilot to this golden land. They -fitted out a vessel, and sailed away to the West. But they were -storm-driven for many days, and finally their boat was wrecked on the -Arran Islands. - -In the meantime, William the Conqueror came on the scene, and King -Harold, refusing to listen to the warning of Tom, gave fight to -the Norman. Then Tom and Harry beheld with their modern eyes that -epoch-making battle. - -“Oh, for a hundred men armed with modern rifles!” said Tom. “Then we -could conquer the whole world.” - -But with the subjugation of the Saxon, dark days follow for the -three friends. Harry, trying to get a footing in the new court, and -struggling with the new language, is stabbed by a jealous court jester. -Dick, having escaped from the irate Danes, marries an Irish princess -and becomes one of the Irish kings. Tom, continuing to indulge in his -gift for prophecy, incurs the dislike of the Church and is thrown into -prison. Then one bright morning he is led to be executed. He lays his -head on the block. The executioner raises his axe. There is sudden -blankness.... - -“Yes, very interesting case,” he hears the doctor saying. “Fell thirty -feet. Came nasty whack on the rocks. We’ve trepanned ... expect him to -recover consciousness quite soon....” - - * * * * * - -One morning, about the beginning of July, I was leading Dick through -a whirl of adventure in the wilds of darkest Ireland, when Anastasia -entered. I looked at her blankly. - -“Hullo! What’s wrong now?” - -“Oh! I am desolate. Please excuse me for trouble you, darleen, but -there is no help for it. We have forget the rent, and once more it is -necessary to be paid.” - -“Oh, the rent, the awful, inevitable rent! What a cursed institution it -is! Well, Little Thing, I’ve no money.” - -“What we do, darleen?” - -“It’s very unfortunate. I’m getting on so nicely with my novel, and -here I have to break off and worry over matters of sordid finance.” - -“I’m so sorry. Let me sell some of my _hem-broderie_. I sink I catch -some money for that.” - -“No, I hate to let you do that. Stop! We’ll compromise. Give me what -you have and I’ll put it ‘up the spout.’ It will be only for a little -while.” - -So she gave me a cushion cover, two centre pieces, and some little mats. - -“How much money is left?” I asked. - -“Only about eleven franc.” - -“Hum! That won’t help us much. All right. Leave it to me, and whatever -you do, don’t worry. I’ll raise the wind somehow.” - -So I took the suitcase, with the pieces of embroidery I had previously -bought, and carried the whole thing to the Mont de Piété. I realised -seventy francs for the whole thing. - -“There you are,” I said on my return. “With the eleven francs you have, -that makes eighty-one. You’d better pay the rent for one month only. -Then we will have forty francs left. We can struggle along on that for -two weeks. By that time something else will be sure to turn up.” - -Something did turn up--the very next day. The editor of a cheap Weekly -who had already begun to make plans for his special Christmas number, -wrote and offered to take my diphtheria story if I would give it a -Christmas setting. I growled, and used shocking language, but in the -end I laid aside my novel and rechristening the story _My Terrible -Christmas_, I made the necessary changes. Result: another cheque for a -guinea. - -How she managed to last out the balance of the month on an average of -two francs a day I never knew. I discontinued my morning walks, giving -all my time to my novel, and thinking of nothing else. I was dimly -conscious that once more we were in the “Soup of the Onion” zone, but -as I sat down dazed to my meals I scarce knew what I ate. I was all -keyed up, with my eyes on the goal. I would compose whole chapters in -my dreams, and sleeping or waking, my mind was never off my work. - -Then came an evil week when the power of production completely left me. -How I cursed and fretted. I was sick of the whole trade of writing. -What a sorry craft! And my work was rotten. I hated it. A fog overhung -my brain. I saw the whole world with distempered eyes. I started out on -long walks around the fortifications, and as I walked everything seemed -to lose all sense of my identity. Yet the fresh air was good to me, -and the weaving of green leaves had a strange sweetness. The river, -too, soothed me; then one day all my interest in the world came back. - -At six o’clock that evening I began to work, and all night through I -wrote like a madman. As I finished covering a sheet I would throw it -on the floor and grab a fresh one. I was conscious that my wrist ached -infernally. The dawn came and found me still writing, my face drawn, my -eyes staring vaguely. Then at eleven in the morning I had finished. I -was islanded in a sea of sheets, over twelve thousand words. - -“Please pick them up for me,” I asked her. “I’m afraid it’s awful -stuff, but I just had to go on. Everything seemed so plain, and I just -wanted to get it down and out of my mind. Well, it’s done, my novel’s -done. See, I’ve written the sweetest of all words: Finis. But I’m so -tired. No, I don’t want any lunch. I’ll just lie down a bit.” - -With a feeling of happiness that was like a flood of sunshine I crept -into bed, and there I slept till eight of the following morning. Next -day all I did was to loaf around the Luxembourg in the joyance of leaf -and flower. I was still fagged, but so happy. As I smoked a tranquil -pipe I watched the children on the merry-go-round. They were given -little spears, with which to tilt at rings hung round the course, and -if they bagged a certain number they were entitled to a seat for the -next round. To watch the rosy and eager faces of these youthful knights -on their fiery steeds, as they rode with lances couched, was a gentle -specific for the soul. - -Yes, everything seemed so good, so bright, so beneficent. I loved that -picture full of freshness, gaiety and youth. Anastasia and the Môme -joined me, and we listened to the band under the marronniers. Then we -lingered on the Terrace of the Queen’s to watch the sky behind the -_Tower Eiffel_ kindle to a glow of amber, and a wondrous golden tide -o’erflooding the groves till each leaf seemed radiant and the fountain -exulted in a spray of flame. - -Suddenly the Môme gave a cry of delight. Listen! In the distance we -could hear a noise like a hum of bees. It is the little soldier, who -every evening at closing time, parades the garden with his drum, -warning every one it is time to go. This to the children is the crown -of all the happy day. Hasten Sylvere and Yvonne--it is the little -soldier. Fall in line, Francois and Odette, we must march to the music. -Gather round Cyprille, Maurice, Victoire: follow to the rattle of the -drum. Here he comes, the little blue and red soldier. How sturdily he -beats! With what imperturbable dignity he marches amid that scampering, -jostling, laughing, shouting mob of merry-hearted children! - -“After all,” I observe, “struggle, poverty and hard work give us -moments of joy such as the rich never know. I want to put it on record, -that though we are nearly at the end of our resources, this has been -one of the happiest days of my life.” - -“I weesh you let me go to work, darleen. I make some money for help. I -sew for dressmaker if you let me.” - -“Never. How near are we to the end?” - -“I have enough for to-morrow only.” - -“That’s bad.” I didn’t say any more. A gloom fell on my spirits. - -“A letter for Monsieur,” said the concierge, as with heavy hearts and -slow steps we mounted to our rooms. I handed it to Anastasia. - -“Open it, Little Thing; it’s in your department.” - -She did so; she gave a little scream of delight. - -“Look! It’s for that article I send to _New York Monitor_. He geeve you -cheque. Let me see.... Oh, _mon Dieu_! one hundred franc! good, good, -now we are save!” - -I took it quickly. - -“One hundred francs nothing,” I said. “Young woman, you’ve got to get -next to our monetary system. That’s not one hundred francs; that’s one -hundred dollars--_five_ hundred francs. Why, what’s the matter?” - -For Anastasia had promptly fainted. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -AN UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENT - - -I ascribed Anastasia’s fainting spell to the somewhat sketchy meals -we had been having; so for the next few weeks I fed her up anxiously. -That same evening we held a special meeting of the Finance Committee to -consider our improved position. - -“Be under no illusion,” I observed as Chairman, “with reference to -our recent success. It is not, as you might imagine, the turn of the -tide. There are three reasons why this particular article was accepted: -First, it was snappy and up-to-date; second, it compared Manhattan and -Modern Babylon in a way favourable to the former; third, and chief -reason, the editor happened to have some very good cuts that he could -work in to make an attractive spread. Given these inducements, and a -temporary lack of more exciting matter, any offering can dispense with -such a detail as literary merit.” - -Here I regarded some jottings I had made on an envelope. - -“Let us now see how we stand. We started with twelve manuscripts, of -which we have sold four. There remain five more articles, and three -fairy stories. The articles I regard as time wasted. People won’t read -straight descriptive stuff; even in novels one has to sneak it in.” - -Here the Secretary regarded ruefully some manuscripts rather the worse -for postal transit. - -“Go on wasting stamps on them if you like,” I continued; “but, -candidly, they’re the wrong thing. As for the fairy stories, where are -they now?” - -“I have sent them to the _Pickadeely Magazine_.” - -“They might have some chance there. The editor devotes a certain space -to children that aren’t grown up. Now as to funds.” - -The Secretary sat down, and the Treasurer rose in her place. She stated -that there were five hundred francs in the treasury, of which a hundred -would be needed to pay the rent up to the end of September. Two hundred -francs would have to be allowed for current expenses; that would leave -a hundred for contingencies. - -“Very good,” I said; “I move that the money be expended as suggested. -And now--two blissful months of freedom from worry in which to re-write -my novel. Thank Heaven!” - -With that I plunged into my work as strenuously as before. I must -confess I re-read it with a tremor. It was bad, but--not too bad. -Unconsciously I had reverted to my yarn-spinning style, yet often in -the white heat of inspiration I had hit on the master-word just as -surely as if I had pondered half a day. However, the result as a whole -I regarded with disfavour. The work was lacking in distinction, in -reserve, in the fine art of understatement. Instead of keeping my story -well in hand I had let it gallop away with me. Truly I was incorrigible. - -“Anastasia,” I said one day, as I was about half through with my -revision, “you’re always asking if there’s no way you can help me. I -can suggest one.” - -“Oh, good! What is it?” - -“Well, I know where I can hire a typewriter for a month very cheaply. -You might try your hand at punching out this wonderful work of fiction -on it.” - -“Oh, that please me very much.” - -“All right. I’ll fetch the instrument of torture.” - -It was a very old machine, of eccentric mechanism and uncouth -appearance. With fumbling hesitation she began. About a word a minute -was her average, and that word a mistake; but rapidly she progressed. -Sometimes I would hear a vigorous: “Nom d’un Chien!” and would find -that she had gone over the same line twice. Then again, she would get -her carbon paper wrong, and the duplicate would come out on the back of -the original. At other times it was only that she had run over the edge -of the paper. - -The typewriter, too, was somewhat lethargic in action. It seemed to -say: “I’m so old in service, and my joints are so stiff--surely I -might be allowed to take my own time. If you try to hurry me I’ll get -my fingers tangled, or I’ll jam my riband, or I’ll make all kinds of -mistakes. Really, it’s time I was superannuated.” No beginner, even -in a Business School, ever tackled a more decrepit and cantankerous -machine, and it said much for her patience that she turned out such -good copy. - -So passed August and most of September--day after day of grinding -work in sweltering heat; I, pruning, piecing, chopping, changing; she -pounding patiently at that malcontent machine. Then at last, after a -long, hard day it was done. The sunshine was mellow on the roofs as I -watched her write the closing words. She handed the page to me, and, -regarding the sunlight almost sorrowfully, she folded her tired hands. - -Two tears stole down her pale cheeks. - -All at once I saw how worn and weary she was. Thin, gentle, sad--more -than ever like a child she looked, with her exquisite profile, and the -heaped-up masses of her dark hair; more than ever like a child with -her shrinking figure and her delicate pallor: yet she would soon be -nineteen. The idea came to me that in my passion of creative egotism I -had given little thought to her. - -“Why, what’s the matter, Little Thing? Are you sick?” - -She looked at me piteously. - -“Have you not see? Have you not guess?” - -“No, what?” I demanded in a tone of alarm. - -“Pretty soon you are going to be a fazzer.” - -“My God!” - -I could only gasp and stare at her. - -“Well, are you not going to kees me, and say you are not sorry?” - -“Yes, yes. There, Little Thing ... I--I’m glad.” - -But there was no conviction in my tone, and I sat gazing into vacancy. -In my intense preoccupation never had such a thing occurred to me. -It came as a shock, as something improper, as one of those brutal -realities that break in so wofully on the serenities of life. There was -a ridiculous side to it, too. I saw myself sheepishly wheeling a baby -carriage, and I muttered with set teeth: “Never!” - -“Confound it all! It’s so embarrassing,” I thought distressfully. -“It upsets my whole programme. It makes life more complex, and I am -trying to make it more simple. It gives me new responsibilities, and -my every effort is to avoid them. Worst of all, it seems to sound the -death-knell of my youth. To feel like a boy has always been my ideal of -well-being, and how can one feel like a boy with a rising son to remind -one of maturity?” - -Perhaps, however, it would be a daughter. Somehow that didn’t seem so -bad. So to change the subject I suggested that we take a walk along -the river. As we went through the Tuileries all of the western city -seemed to wallow in flame. The sky rolled up in tawny orange, and the -twin towers of the Trocadero were like arms raised in distress amid a -conflagration. The river was a welter of lilac fire, while above the -portal of the Grand Palace the chariot driver held his rearing horses -in a blaze of glory. To the east all was light and enchantment, as a -thousand windows burned like imperial gems, and tower and spire and -dome shimmered in a delicate dust of gold. - -“What a city, this Paris!” I murmured. “Add but three letters to it and -you have Paradise.” - -“Where you are, darleen, to me it is always Paradise,” said Anastasia. - -In the tranquil moods of matrimony, how is it that one shrinks so from -sentiment? On the Barbary Coasts of Love we excel in it. In books, on -the stage, we revel in it; but when it comes to the hallowed humdrum -of the home it suits us better to be curtly commonplace. This is so -hard for the Latin races to understand. They are so emotional, so -unconscious in their affection. Doubtless Anastasia put down my reserve -to coldness, but I could not help it. - -“Look here, Little Thing,” I said, as we walked home, “you mustn’t -work any more. Let’s go to the country for a week or two. Let’s go to -Fontainebleau.” - -“How we get money?” - -“We’ll use that extra hundred francs.” - -“Yes, but when that is spend?” - -“Oh, don’t worry. Something will turn up. Let’s go.” - -“If you like it. I shall love it, the rest, the good air. Just one -week.” - -“And let’s take the Môme with us. Frosine will let her go. It will be -such a treat for her. Perhaps, too, Helstern will spare a few days and -join us.” - -“Ah, it will all be so nice.” - -So next day I bundled up _Tom, Dick and Harry_, and under the name of -Silenus Starset, I sent it off to the publishers of my other novels. - -“I’ve been thinking, Little Thing,” I said, “that when we come back -we’d better give up the apartment and take a room. We can save over -twenty francs a month like that. It won’t be for long. When the novel’s -accepted, there will be an end of our troubles.” - -“Just as you like it. I’ve been very happy.” - -Helstern promised to meet us in the forest, so that afternoon with the -Môme and a hundred francs we took the train to Barbizon. If we had -not both been avid for it, that holiday would have been worth while -only to see the rapture of the Môme. It was her first sight of the -real country, and she was delirious with delight. Anastasia had a busy -time answering her questions, trying to check her excitement, gently -restraining her jerking arms and legs. Her eyes shone, her tongue -rattled, her head pivoted eagerly, and many on the train watched her -with amusement. - -As we rolled through the country of Millet, the westering sun -slanted across the level fields, catching the edges of the furrows, -and launching long shadows across the orchards. We took rooms in a -cottage in Barbizon. From the sun-baked street a step, and we were in -the thick of the forest, drowned in leafy twilight and pine-scented -solitude. And with every turn, under that canopy of laughing leaves, -the way grew wilder and more luring. The molten sunshine dripped -through branches, flooding with gold the ferny hollows, dappling with -amber the russet pathway. Down, through the cool green aisles it led -in twilights of translucent green, mid pillering oak and yielding -carpets of fine-powdered cones. And ever the rocks grew more grotesque, -taking the shapes of griffins and primordial beasts, all mottled -with that splendid moss of crimson, green, and gold. Then it grew on -one that wood nymphs were about, that fawns were peeping from the -lightning-splintered oaks, and that the spell of the forest was folding -one around. - -On the second day Helstern joined us. He was gloomily enthusiastic, -pointing out to me beauties of form and colour I would have idly -passed. He made me really feel ashamed of my crassness. What a gifted, -acute chap! But, oh, how atrabilious! - -“For Heaven’s sake, old man,” I said one day, “don’t be so pessimistic.” - -“How can a man be other than pessimistic,” he answered, “with a foot -like mine. Just think what it means. Look here.” - -Rolling up his sleeve he showed me an arm a sculptor might have raved -over. - -“If I’d been all right, what an athlete I’d have made. Look at my -torso, my other leg. And my whole heart is for action, for energy, for -deeds. Just think how much that makes life worth while is barred to me. -And I shrink from society, especially where there are women. I’m always -thinking they pity me. Oh, that’s gall and wormwood--to be pitied! I -should have a wife, children, a home, yet here I am a lonely, brooding -misanthrope; and I’m only forty-six.” - -Yet he cheered up when the Môme was near. The two were the greatest of -friends now, and it was a notable sight to see the big man with his -Forbes Robertson type of face and his iron-grey mane, leading by the -hand the little girl of five with the slender limbs, the pansy-blue -eyes, and the honey-yellow hair. - -And what exciting tales the Môme would have to tell on her return: how -they had surprised a deer nibbling at the short grass; how a wild boar -with tushes gleaming had glared at them out of the brake; how an eagle -had arisen from a lonely gorge! Then there were lizards crawling on the -silver-grey rocks, and the ceaseless calling of cuckoos, and scolding -squirrels, and drumming woodpeckers. Oh, that was the happy child! Yet -sometimes I wondered if the man was not as happy in his own way. - -He was a queer chap, was Helstern. I remember one time we all sat -together on a fallen log, and the sky seen through the black bars of -the pines was like a fire of glowing coals. Long, serene and mellow the -evening lengthened to a close. - -“You know,” said the sculptor, as he pulled steadily at the Turk’s -head pipe, and regarded the Môme thoughtfully, “I believe that all -children should be reared and educated by the State. Then there would -be no unfair handicapping of the poor: each child would find its proper -place in the world.” - -“What would you do with the home?” - -“I would surely destroy the millions of unworthy homes, stupid homes, -needy homes, bigoted homes, sordid homes. I would replace these with -a great glorious Home, run by a beneficent State, where from the -very cradle children would be developed and trained on scientific -principles, where they would be taught that the noblest effort of man -is the service of man; the most ignoble, the seeking of money. I would -teach them to live for the spiritual, not the sensual benefits of -life. Many private homes do not teach these things. Their influence is -pernicious. How many men can look back on such homes and not declare -them bungling makeshifts, either stupidly narrow, or actually unhappy?” - -“You would destroy the love ties of parent and child?” - -“Not at all. I would strengthen them. As it is, how many children -are educated away from their homes, in convents, boarding-schools, -_Lycees_? Do they love their parents any the less? No; the more, for -they do not see so much that is weak and contemptible in them. But -if mothers wish, let them enter the State nurseries and nurse their -own little ones--not according to our bungling, ignorant methods, but -according to the methods of science. Then the youngsters would not be -exposed to the anxieties that darken the average home; they would not -pick up and perpetuate the vulgarities of their parents. The child of -the pauper would be just as refined as the child of the peer. Think -what that would mean; a breaking down of all class distinction. The -word ‘gentleman’ would come into its true significance, and in a few -years we would have a new race, with new ideals, new ambitions, new -ways of thought.” - -“You would educate them, too?” - -“They would have all the education they wanted, but not in the present -way. They would be taught to examine, to reason: not to accept -blindly the beliefs of their fathers; to sift, to analyse: not to let -themselves be crammed with ready-made ideas. I would not try to turn -them all out in one mould, as the pedagogues do; I would try to develop -their originality. Question and challenge would be their attitude. I -would establish ‘Chairs of Inquiry.’ I would teach them that the circle -is not round, and that two and two do not make four. Up the great -stairway of Truth would I lead them, so that standing on its highest -point they might hew still higher steps in the rock of knowledge.” - -“And how would you pay for this national nursery nonsense?” - -“By making money uninheritable. I believe the hope of the future, the -triumph of democracy, the very salvation of the race lies in the State -education of the children. The greatest enemies of the young are the -old. Instead of the child honouring the parents, the parents should -honour the child; for if there’s any virtue in evolution the son ought -to be an improvement on the father.” - -In the growing darkness I could see the bowl of his pipe glow and fade. -I was not paying much attention to what he was saying, but there in -that scented pine-gloom it was a pleasure to listen to that rich, -vibrating voice. - -“I want to be fair, I want to be just, I want to see every man do his -share of the world’s work. Let him earn as much money as he likes, but -at his death let it revert to the State for the general education of -the race, not to pamper and spoil his own particular progeny. Let the -girls be taught the glory of motherhood, and the men military duty; -then, fully equipped for the struggle, let all go forth. How simple it -is! How sane! Yet we’re blind, so blind.” - -“Solonge is sleeping in my arms,” said Anastasia. “I sink it is time we -must go home.” - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE LIFE AND DEATH OF DOROTHY MADDEN - - -The time was drawing near when I would become a father. Yet as the hour -of my trial approached I realised that I was glad, glad. I hoped it -would be a girl; nay, I was sure it would be a girl; a little, dark, -old-fashioned girl, whose hand I would hold on my rambles, and whose -innocent mind I would watch unfolding like a flower. And I would call -her ... yes, I would call her Dorothy. - -Dorothy! How sweet the name sounded! But no sweeter than my little -daughter--of that I was sure. I could feel her hand, small as a rose -leaf, nestling in mine; see her innocent, tarn-brown eyes gazing upward -into my face. Then as she ran and eagerly plucked a vagrant blossom I -would weave about it some charming legend. I would people the glade -with fairies for her, and the rocks with gnomes. In her I would live -over again my own wonderful childhood. She, too, would be a dreamer, -sharing that wonderful kingdom of mine, understanding me as no other -had ever done. - -Then when she grew up, what a wonderful woman she would be! How proud -she would be of me! How, in old age, when my hair grew white, and my -footsteps faltered, she would take my arm, and together we would walk -round the old garden in the hush of eventide. - -“Wonderful destiny!” I cried, inspired by the sentimental pictures -unfolding themselves before me. “I can see myself older yet, an -octogenarian. My back is bent, my hair is snowy white, I have a -venerable beard, and kindly eyes that shine through gold-rimmed -spectacles. A tartan shawl is round my shoulders, and my hands, as they -rest on my silver-headed cane, are glazed and crinkly. But, crowning -glory! Greater than that array of children of my mind for which men -give me honour, are the children of my flesh who play around my knee, -my grandchildren. There will be such a merry swarm of them, and in -their joyous laughter I will grow young again. Oh, blessed destiny! To -be a father is much; but to be a grandfather so infinitely nobler--and -less trouble.” - -The more I thought over it, the more I became impressed. My imminent -paternity became almost an obsession with me. My marriage had surprised -me. No time had I to embroider it with the flowers of fancy, but -this was different. So engrossed did I become with a sense of my own -importance that you would have thought no one had ever become a father -before. In my enthusiasm I told Lorrimer of my interesting condition, -but the faun-like young man rather damped my ardour. - -“Marriage,” he observed, in his usual cynical manner, “is a lottery, -in which the prizes are white elephants. But Fatherhood, that’s the -sorriest of gambles. True, as you suggest, your daughter may marry the -President of the United States, but on the other hand she may turn out -to be another Brinvilliers. She may be a Madame de Staël and she may be -a Pompadour. Then again, you may have a family of a dozen.” - -“But I won’t,” I protested indignantly. - -“Well, just suppose. You may have a dozen ordinary respectable -tax-payers and one rotter. Don’t you think the black sheep will -discount all your successful efforts? Really, old man, you’re taking -an awful chance. Then after all it’s an ungrateful business. The girls -get married and enter the families of their husbands; the boys either -settle far away, or get wives you don’t approve of. Anyway, you lose -them. At the worst you beget a criminal, at the best an ingrate. It’s a -poor business. However, cheer up, old man: we’ll hope for the best.” - -Helstern, on the other hand, took a different view of it. The sculptor -was sombrely enthusiastic. - -“You must let me do a group of it, Madden. I’ll call it the First-born. -I’m sure I could take a gold medal with it.” - -He led me to a café and in his tragic tones ordered beer in which we -drank to the health of the First-born. - -“Just think of it,” he rolled magnificently, his visionary instincts -aroused; “just think of that little human soul waiting to be born, and -it’s you that give it the chance to enter this world. Oh, happy man! -Just think of all the others, the countless hosts of the unborn waiting -their turn. Why, it’s an inspiring sight, these wistful legions, -countless as the sands of the sea. And it’s for us to welcome them, to -be the means of opening the door to as many as possible, to give them -beautiful bodies to enter into, and to make the world more pleasant -for them to dwell in. Now, there’s a glorious ambition for us all. Let -parenthood be the crowning honour of life. Let it be the duty of the -race to so improve conditions that there will be the right kind of -welcome waiting for them--that they will be fit and worthy in body and -soul to live the life that is awaiting them.” - -He drank deeply from his big stein, and wiped some foam from his lips. - -“Why, it’s more than an ambition: it’s a religion. The Japanese -worship the Dead; let us worship the Unborn, the great races who are -to come, the people we are going to help to make great. For on us it -all depends, on us to-day. Every action of ours is like a pebble thrown -in a still sea, the waves of which go rippling down eternity. Yes, -let us realise our responsibility to the Unborn, and govern our lives -accordingly in grace and goodliness. There! that goes to the very heart -of all morality--to live our best, not because we are expecting to be -rewarded, but because we are making for generations to come better -bodies, better homes, better lives. And they in their turn will realise -their duty to the others that are crowding on, and make the world still -worthier for their occupation.” - -He filled his Turk’s head pipe thoughtfully. - -“I want to go further,” he went on, “but the rest is more fanciful. I -believe that the armies of the Unborn know that it all depends on us -here to-day what kind of deal they are going to get, and in their vast, -blind way they are trying to influence us. I like to think that that -is the great impulse towards good we all feel, the power that in spite -of selfishness, is gradually lifting us onward and upward. It is the -multitude to come, trying in their blind, pitiful way to influence us, -to make us better. There they wait, the soldiers of the future, ready -to take up the great fight, to carry the banner of freedom, happiness, -and mutual love to the golden goal of universal brotherhood. Truly I -worship the Unborn.” - -He lit his pipe solemnly. - -“Then, let me congratulate you, Madden. You are a very lucky man.” - -Much cheered I thanked him and, absorbed in my dreams of paternity, -continued to tramp the streets. All the time I was seeing that slim -little girl of mine, with her long dark hair, her hazel eyes, her -quaint, old-fashioned ways. And as the day drew near she grew more and -more real to me. I could feel her caressing arms around my neck, and -her rosebud mouth pressed to mine. Truly she was the most adorable -child that ever lived. - -One piece of luck we had at this period: The fairy stories were -accepted by the _Piccadilly Magazine_ and we got ten pounds for them, -thus saving the situation once again. - -When the time came that we should obtain a new lodging I had taken a -room in the rue D’Assas, but I was immediately sorry, for I discovered -that it overlooked the Maternity Hospital Tarnier. The very first -morning I saw a young woman coming out with a new baby. She was a mere -girl, hatless and all alone, and she cried very bitterly. - -Then that night, as I was preparing to ascend the stairs, I heard -terrible shrieks coming from the great, gloomy building as if some -woman within were being painfully murdered. For a moment I paused, -stricken with horror. There was a cab drawn up close by, and the -_cocher_ was pacing beside it. He was the typical Parisian cab-driver, -corpulent and rubicund, the product of open air, no brain worry, and -generous living. He indicated the direction of the appalling cries: -“The world’s not coming to an end just yet,” he observed with a great -rosy grin. - -Nor was the view from our window conducive of more cheerful thoughts. -I could look right down into one of the wards, a great, barn-like -place, mathematically monotonous, painfully clean. There were the white -enamelled beds, each with its face of pain on the pillow, its tumbled -bedding, agony-twisted or still in apathy. Then in the night I suddenly -started, for once again I heard those awful sounds. They began as long, -half-stifled moans ... then screams, each piercing, sharp-edged with -agony, holding a strange note of terror ... then shriek upon shriek -till the ultimate expression of human agony seemed to be reached ... -then sudden silence. - -At least twice during the night this would happen, and often in the -morning there would be a dismal little funeral cortége standing outside -the gates: a man dabbing red eyes with a handkerchief would herd some -blubbering children into a carriage, and drive after a hearse in which -lay a coffin. It was all very melancholy, and preyed on my spirits. -I wondered how people could live here always; but no doubt they got -hardened. No doubt this was why we got our room so cheaply. - -Then at last the day came when Little Thing held me very tightly, gave -me a long, hard kiss and left me, to pass through that portal of pain. -Back I went to the room again. How empty it seemed now! I was miserable -beyond all words. I had dinner at the Lilas, and for two hours sat -moodily brooding over my coffee. What amazed me was that other men -could go through this trial time after time and take it with such -calmness. The long-haired poets, the _garçons_ with their tight, white -aprons--were they fathers too? A girl came and sat by me, a girl with -high cheek-bones, snake-like eyes, and a mouth like a red scar. I rose -with dignity, sought my room and my bed. - -There I fell into a troubled doze in which I dreamed of Dorothy. -She had grown up and had made her _début_ as an operatic star with -overwhelming success. How proud I was of her! Then suddenly as I gazed, -she changed to the young woman of the café, who had looked at me so -meaningly. I awoke with a crushing sense of distress. - -Hark! Was that a scream? It seemed to cleave my very heart. But then -it might be some one else. There was no distinguishing quality in -these screams. Trull or princess they were all alike, just plain -mothers crying in their agony. No, I could not tell ... but it was too -terrible. I dressed hurriedly and went out into the streets. - -At three in the morning Paris is a city of weird fascination. It turns -to us a new side, sinister, dark, mysterious. Even as the rats gather -in its gutters, so do the human rats take possession of its pavements. -Every one you meet seems on evil bent, and in the dim half-light you -speculate on their pursuits. Here come two sauntering demireps with -complexions of vivid certainty; there a rake-hell reels homeward -from the night dens of Montmartre; now it is a wretched gatherer of -cigarette stubs, peering hawk-eyed as he shambles along; then two dark, -sallow youths, with narrow faces, glinting eyes, and unlit cigarettes -in their cynical mouths--the sinister Apache. - -Coming up the Boul’ Mich’ were a stream of tumbrels from the Halles, -and following their trail I came on a scene bewildering in its movement -and clamour. The carts that had been arriving since the previous -night had gorged the ten pavilions that form the great Paris Market -till they overflowed far into the outlying streets. The pavements were -blocked with heaps of cabbages and cauliflowers, carrots and turnips, -celery and asparagus, while a dozen different kinds of salad gleamed -under the arc-lights with a strange unnatural viridity. In other parts -of the market crates of chickens and rabbits were being dumped on the -pavements; fresh fish from the coast were being unloaded in dripping, -salty boxes; and a regiment of butchers in white smocks were staggering -under enough sides of beef to feed an army. - -What an orgy of colour it was! You might pass from the corals and -ivorys of the vegetable market to the fierce crimsons of the meat -pavilion; from the silver greys of the section devoted to fish, to the -golden yellows of the hall dedicated to butter, and cheese. There were -a dozen shades of green alone--from the light, glossy green of the -lettuce to the dull green of the cress; a dozen shades of red--from the -pale pink of the radish to the dark crimson of the beet. - -Through this tumult of confusion I pushed my way. Hurrying porters in -red night-caps, with great racks of osier strapped on their backs, -rushed to and fro, panting, and dripping with sweat. Strapping -red-faced women with the manner of men ordered them about. A -self-reliant race, these women of the Halles, accustomed to hold their -own in the fierce struggle of competition, to eat and drink enormously, -to be exposed to the weather in all seasons. Their voices are raucous, -their eyes sharp, their substantial frames swathed in many layers of -clothes. Their world is the market; they were born in its atmosphere, -they will die with its clamour in their ears. - -And from the surrounding slums what a sea of misery seemed to wash up! -At this time you may see human flotsam that is elsewhen invisible. In -the bustling confusion of the dawn the human rats slink out of their -holes to gain a few sous; not much--just four sous for soup and bread, -four sous for a corner in the dosshouse, and a few sous for cognac. -Here flourish all the _métiers_ of misery. I saw five old women whose -combined ages must have made up four hundred years, huddled together -for warmth, and all sunk in twitching, shuddering sleep. I saw outcast -men with livid faces and rat-chewed beards, whose clothes rotted on -their rickety frames. I saw others dazed from a debauch, goggle-eyed, -blue-lipped pictures of wretchedness. And the drinking dens in the -narrow streets vomited forth more wanton women, and malevolent men, -till it seemed to me that never does misery seem so pitiable, never -vice so repulsive, as when it swirls round those teeming pavilions at -four o’clock of a raw, rainy morning. - -Suddenly I stopped to look at a female of unusual height and robust -rotundity. A woman merchant of the markets, seemingly of substance no -less than of flesh. Her voice was deep and hoarse, her eyes hard and -grim, and the firmness of her mouth was accentuated by a deliberate -moustache. A masculine woman. A truculent, overbearing woman. A very -virago of a woman. Her complexion was of such a hard redness, her Roman -nose so belligerent. On her bosom, which outstood like the seat of a -fauteuil, reposed a heavy gold chain and locket. On her great, red -wrists were bracelets of gold; and on her hands, which looked as if -they could deliver a sledge-hammer blow, sparkled many rings. Beside -this magnificent termagant her perspiring porters looked pusillanimous. -“Here,” thought I, “is the very Queen of the Halles.” - -She was enthroned amid a pile of wicker crates containing large grey -shells. As I looked closer I saw that the grey shells contained grey -snails, and that those on the top of the heap were peering forth and -shooting out tentative grey horns. Some of them were even crawling up -the basket work. Then as I watched them curiously a label on the crate -caught my eye and I read: - - MADAME SÉRAPHINE GUINOVAL - Marchande d’Escargots - Les Halles, Paris. - -“Guinoval,” I thought: “that’s odd. Surely I’ve heard that name before. -Why, it’s the maiden name of Anastasia. The name of this enormous -woman, then, is Guinoval. Sudden idea! Might it not be that there is -some relationship between them?” But the contrast between my slight, -shrinking Anastasia with her child-like face and this dragoon of a -woman was so great that I dismissed the idea as absurd. - -I was very tired when I reached home. I had been afoot four hours, and -dropping on my bed I fell asleep. About eleven o’clock I awoke with a -vague sense of fear. Something had happened, I felt. Hurrying down, I -entered the hospital. - -“Yes,” they told me; “my wife had been confined during the night. She -was very weak, but doing well.” - -“And the child,” I asked, trying to conceal my eagerness. “Was it a boy -or a girl?” - -“The child, Monsieur, was a girl” (how my heart leapt); “but -unfortunately it--had not lived.” - -“Dead!” I stammered; then after a stunned moment: - -“Can I see her? Can I see my child?” - -So they took me to something that lay swathed in linen. I started with -a curious emotion of pain. That! so grotesque, so pitiful,--that, the -gracious girl who was going to be so much to me, the sweet companion -who was going to understand me as no one else could, the precious -comfort of my declining years! Oh, the bitter mockery of it! - -And so next day, alone in a single cab I took to the cemetery all that -was mortal of Dorothy Madden. - - -END OF BOOK II - - - - -BOOK III--THE AWAKENING - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE STRESS OF THE STRUGGLE - - -“Look here, Madden, you really ought to try and shake off your -melancholy,” said Helstern, as we sat in front of the Café Soufflet. - -“To hear you call me melancholy,” I retorted, “is like hearing the pot -call the kettle black. And anyway you’ve never lost an only child.” - -“I believe you’re a little mad,” said the sculptor, observing me -closely. - -“Are we not all of us just a little mad? Would you have us entirely -sane? What a humdrum world that would be! I hate people who are so -egregiously sane.” - -“But you’re letting this idea of yours altogether obsess you. You’ve -created an imaginary child, just as you might have created one in -fiction, only ten times more vividly. Then when the earthly frame into -which it was to pass proves too frail to hold it you refuse to let it -die. You keep on thinking: ‘My daughter! my daughter!’ And spiritually -you reach out to a being that only exists in your imagination.” - -“She doesn’t, Helstern; that’s where you’re wrong. I thought so at -first, but now I know. She really exists, exists in that wonderful -world we can only dimly conjecture. She sought for admission to this -our world and it was denied her; but she lives in the spirit. She will -grow up in the spirit; and, even as if she were a child of the flesh, I -who loved her so well have her always.” - -“Rubbish! Look here, I see what’s the matter with you. You’ve got the -fictionists’ imagination. This is only a creature of your brain. Kill -it, as Dickens killed little Dombey, as the female novelists kill their -little Willies and little Evas. Kill it.” - -“Man, would you make a parricide of me? Murder is not done with hands -alone. I loved this child as never in my life have I loved any one. -It’s strange--I don’t believe I ever did really love any one before. -I’ve had an immense affection for people; but for Dorothy I would have -died.” - -“You make me tired, man. She’s not real.” - -“She is--to me; and supposing for a moment that she isn’t, is it not -the case that we can never care for real persons with their faults and -follies as we can for our idealised abstractions? We never really love -any one till we’ve lost them. But, as you say, I must rouse myself.” - -“Why, of course. Granted that she really exists in the spirit, let -her presence be a sweetness and an inspiration to you, not a gnawing -sorrow. Buck up!” - -“You’re right. I must get to my writing at once. After all I have my -wife to think of. She loves me.” - -“She surely does, devotedly. You have a treasure in her, and you don’t -realise it.” - -“I suppose not. My work takes so much of the power of feeling out of -me. My emotional life is sacrificed to it. The world I create is more -real to me than the world about me. I don’t think the creative artist -should marry. He only makes an apology for a husband.” - -“Well, I think a man with the artistic temperament ought to marry a -woman who can look after him from the material side. She should be -a buffer between him and the world, always willing to keep in the -background and never be a constraint on him. A real genius, on the -other hand, ought never to marry. He’s altogether too impossible a -person. But then, Madden, you know you’re not a genius.” - -He said this so oddly that I burst out laughing, and with that I felt -my grey mood lifting. - -“By the way,” said Helstern, just as we were parting, “I don’t like -to mention it, but what with hospital expenses and so on you’ve been -having a pretty hard time of it lately. I’ve just had my quarterly -allowance--more money than I know what to do with. If a hundred francs -would be of any use to you I’ll never miss it.” - -I was going to refuse; but the thought that the offer was made in such -a generous spirit made me hesitate; and the further thought that at the -moment all the money I had was ten francs, made me accept. So Helstern -handed me a pinkish bank note. - -“I don’t know how to thank you,” I said. “But don’t be afraid, I’ll -pay you back one of these days. You know I’ve got a novel knocking -around the publishers. When it gets accepted I’ll be on velvet. In the -meantime this will help to keep the pot a-boiling. That reminds me I -must find a new place to hole up in. Do you know of any vacant rooms in -your quarter?” - -“In the famous Quartier Mouffetard? Come with me and we’ll have a -look.” - -The result was that for a rent of twenty francs a month I found myself -the tenant of a spacious garret in the rue Gracieuse. So, feeling well -pleased, I returned to the room in the rue D’Assas to gather together -our few effects. I was so engaged when a knock came to the door and the -little Breton _bonne_ appeared. - -“A lady to see Monsieur.” - -I rose from the heap of soiled linen I was trying to compress into as -small bulk as possible. - -“Show her in,” I said with some surprise. - -Then there entered one whom I had almost forgotten--Lucretia. - -My first thought was: “Thank God! my wife isn’t here!” My second: “How -can I get rid of her?” It is true I have always tried to make life more -like fiction, to drench it with romance, to cultivate it in purple -patches. Here, then, was a dramatic situation I might have used in -one of my novels; here was a sentimental scene I might develop most -artistically; and now my whole panting, perspiring anxiety was not to -develop it. “Confound it!” I thought, “this should never have happened. -Why can’t fiction stay where it belongs?” - -Lucretia was dressed with some exaggeration. Her split skirt showed a -wedge of purple stocking almost to the knee. Her blouse, too, was of -purple, a colour that sets my teeth on edge. She wore a mantle of prune -colour, and a toque of crushed strawberry velvet with an imitation -aigrette. The gilt heels of her shoes were so high that she was obliged -to walk in the mincing manner of the mannequin. - -She offered me a languid hand and subsided unasked on the sofa. Her -lips were Cupid’s bows of vermilion, and her complexion was a work of -art. She regarded me with some defiance; then she spoke in excellent -French. - -“Well, _mon ami_, I have come. You thought to leave me there in Napoli, -but I have followed you. Now, what are you going to do about it?” - -“Do!” I said, astounded. “Why, you have no claim on me!” - -“I have no claim on you. _You_ say that--you who have stolen my heart, -you who have made me suffer. You cannot deny that you have run away -from me.” - -“I don’t deny it. I did run away from you; but it was to save you, to -save us both. I have done you no wrong.” - -“Ah! you thought so. To leave one who loved you in that way. That is -like the Englishman.” - -“But good heavens!” I cried, half distracted, “I thought I acted for -the best.” - -“I love you still,” she went on; “I have traced you here; I am -friendless, alone, in this great and cruel city. What must I do?” - -As she said these words, Lucretia, after seeing that she possessed -a handkerchief, applied it to her eyes so as not to disturb their -cosmetic environment, and wept carefully. There was no doubting the -genuineness of her grief. I was touched. After all had I not roused a -romantic passion in this poor girl’s heart? Was she not the victim of -my fatal charms? My heart ached for her. I would have sat down on the -sofa by her side and tried to comfort her, but prudence forbade. - -“I’m sorry,” I said, “but how can I help you? I have no money, and my -wife is in the hospital.” - -“Your wife!” - -“Yes; I’m married.” - -“Not one of those girls I saw you with in the café that night?” - -“Yes; the small one.” - -“A--h.” She prolonged the exclamation. Then she delicately dried her -eyes. “That is different. What if I tell your wife how you treated me?” - -“But I’ve done you no harm.” - -“Would she believe that, do you think?” - -“Hum! no! I don’t think she would. But what good would it do? You would -only cause suffering and estrangement, and you would gain nothing. I -told you I had no money to give you.” - -Looking around the shabby room she saw the soiled linen I was trying to -do into a newspaper parcel. This evidently convinced her I was speaking -the truth. - -“Bah!” she said, “why do you insult me with offers of money? If you -offered me ten thousand francs at this moment I would refuse them. What -I want is help, sympathy.” - -“Oh! If it’s sympathy you want,” I said eagerly, “I’m there. I’ve -gallons of it on tap. But help--what can I do?” - -“You have friends you can introduce me to. Can you not find me work -of some kind? Anything at all that will bring me an honest living. -Remember I am only a poor, weak woman, and I love you.” - -Here she showed signs of weeping again. - -“Well,” I said, touched once more, “I don’t know. The men I know are -all artists.” Then an idea shot through me like a bullet. To cure a -woman who is infatuated with you, introduce her to some man who is -more fascinating than yourself. But to whom could I transfer this -embarrassing affection? Helstern? He was out of the question. Lorrimer? -Ah, there was the man. Handsome, debonnaire Lorrimer; Lorrimer who -prided himself on being such a Lothario; whom I had heard say: “Why -should I wrong the sex whose privilege it is to love me by permitting -any one member to monopolise me?” Yes, Lorrimer should be the lucky -one. So I said: - -“Let me see: you would not care to pose for the artists, would you?” - -“Ah, yes, I think that would suit me very well indeed.” - -“Well, then, I’ll give you the address of an artist friend. He’s poor, -but he knows every one. Perhaps he can help you. At least there will be -no harm in trying.” - -So I gave her Lorrimer’s address, and she seemed more than grateful. - -“Thank you very much. Shall I see you again soon?” - -“Perhaps; but remember, not a word of Napoli.” - -“No; trust me. I am very discreet. Well, _au revoir_.” - -With that she took her departure, and once more I felt that I had -emerged successfully from a dangerous situation. - -On the following day I hired a _voiture à bras_, and loading on it -my few poor sticks of furniture I easily pulled the load to my new -residence. Once there, it was surprising how soon I made the place -homelike. Anastasia was coming out of the hospital the following -day, and I was intensely eager that everything should be cheerful. -Fortunately, the window admitted much sunlight, and the slope of the -roof lent itself to quaint and snug effects of decoration. I really did -wonders with drapings of cheap cotton, made a lounge and a cosy corner -out of cushions, contrived a wardrobe (in view of an increase in our -prosperity), and constructed two cunning cupboards within which all -articles of mere utility were hid from sight. - -Lorrimer dropped in and gave me a hand with the finishing touches. -He also loaned me three lifesize paintings in oil to adorn my walls. -They were studies for the forthcoming Salon picture that was to mark -a crisis in his career, and showed Rougette in different poses of the -nude. I did not think it worth while to say anything about Lucretia -just then. - -Helstern, too, came to see how things were progressing and contributed -two clay figures, also of the nude; so that by the time everything was -finished my garret had become quite a startling repository of feminine -loveliness unadorned. The following morning I bought several bunches of -flowers from a barrow, at two sous a bunch, and arranged them about the -room. Then my two friends insisted on bringing up a supply of food and -preparing lunch. - -So I went off to the hospital to fetch Anastasia. I felt as excited as -a child, and for the moment very happy. I had been to see her for a few -moments every day, when she would hold my hand and sometimes carry it -to her lips. She was of a deathly whiteness and more like a child than -ever. As she came out leaning on my arm I saw another of those sobbing -girls leaving the hospital with her baby. - -“What an irony!” I said. “There’s a girl would give anything not to -have that infant. It’s a reproach and a disgrace to her. It will only -drag her down, prevent her making a living. It will be brought up in -misery. And we who wanted one so much, and would have made it so happy, -must go away empty-handed.” - -“Yes,” she answered, with a sob in her throat; “the doctaire tell me -nevaire must I have anuzzer. He tell me it will keel me. And I want so -much--oh, I want leetle child!” - -Hailing a cab, we were soon at our new home. She did not seem to take -much interest; yet, when she heard the sounds of welcome from within, -she brightened up. Then when the door was thrown open she gave a little -gasp of pleasure. - -“Oh, I’m glad, I’m glad.” - -For Lorrimer had painted a banner, _Welcome Home_, above the fireplace; -the sunshine flooded in; the flowers were everywhere, and a wondrous -lunch was spread on the table. Then suddenly the two artists, standing -on either side of the doorway, put mirlitons to their mouths and -burst into the Marseillaise. They wrung her hand, and even (with my -permission) saluted her on both cheeks; and she was so rarely glad to -see them that her eyes shone with tears. So after all her homecoming -was far from a sad one. - -And after lunch and the good bottle of Pommard that Helstern had -provided we discussed plans and prospects with the hope and enthusiasm -of beginners; while she listened, but more housewife-like took stock of -her new home and its practical possibilities. - -Next day I began work again. My idea was to completely ignore my own -ideals and turn out stuff according to magazine formula. I had made -an analysis of some thirty magazine stories; it only remained to -mix them according to recipe and serve hot. I continued to hire the -rheumatic typewriter, and composed straight on to the machine, so that -I accomplished at least one story a day. - -Once more Anastasia took charge of the forwarding, but she seemed to -have less enthusiasm now. It was as if her severe illness had taken -something out of her. All the money I had been able to give her was -seventy francs, and this was not very heartening. She got out her -_métier_ again; but she would often pause in her work as if her back -pained her, and rub her eyes as if they too ached. Then with stubborn -patience she would resume her toil. - -One morning the manuscript of _Tom, Dick and Harry_ was returned from -the publisher, with a note to say that “at that time when the taste of -the public was all for realistic fiction work of fancy stood little -chance of success without a well-known name on the cover. As the policy -of the firm was conservative they were obliged to return it.” - -How I laughed over this letter. How bitterly, I thought, they would be -chagrined when they found out who the unknown Silenus Starset was. I -was even maliciously glad, and, chuckling, sent off the manuscript on -another voyage of adventure. - -I fairly bombarded the magazines with short stories. There was not one -of any standing that was not holding a manuscript of mine. And such -manuscripts, some of them! I was amazed at my cheek in offering them. I -would select one of my twelve stock plots, alter the setting, give it a -dexterous twist or two, and shoot it off. My mark was a minimum of a -manuscript a day, and grimly I stuck to it. - -For three weeks I kept pounding away on my clacking typewriter. It was -costing us a small income in stamps, and economy of the most rigid kind -had to be practised in other ways. We gave up eating ordinary meat and -took to patronising the _Boucherie Chevaline_. I came to appreciate -a choice mule steak, and considered an _entrecôte_ of ass a special -delicacy. We made salads of _poiret_, which is called the poor man’s -asparagus. We drank _vin ordinaire_ at eight _sous_ a litre and our -bread was of the coarsest. Down there in the rue Mouffetard it was no -trouble to purchase with economy, for everything was sold from that -standpoint. - -I think the rue Mouffetard deserves a special page of description, -because it contains the elements of all Paris slumdom. From the steep -and ancient rue St. Geneviève de Montagne branches the dismal rue -Descartes. It runs between tall, dreary houses, growing gradually more -sordid; then suddenly, as if ashamed of itself, it changes its name to -the rue Mouffetard, and continues its infamous way. - -The street narrows to the width of a lane and the houses that flank it -grow colder, blacker, more decrepit. The pavement on either side is a -mere riband, and the cobbled way is overrun with the ratlike humanity -spewed forth from the sinister houses. The sharp gables and raking -roofs, out of which windows like gaping sores make jagged openings, -notch themselves grotesquely against the sky. Their faces are gnawed by -the teeth of time and grimy with the dust of ages. Their windows are -like blind eyes, barred and repulsive. The doors that burrow into them -are nothing but black holes, so narrow that two people passing have to -turn sideways, so dark that it is like entering a charnel house. - -Nearly every second shop is a _chope_, a _buvette_, a saloon. At one -point there are four clustered together. Some of these drinking dens -are so narrow they seem mere holes in the wall, scarcely any wider than -the width of their own door, and running back like dark cupboards. And -in them, with their heads together and their elbows on the tiny tables -you can see the ferret-faced Poilo, and Gigolette, his gosse, of the -greasy and elaborate coiffure. Hollow-cheeked, glittering of eye, light -as a cat, cunning, cynical, cruel, he smokes a cigarette; while she, -brazen, claw-fingered, rapacious, sips from his Pernod. - -At the butchers’ only horse-meat is sold. A golden horse usually -surmounts the door, overlooking a sign--_Boucherie Chevaline_, or -sometimes _Boucherie Hyppagique_. The meat is very dark; the fat very -yellow; and there are festoons of red sausages, very red and glossy. -One shop bears the sign “House of Confidence.” There are other signs, -such as “Mule of premier quality,” “Ass of first choice.” - -As you descend the street you get passing glimpses of inner courts of -hideous squalor, of side streets, narrow and resigned to misery. Daring -odours pollute the air and the way is now packed with wretchedness. -Grimy women, whose idea of a _coiffure_ is to get their matted hair -out of the way, trudge draggle-skirted by the side of husky-throated, -undersized men whose beards bristle brutishly. Bands of younger men -hang around the bars. They wear peaked caps and have woollen scarfs -around their throats. They look at the well-dressed passer-by with -furtive speculation. They live chiefly on the brazen girls who parade -up and down, with their hair coiled over their ears, clawed down in -front, sleek with brilliantine and studded with combs. - -Then, as the narrow, tortuous street plunges down to the _carrefour_ of -the Gobelins it becomes violently commercial, a veritable market jammed -with barrows, studded with stalls, strident with street cries of all -kinds. - -Here it is that Anastasia does her marketing. It is wonderful how much -she can bring home for a franc, sometimes enough to fill the net bag -she carries on her arm. She never wears a hat on these expeditions; it -is safer without one. - -Three weeks gone; twenty stories written. I throw myself back in -weariness and despair. It is hard work doing three thousand words -a day, especially when one has to make a second copy for the clean -manuscript. I began at eight in the morning and worked till ten at -night. My face was thin, my checks pale, my eyes full of fag and -stress. How I despised the work I was doing! the shoddy, sentimental -piffle, the anæmic twaddle, the pandering to the vulgar taste for -stories of the upper circles. Ordinary folk not being sufficiently -interesting for a snobbish public my heroes were seldom less than -baronets. It got at last that every stroke of my typewriter jarred some -sensitive nerve of pain in me--“Typewriter nerves” they call it. Then -one night I gave up. - -“I won’t do another of these wretched things,” I cried; “I’m worked -out. I feel as if my brain was mush, just so much sloppy stuff.” - -“You must take rest, darleen. You work too hard.” - -“Yes, rest in some far South Sea Island where I can forget that books -and typewriters exist. I’m heart-sick of the vampire trade. Well, I’ve -reached my limit. To-morrow I’m just going out to the Luxembourg to -loaf. Oh, that lovely word! I’m going to sit and watch the children -watching the Guignol, and laugh when they laugh. That’s all I’m equal -to--the Guignol.” - -And I did. Full of sweet, tired melancholy I sat listlessly under the -trees, gazing at that patch of eager, intense, serious, uproarious, -utterly enchanted faces, planted in front of the immortal Punch and -Judy show. Oh, to have written that little drama! Everything else -could go. Oh, to play on the emotions like an instrument, as it played -on the emotions of these little ones! What an audience! How I envied -them their fresh keen joy of appreciation! I felt so jaded, so utterly -indifferent to all things. Yet I reflected to some extent their -enthusiasm. I gaped with them, I laughed with them, I applauded with -them. - -Then with a suddenness that is overwhelming came the thought of my own -little dream-child, she who in years to come should have taken her -place in that hilarious band. After all, the November afternoon was -full of sadness. The withered leaves were underfoot, and the vague -despondency of the waning year hung heavily around me. Suddenly all joy -seemed to go clean out of life, and slowly I returned to the wretched -quarter in which I lived. - -These were the sad days for us both, grey days of rain and boding. -Early and late she would work at her embroidery, yet often look at me -with a sigh. Then my manuscripts began to come back. Luckily, two were -accepted, one by a society weekly, the other by a woman’s journal. -The latter was to be paid for on publication; but I wrote pleading -necessity for the money and it was forthcoming. The two netted us three -pounds ten, enough to pay the rent and tide us over for another month. - -Once more _Tom, Dick and Harry_ was returned, and once more gallantly -despatched. About this time I began to lose all confidence in myself. -On one occasion I said to her: - -“See, Little Thing, what a poor husband you have. He can’t even support -you.” - -“I have the best husband in the world. Courage, darleen. Everything -will come yet very right I know.” - -“If only our child had lived,” I said moodily, gazing at the sodden, -sullen sky. - -Sitting with her hands folded in her lap she did not answer. I saw that -she drew back from her beautiful embroidery so that a slow-falling tear -would not stain it. - -“You know,” I went on, “I can’t believe we’ve lost her. Seems to me -she’s with us. I let myself think of her too much. I can’t help it. I -loved her. God, how I loved her! I never loved any one else like that.” - -She looked at me piteously, but I did not see. - -And next day, in a pouring rain, I walked to the cemetery and stood for -an hour by an almost indistinguishable little grave. I got back, as -they say, “wet as the soup,” and contracted a severe chill. Anastasia -made me stay in bed, and looked after me like a mother. - -Yes, these were sad days; and there were times when I felt moved -to own defeat, to acknowledge success, to accept, the fortune I had -gained. Then I ground my teeth. - -“No, I won’t. I’m hanged if I do. I’ll play the game, and in spite of -it all I’ll win.” - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE DARKEST HOUR - - -The past month has been the hardest we have yet experienced. After -paying the rent we had about fifty francs to keep the house going. -Not that it mattered much; for we both had such listless appetites -and ate next to nothing. I refused to do any more pot-boiling work. -For distraction I turned again to the study of the Quartier, to my -browsings in its ancient by-ways. Amid these old streets that, like a -knot of worms, cluster around the Pantheon, I managed to conjure up -many a ghost of bygone Bohemia. As a result I began a series of three -papers which I called _Demi-gods in the Dust_. They were devoted to -the last sad days of De Musset, Verlaine and Wilde, those strong souls -whose _liaisons_ with the powers of evil plunged them to the utter -depths. - -The rue Gracieuse, where we reside, is probably one of the least -gracious streets of Paris. Its lower end is grubbily respectable, its -upper, glaringly disreputable. It is in the latter we have our room. -The houses are small, old, mean, dirty. There are four drinking dens, -and the cobbles ring to the clang of wooden shoes. The most prominent -building is a _hôtel meublé_, a low, leprous edifice with two windows -real, and four false. The effect of these dummy windows painted on the -stone is oddly sinister. Underneath is a drinking den of unsavoury -size, and opposite an old junk shop. At night the street is feebly lit -by two gas lamps that sprout from the wall. - -Luckily, our window faces the rue Monge. If it fronted on the -rue Saint-Médard we should be unable to live there, for the rue -Saint-Médard, in spite of the apostolic nomenclature, is probably the -most disgusting street in Paris. - -It is old, three hundred years or more, and the houses that engloom -it are black, corroded and decrepit. Its lower end is blocked by -the aforesaid hostel of the blind windows, its upper is narrow and -wry-necked where the Hôtel des Bons Garçons bulges into it. Between -the two is a dim, verminous gulf of mildewed masonry. The timid, -well-dressed person pauses on its threshold and turns back. For the -police seldom trouble it, and the stranger parsing through has a -sense of being in some desperate cul-de-sac, and at the mercy of a -villainous, outlawed population. They crawl to their doors to stare -resentfully at the intruder, often call harshly after him, and -sometimes stand right in the way, with an insolent, provocative leer. -A glance round shows that other figures have cut off the retreat from -behind, and for a moment one has a sense of being trapped. It is quite -a relief to gain the comparative security of the rue Mouffetard. - -But what gives the rue Saint-Médard its character of supreme -loathsomeness is because it is the headquarters of the _chiffoniers_. -These hereditary scavengers, midden-rakers, ordure-sifters, monopolise -its disease-ridden ruins, living in their immemorial dirt. They are -creatures of the night, yet one may sometimes see a few of them -shambling forth to blink with bleary eyes at the sun, their hair long -and matted, the dirt grained into their skins, their clothes corroded, -their boots agape at the seams--very spawn of the ashpit. - -And oh, the odour of the street! The mere memory makes me feel a -nausea. It is the acrid odour of decay, of ageless, indomitable -squalor. It assails you the moment you enter that gap of ramshackle -ruins, pungent, penetrating, almost palpable. It is the choking odour -of an ash-bin, an ash-bin that is very old and is almost eaten away by -its own putridity. - -Then on a Sunday morning when the rue Mouffetard is such a carnival -of sordid satisfactions the snake-like head of the rue Saint-Médard -is devoted to the _marché pouilleux_. Here come the _chiffoniers_ -and spread out the treasures they have discovered during the week. -Over a great array of his wares, all spread out on mildewed sheets of -newspaper, stands an old _chiffonier_ in a stove-pipe hat. He also -wears a rusty frock coat, and with a cane points temptingly to his -stock. His white beard and moustache are amber round the mouth, with -the stain of tobacco, and in a hoarse alcoholic voice he draws our -attention to a discarded corset, a pair of moth-eaten trousers, a -frying-pan with a hole in it, an alarm-clock minus the minute hand, a -hair brush almost innocent of bristles--any of which we may have for a -sou or two. - -Such then is the monstrous rue Saint-Médard, and on a dark, wet -November day, when its characteristic odour is more than usually -audacious; when the black, irregular houses, like rows of decayed -teeth, seem to draw closer together; when the mildewed walls steam -loathfully; when the jagged roofs are black against the sky and the -sinister shadows crawl from the darkened doorways,--it is more like a -horrible nightmare than a reality. - -But the misery of others often makes us forget our own, and one day -Helstern broke in on us looking grimmer than ever. - -“Have you heard that our little Solonge is very ill?” - -“No. What’s the matter?” - -“Typhoid. Her mother is nursing her. You might go down and see her, -Madam. It will be a comfort to her.” - -Anastasia straightened herself from the _métier_ over which she was -stooping. - -“Yes, yes, I go at once. Oh, poor Frosine! Poor Solonge!” - -As I looked at her it suddenly struck me that she herself did not look -much to brag about. But she put on her mantle and we followed Helstern -to the rue Mazarin. - -“It was like this,” he told us. “I had an idea of a statue to be called -_Bedtime_. It was to be a little Solonge, clad in her chemise and -hugging a doll to her breast. So I went to see the mother and found the -child had been sick for some days. I fetched the doctor; none too soon. -We’ve got to pull the kid through.” - -We found the Môme lying in an apathetic way, her lovely hair streaming -over the pillow, her face already hollow and strange-looking. She -regarded us dully, but with no sign of recognition. Then she seemed to -sleep, and her eyes, barely closed, showed the whites between the long -lashes. - -Frosine was calm and courageous, but her face was worn with long -vigils, and her eyes, usually so cheerful, were now of a tragic -seriousness. She turned to us eagerly. - -“I can’t get her roused, my little one. Not even for her mother will -she smile. She just lies there as if she were tired. If she begins to -sleep, she twitches and opens her eyes again. It was a week ago I first -noticed she was ailing. She could scarcely hold up her arms as I went -to dress her. So I put her to bed again, and ever since she’s been -sinking. She’s all I’ve got in the world and I’m afraid I’m going to -lose her. Willingly would I go in her place.” - -We arranged that Anastasia would remain there and take turns watching -by the bedside of the Môme; then I returned to our garret alone. - -It was more trying than ever now. Every day some of my manuscripts came -back, and I had not the courage to send them out again. My novel, too, -made its appearance one morning with the usual letter of regret. More -sensitive than other men, it says much for authors that they bear up -so well under successive blows of fate. With me a rejection meant a -state of bitter gloom for the rest of the day; and as nearly every day -brought its rejection, cheerful intervals were few and far between. - -To get the proper working stimulus I drank immense quantities of strong -black coffee. In my desperate mood I think I would have taken hasheesh -if necessary. It was the awful brain nausea that distressed me most, -the sense of having so much to say and being unable to say it. I had -moods of rage and misery, and sometimes I wondered if it was not -through these that men entered into the domain of madness. - -But after about six cups of coffee I would brighten miraculously. My -brain would be a gleaming, exulting, conquering thing. I would feel the -direct vision, the power of forth-right expression. Thrilling with joy, -I would rush to my typewriter, and no power could drag me away from -it. If Anastasia approached me at such a moment I would wave my arm -frantically: - -“Oh, please go away. Don’t bother me.” - -Then, holding my head clutched in both hands, and glaring at the -machine, I would try to catch up the broken thread of my ideas. - -What an unsatisfactory life! Dull as ditchwater for days, then suddenly -a change, a bewildering sense of fecundity, a brilliant certainty of -expression. Lo! in an hour I had accomplished the work of a week. But -such hours were becoming more and more rare with me, and more and more -had I recourse to the deadly black coffee. And if the return of my -stories hurt my pride, that of my novel was like a savage, stunning -blow. I ground my teeth and (carefully observing that there was no fire -in the grate) I hurled it dramatically to the flames. Then Anastasia -reverently picked it up, tenderly arranged it, and prepared it for -another sally. - -“This will be the last time,” I would swear. “You can send it one time -more; then--to hell with it.” - -And I would laugh bitterly as I thought of its far different fate if -only I would sign it with the name I had a right to sign it with. -What a difference a mere name made! Was it then that my work was only -selling on account of my name? Was it then that in itself it had no -merit? Was I really a poor, incompetent devil who had succeeded by -a fluke? “I must win,” I cried in the emptiness of the garret. “My -pride, my self-respect demand it. If I fail I swear I’ll never write -again.” - -There were times when I longed to go out and work with pick and shovel. -Distressed with doubt I would gaze down at the dancing waters of the -Seine and long to be one of those men steering the barges, a creature -of healthy appetites with no thought beyond work, food and sleep. Oh, -to get away on that merry, frolicsome water, somewhere far from this -Paris, somewhere where trees were fluttering and fresh breezes blowing. - -Ah! that was the grey Christmas. Everything the same as last--the -booths, the toy-vendors, the holly and the mistletoe, the -homeward-hurrying messengers of Santa Claus--everything the same, -yet oh, how different! Where now was the singing of the heart, the -thrilling to life’s glory? Did I dream it all? Or was I dreaming now? -As I toiled, toiled within myself, how like a dream was all that -happened without! Yes, all of the last year seemed so unreal that if I -had awakened in America and had found this Paris and all it had meant -an elaborate creation of the magician Sleep, I would not have been -greatly surprised. It has always been like that with me, the inner life -real, the outer a dream. - -I walked the crowded Boulevards again, but with no Little Thing by my -side. Ah! here was the very café where we sat a while and heard a woman -sing a faded ballad. Poor Little Thing! She was not on my arm now. And, -come to think of it, she too used to sing in those days, sing all the -time. But not any more, never a single note. - -At that moment she was watching by the bedside of the Môme, she who -herself needed care and watching. She had been the good, good wife, yet -I had never cared for her as I ought. I was always like that, longing -for the things I had not, careless of what I had. Perhaps even if the -child had lived I would have transferred my affections elsewhere. But -I couldn’t bear to think of that. No, my love for the child would have -been an ideal that nothing could dim. - -But if Christmas was grey, New Year’s Day was black. Anastasia came -back with bad news from the sick room. The Môme was gradually growing -weaker. Helstern had brought her a golden-brown Teddy bear and had -held it out to her, but she had looked at it with the heart-breaking -indifference of one who had no more need to take an interest in such -things. Her manner had that aloofness, that strange, wise calmness that -makes the faces of dying children so much older, so much loftier than -the faces of their elders. It is the pitying regard of those who are on -the brink of freedom for us whom they leave in the prison of the flesh. - -“Little Thing,” I said one day, gazing grimly at the tobacco tin -that acted as our treasury, “what are we to do? We’ve only one franc -seventy-five left us, and the rent is due to-morrow.” - -She went over to her _métier_ and held up the most beautiful piece of -embroidery I had yet seen. - -“Courage, darleen. The sun shine again very soon, I sink. Now we can -sell this. I am so glad. It seem zaire is so leetle I can do.” - -“No, no; I can’t let you sell it. I don’t want to part with any of your -work. Let me take it to the Mont-de-Piété. Then we can get it back some -day.” - -“But zaire we only get half what we have if we sell it.” - -“Never mind. Perhaps it will be enough to tide us over for a day or -two.” - -I realised thirty francs for the cushion cover, paid the rent, and was -about seven francs to the good. “We can go on for another week anyway,” -I said. - -During this black month I only saw Lorrimer once. It was on the Boul’ -Mich’ and he was in a great hurry, but he stopped a moment. - -“I say, Madden, was it you who sent me the Dago skirt? Where did you -dig her up? She’s a good type and makes a splendid foil to Rougette. -I’ve changed my plans and begun a new Salon picture with both girls -in it. Come up and see it soon. It’s great. I’m sure the crisis in my -fortune has come at last. Well, good-bye now. Thanks for sending me the -model.” - -He was off before I could say a word; but in spite of the wondrous -picture I did not go to his studio. - -I had finished my _Demi-gods in the Dust_ articles. As far as finish -and force went I thought them the best work I had ever done. Now I -began a series of genre stories of the Paris slums, called _Chronicles -of the Café Pas Chemise_. I rarely went out. I worked all the time, -or tried to work all the time. I might as well work, I thought, for -I could not sleep. That worried me more than anything, my growing -insomnia. For hours every night I would lie with nerves a-tingle, -hearing the _noctambules_ in the rue Monge, the thundering crash of -the motor-buses, the shrill outcries from the boozing den below, -the awakening of the _chiffoniers_ in the rue Saint-Médard: all the -thousand noises of nocturnal mystery, cruelty and crime. Then I -would rise in the morning distracted and wretched, and not till I had -disposed of two big cups of coffee would I feel able to begin work -again. - -Then one morning I arose and we had no more money--well, just a few -sous, enough to buy a crust or so for _déjeûner_. She took it as she -went on her way to the bedside of the dying Môme. She was a brave -little soul, and usually made a valiant effort to cheer me, but this -morning she could not conceal her dejection. She kissed me good-bye -with tears coursing down her cheeks. Then I was alone. Never had the -sky seemed so grey, so hopeless. - -“I fear I’m beaten,” I said. “I’ve made a hard fight and I’ve been -found wanting. I am supposed to be a capable writing man. I’m a fraud. -I can’t earn my salt with my pen. The other was only an accident. It’s -a good thing to know oneself at one’s true value. I might have gone on -till the end of the chapter, lulled in my fatuous vanity. I’m humble -now; I’m crushed.” - -I sat there gazing at the dreary roofs. - -“Well, I’ve had enough. Here’s where I throw up the sponge. I’m going -to spend the rest of my life planting cabbages in New Jersey. If it was -only for myself I’d never give in. I’ve got just enough mule spirit to -fight on till I’m hurt, but I can’t let others get hurt too. Already -I’ve gone too far. I’ve been a bit of a brute. But it’s all over. I’ve -lost, I’ve lost.” - -I threw myself back on my bed, unstrung, morbid, desperate. Then -suddenly I sprang up, for there came a knocking at the door. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -THE DAWN - - -It was the postman, not the usual bearer of dejected manuscripts; -another, older, more distinguished. - -“Registered letter, Monsieur.” - -Wonderingly I signed for it. The man lingered, but I had no offering -for the great god _Pourboire_. I regarded the letter curiously. It was -from MacWaddy & Wedge, the last people to whom I had sent _Tom, Dick -and Harry_. All I knew of them was that they were a new firm who had -adopted the advertising methods of the Yankees, to the horror of the -old and crusted British publisher. In consequence they had done well, -and were disposed to take risks where new writers were concerned. - -Well, what was in the letter? Like a man who stands before a closed -door, which may open on Hell or Heaven, I hesitated. Then in fear and -trembling I broke the seal. This is what I read: - - “DEAR SIR,--We have perused with interest your novel, _Tom, Dick - and Harry_, and are minded to include it in our Frivolous Fiction - Library. As your work is entirely unknown, and we will find it - necessary to do a great deal of advertising in connection with it, we - are thus incurring a considerable financial risk. Nevertheless, we - are prepared to offer you a five per cent. royalty on all sales; or, - if you prefer it, we will purchase the British and Colonial rights - for one hundred pounds. - - “Yours very truly, - “MACWADDY & WEDGE. - - “_P.S._--Our Mr. Wedge is at present in Paris for a day or two, so if - you call on him you might arrange details of publication. His address - is the Hotel Cosmopolitan.” - -I sat staring at the letter. It had come at last,--Success! One hundred -pounds! Twenty-five hundred francs! Why, at the present rate of living -it would keep us for two years; at the rate of the rue Mazarin, nearly -twelve months. Never before had I realised that money meant so much. -The prospect of living once more at the rate of two hundred and fifty -francs a month intoxicated me. It meant chicken and champagne suppers; -it meant evenings at the moving picture show; it even meant indulgence -in a meerschaum pipe. Hurrah! How lovely everything would be again. As -I executed a wild dance of delight I waved the letter triumphantly in -the air. All the joy, the worth-whileness of life, surged back again. I -wanted to rush away and tell Anastasia; then suddenly I sobered myself. - -“I must contrive to see this Mr. Wedge at once. And I mustn’t go -looking like an understudy for a scarecrow. Happy thought--Helstern.” - -I found the sculptor in bed. “Hullo, old man!” I cried, “if you love me -lend me a collar. I’ve got to interview a blooming publisher. Just sold -a novel--a hundred quid.” - -“Congratulations,” growled Helstern from the blankets. “Take anything -you want. Light the gas when you go out, and put on my kettle.” - -So I selected a collar; then a black satin tie tempted me; then a -waistcoat seemed to match it so well; then a coat seemed to match the -waistcoat; then I thought I might as well make a complete job and take -a pair of trousers and a long cape-coat. As Helstern is bulkier than -I, the clothes fitted where they touched, but the ensemble was artistic -enough. - -“I’m off, oh, sleepy one!” I called. “Be back in two hours or so. Your -water’s nearly boiling. By the way, how did you leave the Môme?” - -“Better, thank Heaven. I do believe the kid’s going to pull through. -Last night she seemed to chirp up some. She actually deigned to notice -her Teddy bear.” - -“Good. I’m so glad. You know, I believe the New Year’s going to open up -a new vein of happiness for us all.” - -“We need it. Well, come back and we’ll drink to the healths of -Publishers and Sinners.” - -It seemed my luck was holding, for I caught Mr. Wedge just as he was -leaving the luxurious hotel. I gave my name and stated my business. - -“Come in,” said the publisher, leading the way to the gorgeous -smoking-room. Mr. Wedge was a blonde, bland man, designed on a system -of curves. He was the travelling partner, the entertainer, the upholder -of the social end of the business. Immensely popular was Mr. Wedge. Mr. -MacWaddy, I afterwards found, was equally the reverse. A meagre little -man, spectacled and keen as a steel trap, he was so Scotch that it was -said he did not dot his “i’s” in order to save the ink. However, with -MacWaddy’s acumen and Wedge’s urbanity, the combination was a happy one. - -“Yes,” said the latter affably, offering me a cigar with a gilt band, -“we’ll be glad to publish your book, Mr. Madden. By the way, no -connection of Madden, the well-known American novelist; writes under -the name of Norman Dane?” - -“Ye-es--only a distant one.” - -“How interesting. Wish you could get him to throw something our -way. We’d be awfully glad to show what we could do with his books. -They’re just the sort of thing we go in for--light, sensational, -easy-to-read novels. He’s a great writer, your cousin--I think you -said your cousin?--knows how to hit the public taste. His books may -not be literary, but they _sell_; and that’s how we publishers judge -books. Well, I hope you’re going to follow in his footsteps. Seems to -run in the family, the fiction gift. By the way, I’d better make out -a contract form, and, while I think of it, I’ll give you an advance. -Twenty pounds do?” - -“You might make it forty, if it’s all the same.” - -Mr. Wedge drew his cheque for that amount, and I signed a receipt. - -“I’m just going round to the bank,” he continued. “Come with me, and -I’ll get the cheque cashed for you.” - -So in ten minutes’ time I said good-bye to him and was hurrying home -with the money in my pocket. The sun was shining, the sky a dome of -lapis lazuli, the Seine affable as ever. Once again it was the dear -Paris I loved, the city of life and light. In a perfect effervescence -of joy I bounded upstairs to the garret. Then quite suddenly and -successfully I concealed my elation. - -“Hullo, Little Thing!” I sighed. “What have you got for dinner? It’s -foolish how I am hungry.” - -“I have do the best I can, darleen,” Anastasia said sadly. “There was -not much of money--only forty-five centimes. See, I have buy sausage -and salad and some bread. That leave for supper to-night four sous. Go -on. Eat, darleen. I don’t want anything.” - -I looked at the glossy red _saucissson-a-la-mulet_, the stringy head -of chicory, the stale bread. After all, spread out there and backed by -a steaming jug of coffee, it didn’t look such a bad repast. I kissed -her for the pains she had taken. - -“Hold up your apron,” I said sadly. - -Wonderingly she obeyed. Then I threw into it one by one ten crisp pink -bank-notes, each for one hundred francs. I thought her eyes would drop -out, they were so wide. - -“Eight--nine--ten hundred. There, I guess we can afford to go out -to _déjeûner_ to-day. What do you say to our old friend, the café -Soufflet?” - -“It is not true, this money? You are not doing this for laughing?” - -“You bet your life. It’s real money. There’s more of it coming up, -fifteen more of these _billets deux_. So come on to the café, Little -Thing, and I’ll tell you all the good tidings.” - -Seated in the restaurant, I was in the dizziest heights of rapture, -and bubbling over with plans. Such a dramatic plunge into prosperity -dazzled me. - -“First of all,” I said, “we must both from head to heel get a complete -outfit of new clothes. We’ll each take a hundred francs and spend the -afternoon buying things. Then I’ll get our stuff out of pawn. Then as -soon as we get things straight we’ll find a new apartment.” - -Suddenly she stopped me. “_Mon Dieu!_ Where you get the clothes?” - -“Oh, I quite forgot. They’re Helstern’s. I’ll just run round to his -place to return them. He might want to go out. Here, give me one of -those bits of paper and I’ll pay my debts.” - -I found the sculptor in his underwear, philosophically smoking his -Turk’s head pipe. - -“Awfully obliged, old man, for the togs. I never could have ventured -into that hotel in my old ones. Well, here’s the money you lent me, and -a thousand thanks.” - -“Sure you can spare it?” - -“Yes, and another if you want it. Why, man, I’m a little Crœsus. I’m -simply reeking with the stuff. I feel as if I could buy up the Bank of -France. Just touched a thou’, and more coming up.” - -“Well, I’m awfully glad for your sake. I’m glad to get this money, too. -D’ye know what I’m going to do with it? I’m going to hire a nurse for -Solonge. It will relieve the tension somewhat. What with watching and -anxiety, we’re all worn out. And, Madden, excuse me mentioning it, but -that little woman of yours wants looking after. She’s not overstrong, -in any case, and she’s been working herself to death. I don’t know what -we would have done without her down there, but there were times when I -was on the point of sending her home.” - -“All right. Thanks for telling me. I say, as far as the Môme is -concerned. I’d like to do something. Let’s give you another hundred.” - -“No, no, I don’t think it’s necessary in the meantime. If I want more -I’ll call on you. You’re off? Well, good-bye just now.” - -As far as they concerned Anastasia I thought a good deal over his -words, and when I returned, after an afternoon spent in buying a new -suit, hat, boots, I found her lying on her bed, her hundred intact. - -When a woman is too sick to spend money in new clothes it’s time to -call a doctor. This, in spite of her protestations, I promptly did, to -be told as promptly that she was a very sick woman indeed. She had, -said the medico, never fully recovered from her confinement, and had -been running down ever since. For the present she must remain in bed. - -Then he hesitated. “If your wife is not carefully looked after there is -danger of her becoming _poitrinaire_.” - -I was startled. In the tension of literary effort, in the egotism of -art, I had paid little heed to her. If she had been less perfect, -perhaps I should have thought more of her. But she just fitted in, -made things smooth, effaced herself. She was of that race that make -the best wives in the world. The instinct is implanted in them by long -heredity. Anastasia was a born wife, just as she was a born mother. -Yes, I had neglected her, and the doctor left me exceedingly pensive -and remorseful. - -“You must hurry up and get well, child,” I said, as she lay there -looking frail and wistful. “Then we’re going away on a holiday. We’re -going to Brittany by the sea. I’m tired of grey days. I want them all -blue and gold. We’ll wander down lanes sweet with may, and sit on the -yellow sands.” - -She listened fondly, as I painted pictures, growing ever more in love -with my vision. - -“Yes, I try to get well, queek, just to please you, darleen. Excuse me, -I geeve you too much trooble. I want so much to be good wife to you. -That is the bestest thing for me. I don’t want ever you be sorry you -marry me. If you was, I sink I die.” - -Once I had conceived myself in the part of a nurse, I entered into -it with patience and enthusiasm. I am not lavish in the display of -affection; but in these days I was more tender and considerate than -ever I had been, and Anastasia was duly grateful. So passed two -weeks--the daily visits of the doctor, patient vigils on my part, hours -of pain and ease on hers. - -In Bohemia it never rains but it pours; so with cruel irony in the face -of my good fortune other successes began to surprise me. Within two -weeks I had seven of my stories accepted, and the total revenue from -them was twelve pounds. I felt that the worst of the fight was over. I -had enough now to carry me on till I had written another novel. I need -not do this pot-boiling work any more. - -Every day came Helstern with news of the growing prowess of the Môme. -She was able to sit up a little. Her legs were like spindles, and she -could not walk; but she looked rarely beautiful, almost angelic. In a -few days he was going to get a chair on wheels, and take her out in the -gardens. - -“I can’t make this out,” I said, chaffingly. “You must have made an -awful hit with Frosine. Why don’t you marry the girl?” - -He looked startled. - -“Don’t be absurd. Why, I’m twenty years older than she is. Besides, -I’m a cripple. Besides, I’m a confirmed bachelor. Besides, she’s a -confirmed widow.” - -“No young woman’s ever a confirmed widow. Besides--she’s no widow.” - -“Good Heavens! You don’t mean to tell me Solonge is--” - -“Why, yes, I thought you knew. Anyway, there was no reason to tell you -anything like that.” - -Helstern rose slowly. My information seemed to be exceedingly painful -to him. That firm mouth with its melancholy twist opened as if to -speak. Then, without saying a word, he took his hat and went off. - -“After all,” I thought, “why not? Frosine is as good as gold, a serene, -sensible woman. I’d marry her myself if I wasn’t already married to -Anastasia. I wonder....” - -Thereupon I started upon my career as a matchmaker. Why is it that the -married man is so anxious to induce others to embrace matrimony? Is it -a sense of duty, a desire to prevent other men shirking their duty? -Or (as no woman is perfect) is it a desire to see the flies in our -ointment outnumbered by the flies in our neighbour’s? Or, as marriage -is a meritorious compulsion to behave, is it a desire to promote merit -among our bachelor friends by making them behave also? In any case, -behold me as a bachelor stalker, Helstern my first quarry. I did not -see him for a week, then one afternoon I came across him by the great -gloomy pile of the Pantheon, gazing at Rodin’s statue of the Thinker. - -How often have I stood in front of it myself! That figure fascinates -me as does no other in modern sculpture. The essence of simplicity, it -seems to say unutterable things. Arms of sledge-hammer force, a great -back corded with muscle, legs banded as if with iron, could anything be -more expressive of magnificent strength? Yet, oh, the pathos of it--the -small, undeveloped skull, the pose of perplexed, desperate thought! - -So must primitive man have crouched and agonised in that first dim dawn -of intelligence. Within that brain of a child already glimmers the -idea of something greater than physical force; within that brute man -Mind is beginning its supreme struggle over Matter. Here is the birth -of brain domination. Here is the savage, thwarted, mocked, impotent; -yet trying with every fibre of his being to enter that world of thought -which he is so conscious of, and cannot yet understand. Pathetic! Yes, -it typifies the ceaseless struggle of man from the beginning, the agony -of effort by which he has raised himself from the mire. Far from a -Newton, a Darwin, a Goethe, this crude, elementary Thinker! Yet, with -his brain of a child as he struggles for Light, who shall say he is not -in his way as great. Salute him! He stands for the cumulative effort of -the race. - -Helstern himself, as he stood there in his black cloak, leaning on his -stick with the gargoyle head, was no negligible figure. I was struck -by a resemblance to a great actor, and the thought came that here, but -for that misshapen foot, was a tragedian lost to the world. This was -strengthened by the voice of the man. Helstern, in his deep vibrating -tones, could have held a crowd spellbound while he told them how he -missed his street car. - -“Great,” I said, indicating the statue. - -“Great, man! It’s a glory and a despair. To me it represents the vast -striving of the spirit, and its impotence to express its dreams. I, -too, think as greatly as a Rodin, but my efforts to give my thoughts a -form are only a mockery and a pain. I, too, have agonised to do; yet -what am I confronted with?--Failure. For twenty years I’ve studied, -worked, dreamed of success, and to-day I am as far as ever from the -goal. Yes, I realise my impotence. I have lived my life in vain. Old, -grey, a cripple, a solitary. What is there left for me?” - -He finished with a lofty gesture. - -“Nothing left,” I said, “but to have a drink. Come on.” - -But no. Helstern reposed on his dignity, and refused to throw off the -mantle of gloom. - -“I tell you what it is,” I suggested. “I think you’re in love.” - -“Bah! I was never in love but once, and that was twenty years ago. -We were going to be married. The day was fixed. Then on the marriage -eve she went to try on the wedding gown. There was a large fire in -the room, and suddenly as she was bending before the mirror to tie a -riband, the flimsy robe caught the flame. In a moment she was ablaze. -Screaming and panic-stricken she ran, only to fall unconscious. After -three days of agony she died. I attended a funeral, not a wedding.” - -I shuddered--not at his story, but because the incident occurred in my -novel, _The Cup and The Lip_. Alas! How Life plagiarizes Fiction. I -murmured huskily: - -“Cheer up, old man!” - -He laughed bitterly. “Twenty years! I might have had sons and daughters -grown up by now. Perhaps even grandchildren like Solonge. How strange -it seems! What a failure it’s all been! And now it’s too late. I’m a -weary unloved old man.” - -“Oh, rot,” I said. “Look here, be sensible. Why don’t you and Frosine -hitch up? There’s a fine, home-loving woman, and she thinks you’re a -little tin god.” - -“How d’ye know that?” he demanded, eagerly. - -“Isn’t she always saying so to my wife?” (This was a little -exaggeration on my part.) “I tell you, Helstern, that woman adores you. -Just think how different that unkempt studio of yours would be with -such a bright soul to cheer it.” - -“I’ve a good mind to ask her.” - -“Why don’t you?” - -“Well, to give you the truth, old man, I’ve been trying to, but I -haven’t the courage. I’ve got the frame of a lion, Madden, with the -heart of a mouse.” - -“I’ll tell you what. If I go down and speak for you will you go through -it?” - -“Yes, I will; but--there’s no hurry, you know. To-morrow....” - -“Come on. No time like the present. We’ll find her at work.” - -“Yes, but ... will you go in and sound her first?” - -“Yes, yes. Don’t be such a coward. You can wait outside.” - -He stumped along beside me till we came to the rue Mazarin, and I left -him while I went to interview Frosine. - -“Oh, it’s you,” she said gladly. “Come in. It’s early, but I put -Solonge to bed so that I could get a lot of work finished. See! it’s a -wedding trousseau. How is Madame? Is everything well? Can I do anything -for you? Solonge remembered you in her prayers. You may kiss her if you -like.” - -“How lovely she is,” I said, stooping over the child. I was trying to -think of some way in which to lead up to my subject. - -Frosine never left off working. Once more she was the bright, -practical woman, capable of fighting for herself in the struggle of -life. - -“How hard you work! Do you never tire, never get despondent?” - -She looked at me with a happy laugh. The fine wrinkles seemed to -radiate from her eyes. - -“No; why should I? I have my child. I am free. There’s no one on my -back. You see I’m proud. I don’t like any one over me. Freedom is a -passion with me.” - -“Yes, but you can’t always work. You must think of the future. Some day -you’ll grow old.” - -She shrugged her shoulders. “There will still be Solonge.” - -“Yes, but you must think of her too. Listen to me, Mademoiselle -Frosine. I’m your friend. I would like to see you beyond the need of -such toil as this. Well, I come to make you an offer of marriage.” - -She stared at me. - -“I mean, I come on behalf of a friend of mine. He is very lonely, and -he wants you to be his wife. I refer to Monsieur Helstern.” - -She continued to stare as if amazed. - -“It is droll Monsieur Helstern cannot speak for himself,” she said at -last. - -“He has been trying to, but--well, you know Helstern. He’s as shy as a -child.” - -Her face changed oddly. The laughter went out of it. Her head drooped, -and she gazed at her work in an unseeing way. She was silent so long -that I became uncomfortable. Then suddenly she looked up, and her eyes -were aglitter with tears. - -“Listen, my friend. I want you to hear my story, then tell me if I -ought to marry Monsieur Helstern. - -“I’ve got to go back many years--fifteen. My father was in business, -and I was sheltered as all French girls of that class are. Then father -died, leaving mother with scarcely a sou. I had to work. Well, I was -expert with my needle, and soon found employment with a dressmaker. - -“You know how it is with us when one has no _dot_. It is nearly -impossible to make a marriage in one’s own class. One young man loved -me and wanted to marry me; but his mother would not hear of it because -I was poor. She had another girl with a good _dot_ picked out for him, -and as children are not allowed to marry without their parents’ consent -he became discouraged. I do not blame him. It was his duty to marry as -his mother wished. - -“Well, it was hard for me. It was indeed long before my smiles came -back. But it makes no difference if one’s heart aches; one must work. I -went on working to keep a roof over my mother’s head. - -“By and by she died and I was alone. That was not very cheerful. -I had to live by myself in a little room. Oh! I was so lonely and -sad! Remember that I was not a girl of the working class. I had been -educated. I could not bring myself to marry a workman who would -come home drunk and beat me. No, I preferred to sit and sew in my -garret. And the thought came to me that this was going to be my whole -life--this garret, this sewing. What a destiny! To go on till I was old -and worn out; then a pauper’s grave. My spirit was not broken. Can you -wonder that I rebelled? - -“When I was a little girl I was always playing with my dollies. When I -got too old for them I took to nursing other little ones. It seemed an -instinct. And so, whenever I thought of marriage it was with the idea -of having children of my own to love and care for. - -“Imagine me then with my hopes of marriage destroyed. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Is -my life to be so barren? Am I to live like many other women, without -hope or joy? Surely this is not intended. Surely I am meant to enjoy -happiness.’ - -“Then,” she went on, “one evening I was standing before a print-shop -looking at some drawings when a tall, fair man stopped to examine them -too. He was an artist, an Englishman. Somehow he spoke to me, then -walked with me as far as my home. Well, to make my story short, he was -the father of Solonge. - -“I never was so happy as then. I did not dream such happiness could be. -If I was sorry for anything it was that my happiness came in this way. -And I knew this great happiness could not last. In time he had to go. -His home, his mother, called him. We were both very sad, for we loved -one another. But what would you? We all know these things must have an -end. It’s the life. - -“The parting was so sad. I cried three days. But I told him he must go. -He must think of his position, his family. I was only a poor little -French girl who did not matter. He must forget me. - -“I did not tell him I was going to have a child though. He would never -have gone then. He would have made me marry him, and then I would have -spoiled his career. No, I said nothing. But, oh, how the thought -glowed in me! At last I would have a child, my own. - -“He wanted to settle money on me, but I would not have it. Then, -with tears in his eyes, he went away, swearing that he would come -back. Perhaps he would have, I don’t know. He was killed in a railway -accident. That is one reason I do not wish to be reminded of artists. -He was a famous artist. You would know his name if I told it. But I -never will. I am afraid his family would try to take away Solonge. - -“You see I have worked away, and my garret has been full of sunshine. -Oh, how different it was! I sang, I laughed, I was the happiest woman -in Paris. I’m not sorry for anything. I think I did right. Now I’ve -told you, do you still think Monsieur Helstern would be willing to -marry me?” - -“More so than ever,” I said. “As far as I know he has pretty much the -same views as you have.” - -“He says so little to me. But he has been so kind, so good. I believe I -owe it to him that I still have my little one.” - -“Yes, he’s not a bad old sort. I don’t think you’d ever regret it.” - -“You may tell him my story, then, and if he doesn’t think I’m a bad -woman....” - -“He’ll understand. But let me go and tell him now. He’s waiting round -the corner.” - -“Stop! Stop!” she protested. But I hurried away and found the sculptor -seated outside the nearest café, divided between anxiety and a glass of -beer. - -“It’s all right, old chap,” I cried. “I’ve squared it all for you. Now -you must go right in and clinch things.” - -“But I’m not prepared. I--” - -“Come on. Strike while the iron’s hot. I’ve just been getting the sad -story of her life, and she is in a sentimental mood. Now’s the time.” - -So I dragged him to Frosine’s door and pushed him in. - -Then this was what I heard, for Helstern’s voice would almost penetrate -a steel safe. - -“You know, Mademoiselle Frosine, I--I love your daughter.” - -“Yes, Monsieur Helstern.” - -“I love her so much that I want to ask you if you’ll let me be a father -to her.” - -“But do you love me?” - -“I--I don’t know. I’ve never thought of that. But we both love Solonge. -Won’t that be enough?” - -“I don’t know. Let us wait awhile. Ask me some months from now. Perhaps -you’ve made a mistake. I want you to be quite sure. If by then you find -you’ve not made a mistake, I--I might let myself love you very easily.” - -“You’ve made me strangely happy. Everything seems changed to me. I may -hope then?” - -“Yes.” - -I did not hear any more. But a moment after Helstern joined me. - -“Oh, Madden, how can I ever thank you! You’ve made me the happiest of -men.” - -Looking back at the lighted window we saw Frosine bent again over her -work, trying to make up for lost time. Helstern gazed at the shadow and -I could scarce draw him away. What fools these lovers be! - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -A CHAPTER THAT BEGINS WELL AND ENDS BADLY - - “J’aime Paimpol et sa falaise, - Son clocher et son grand pardon; - J’aime surtout la Paimpolaise - Qui m’attend au pays Breton.” - - -It is Little Thing singing as she sits by the poppy patch before the -door. There are hundreds of poppies. They dance in gleeful glory and -their scarlet is so luminous it seems about to burst into flame. Maybe -the shell-pink in the girl’s cheeks is a reflexion of that radiant glow. - -The coast of Brittany dimples as it smiles, and in its most charming -dimple is tucked away our little village. The sea has all the glitter -of crushed gems. It sparkles in amethyst and emerald; it glooms to -garnet and sardonyx. There is a bow of golden sand, and the hill-side -is ablaze with yellow brown. - -“Dreamhaven” I call our house, and it stands between the poppies and -the pines. A house of Breton granite, built to suffice a score of -generations, it glimmers like some silvery grand-dame, and its roof is -velvety with orange-coloured moss. - -We have been here three weeks and Anastasia has responded wonderfully -to the change. Nothing can exceed her delight. She sings all day, -rivalling the merle that wakes us every morning with his flute-like run -of melody. - -She loves to sit in a corner of the old garden where a fig tree climbs -the silvery wall. There she will knit tranquilly and watch the little -lizards flicker over the sun-warmed stone, then pause with panting -sides and bead-like eyes to peer around. But for me, I prefer the -scented gloom of the pine coppice beyond the garden. Dearly do I love -the sudden solitude of pines. - -I have corrected the proofs of _Tom, Dick and Harry_ there. I am -relieved to find the story goes with _vim_. It is as light as a -biscuit, and as easy of mental digestion. I have sent off the last -batch of proofs; my part is done; the rest is Fate. - -Now I turn to my jolly Bretons, so dirty and devout, so toilworn and so -tranquil. My old women have the bright, clear eyes of children. Never -have they worn hat or shoes, never left their native heaths. Yet they -are happy--because it has never struck them that they are not happy. - -My young women all want to marry sailors so that they may be left at -home in tranquillity. They do not desire to see over-much of their -lords and masters, who I fear, are fond of mixing _eau-de-vie_ with -their cider. If they go to live in cities they generally die of -consumption. Their costume is hauntingly Elizabethan, and they are -three hundred years behind the times. - - * * * * * - -About a week ago I had a curious conversation with Anastasia. - -“Little Thing,” I began, “do you know that if I like I can go away and -marry some other French girl?” - -“What do you mean?” she said, somewhat startled. - -“I mean that as far as France is concerned our marriage doesn’t hold.” - -“_Mon Dieu!_” - -“It’s all right by English law, but French law doesn’t recognise it.” - -“How droll! But what does it matter? You don’t want marry other French -girls?” - -“No, but it’s interesting to know that one can.” - -“But me, too. Have I not right to marry some other persons?” - -“Hum! I never thought of that.” - -“Another thing,” I continued, “under French law man and wife hold -property in common. Now, supposing you came into fortune, I couldn’t -touch it.” - -“Ah! now you speak for laughing. I nevaire come into fortune.” - -“Well, suppose I come into a fortune--but then that’s equally absurd; -anyway, I just wanted to point out to you that by a curious vagary of -the law we could repudiate our marriage and contract others--in France.” - -Anastasia looked very thoughtful. Though I had spoken jestingly I might -have known that with her serious imagination she would take it gravely. -Surely enough, a few days after she brought up the subject. - -“I sink I like very much, darleen, if we get marry once more, French -way, if you don’t mind.” - -“Not at all; only--I don’t want to make a habit of it.” - -“Excuse me, darleen; and please I like it very much if we get marry in -Catolick church.” - -“All right. We’ll get married in Notre Dame this time.” - -“But....” Here she hesitated--“zere is one trouble.” - -“Well, what is it?” - -“In France it is necessaire by law I have consent of my fazzaire and my -muzzaire.” - -“Well, seeing that they’re in (we hope) heaven, it won’t be very easy -to get it.” - -“Oh, no! I nevaire say my muzzaire is dead.” - -“But isn’t she?” - -“I don’t know. I have not hear of her for many year. I leave wiz my -fazzaire when I was leetle girls, before he put me in the _couvent_. My -fazzaire get separation from my muzzaire. She’s very bad womans. She’s -beat my fazzaire very cruel, so’s he get separation. My fazzaire was -poet.” - -“And your mother?” - -“Oh, she was not at all _chic_. She was what we call ‘merchant of the -four seasons.’” - -“Good heavens! You don’t mean one of those women that hawk stuff in the -street with hand barrows?” - -Anastasia nodded gravely. - -I shuddered. Father a _cabaret_ poet; mother a street pedlar of -cabbages and onions. _Sacré mud!_ Then a sudden suspicion curdled my -blood. - -“Tell me,” I demanded, “is it not that your mother’s name is Séraphine?” - -“Yes,” she exclaimed, amazedly. - -“And she’s a very big woman with a large nose?” - -“Yes, yes; how you know?” - -“Well then, let me inform you that your respected parent is at present -doing business in a rather flourishing way in the _Halles_. She imports -_escargots_ and wears seven diamond rings on one hand. Judging by that -hand alone, there’s a respectable prospect of your becoming an heiress -after all.” - -“She’s terrible woman,” said Anastasia, after I had explained my -meeting with her mother. “I’m afraid she’s make trooble. She’s behave -very cruel to my fazzaire and she not like me, because when they -separate I choose go wiz heem. She nevaire forgeeve me. I’m ’fraid -she’s never consent to our marriage in France.” - -“Wait till we get back to Paris and we’ll tackle her.” - -“When we go back to Paris?” - -“Next week. I can’t afford to rent the house after the end of the -month.” - -“I’m sorry to go. I love it here.” - -“Yes, but I must get back to work again. We must bid our jolly Bretons -good-bye.” - - * * * * * - -We bade them good-bye this morning; great, great grandfather Dagorn -herding his cows on the velvety dune; Yyves swinging his scythe as he -whisked down the heavy crimson clover; Marie stooped over her churn; -Mother Dagorn whose withered cheeks are apple-bright; the rosy-faced -children, the leaping dogs. We looked our last on that golden beach, -that jewelled sea; we roamed our last amid the hedges of honeysuckle, -the cherry-trees snowed with blossom, the stream where the embattled -lilies brandished blades and flaunted starry banners. Last of all, and -with something very like sadness, we bade good-bye to that old house I -called Dreamhaven, which stands between the poppies and the pines. - - * * * * * - -Back in Paris. The dear sunny boulevards are once more embowered in -tender green, and once more I am a dreamy Luxemburger, feeding my -Bohemian sparrows in that cool, still grove where gleam the busts of -Murger and Verlaine: once more I roam the old streets, seeking the -spirit of the past; once more I am the apostle of the clear laugh and -the joyous mind. - -One of the first persons I met as I walked down the spinal column of -the Quarter, the _Boul’ Mich’_, was Helstern. He had just come from a -lecture by Bergson at the Sorbonne and was indignant because he had -been obliged to stand near the door. - -“Bergson’s a society craze just now. The place was crowded with -wretched women that couldn’t understand a word of his lecture. They -chattered and stared at one another through their lorgnettes. One -wretched _cocotte_ threw the old man a bunch of violets.” - -“What did he do?” - -“He took it up and after looking at it as if he didn’t know what it was -he put it in his pocket.” - -“Well, how’s every one? What have you been doing? Some symbolical -group, I suppose?” - -“No; I’ve decided to go in for simple things, the simpler the better. -I’ve done a little head and bust of Solonge I want you to see. I’m -rather pleased with it.” - -“All right. I’ll come as soon as we get settled.” - -“Where are you going this time?” - -“I’ve taken a _logement_ on the _Passage d’Enfer_; you know it--a -right-angled street of quaint old houses that runs into the Boulevard -Raspail.” - -“I know. I once lived in the rue Boissonniere. What are you going to do -now?” - -“Another novel, I suppose. I have enough money to last me for five -months. Just fancy! five months to write and not worry about anything -at all. How’s Frosine and the Môme?” - -Helstern beamed. Then for the first time I noticed a remarkable change -in him. No longer could I call him the “melancholy Dane” (he was really -a Swede, by the way). He had discarded his severe black stock for a -polka-dot Lavallière, and he was actually wearing a check suit. - -“Come with us on Sunday. We are all going to St. Cloud.” - -“I’ll ask my wife. Thing’s going all right?” - -“Yes, I think she’ll consent to name the day.” - -“Well, I congratulate you. And how’s Lorrimer?” - -“He seems to have taken up with a new girl, a dark, Italian kind -of a type. I’ve seen him with her at the cafés. He’s fickle in his -attachments.” - -“That must be Lucretia,” I thought; and I congratulated myself on my -adroit disentanglement. Then I felt some compunction as I thought of -Rougette. - -But I was reassured, for I saw the two together that very afternoon -in front of the café du Panthéon. Rougette looked sweet and serene. -Whatever might have been the philandering of Lorrimer it had not -disturbed her Breton phlegm. Or, perhaps it was that in her simple -faith she was incapable of believing him a gay deceiver. She was more -than ever distractingly pretty, so that, looking at her, I could not -imagine how any one could neglect her for the olive-skinned Lucretia. - -Lorrimer, too, was the picture of prosperity. He wore a new Norfolk -suit, and a wide-brimmed grey hat. He looked more faunesque and -insouciant than ever, a being all nerves and energy and indomitable -gaiety. - -“Hullo,” he greeted me; “here’s old Daredeath Dick. Come and join us. -Rougette wants to hear all about her ‘pays Breton.’ You’re looking very -fit. How’s everything?” - -“Excellent, I’m to have a novel published next week, and I’ve got -enough money to follow it up with another.” - -“What a wonderful chap you are to be able to spread your money out -like that! You know wealth would be my ruin. Poverty’s my best friend. -Wealth really worries me. I never could work if I had lots of money. -By the way, you must see my picture at the Salon des Independents. -Rougette and the Neapolitaine are in it. It’s creating quite a -sensation.” - -“How is our dark friend?” - -He shrugged his shoulders gaily. “Just a little embarrassing at times. -She’s awfully jealous of Rougette. The other day in the studio she -snatched up a knife, and I thought she was going to stick it into me; -but she only proceeded to slash up a picture I had done called _The -Jolie Bretonne_, for which Rougette had posed. After that we had a -fuss, and I told her all was over between us. So we parted in wrath, -and I haven’t spoken to her since. She has a devil of a temper; a good -girl to keep away from.” - -Poor unsuspecting Lorrimer! I felt guilty for a moment. Then I changed -the subject. - -“But you’re looking very spruce. Don’t tell me you’ve sold a picture.” - -“No, but I’ve got a job, a steady job. I’m doing cartoons every night -at the Noctambules. You must come round and see me.” - -I promised I would, and returned to the Passage d’Enfer, where -Anastasia was busy putting our new apartment in order. There was a -bedroom, dining-room, and a kitchen, about the size of a packing-box; -but she was greatly pleased with everything. We supplemented our old -furniture with some new articles from the bazaars. A dressing-table -of walnut, a wardrobe with mirror doors, and cretonne curtains with -a design of little roses. Soon, we found ourselves installed with a -degree of comfort we had not hitherto known. - -It was one evening that Anastasia, who had been papering the -dining-room, retired to bed quite early, that I decided to accept -Lorrimer’s invitation and visit the Noctambules. This is a cabaret in -a dark side-street that parallels the “Boul’ Mich’.” I found myself in -a long, low room whose walls were covered with caricatures of artists -who in their Bohemian days had been habitués of the place. There was -an array of chairs, a shabby little platform, and a piano. As each -_chansonnier_ came on he was introduced by an irrepressible young man -with a curly mop of hair and merry eyes. Then, as the singer finished, -the volatile young man called for three rounds of hearty applause. - -The cabaret _chansonniers_ of Paris are unique in their way. They are -a connecting-link between literature and the stage--hermaphrodites -of the entertaining world. They write, compose, and sing their own -songs, which, often, not only have a distinctive note that makes for -art, but are sung inimitably well. Ex-poets, students with a turn -for satiric diversion, journalists of Bohemia, all go to swell the -ranks of these inheritors of the traditions of Beranger. From that -laureate of the gutter, Aristide Bruant, down to the smallest of them, -they portray with passionate fidelity the humour and tragedy of the -street--irreverently Rabelaisian at one moment, pathetically passionate -at the next. - -As I enter, Marcel Legay is in the midst of a song of fervid -patriotism. In spite of his poetic name, he is a rubicund little man -with a voice and the mane of a lion. Then follows Vincent Hispy, with -catlike eyes and droll, caustic wit. Then comes Zavier Privas, big and -boisterous as the west wind, lover to his soul of the _chansons_ he -writes and sings. Finally, with a stick of charcoal and an eager smile, -Lorrimer appears. A screen is wheeled up on which are great sheets of -coarse paper. The artist announces that his first effort will be Sarah -Bernhardt. He makes about five lightning lines, and there is the divine -Sarah. Then follow in swift succession Polaire, Dranem, Mistinguette, -Mayol, and other lights of the Paris stage. - -And now the cartoonist turns to the audience and asks them to name -some one high in politics. A voice shouts Clemenceau. In a moment the -well-known features are on the board. Poincaré! It is done. And so on -for a dozen others. Applause greets every new cartoon, and the artist -retires covered with glory. - -“How did you like it?” grins Lorrimer, as he joins me in the audience. - -“Splendid! Why, man, you could make barrels of money in America doing -that sort of thing.” - -“I’d rather be a pauper in Paris than a money-changer in Chicago. But -there’s Rougette at the back of the hall. Doesn’t she look stunning? -Thanks to this job, I’ve been able to pay her for a good many sittings, -and now she’s got a new gown and hat. By Jove! that girl will be the -making of me yet. Her loveliness really inspires me. Nature leaves me -cold, but woman, beautiful woman!--I could go on painting her eternally -and not ask for other reward.” - -And, indeed, the Breton girl, with her ash-gold hair and her complexion -of roses and cream, was a delicate vision of beauty. - -“Never let a woman see that you cannot be serenely happy without her,” -says Lorrimer. “I’d do anything for Rougette (short of marrying her), -yet I never let her know it. And so she’s faithful to me. Others have -tried to steal her from me; have offered her luxury; but no, she’s the -same devoted, unspoiled girl. Just look at her, Madden, a pure lustrous -pearl. Think what a life such a girl might have in this Paris, where -men make queens of beautiful women! What triumphs! what glories! Yet -there she is, content to follow the fortunes of an obscure painter. -But come on and join the girl. They’re going to do a little silhouette -drama.” - -As we sit by Rougette, who smiles radiantly, the lights go out, and -beyond the stage a little curtain goes up, showing a fisher cottage in -Brittany. The scene is early morning, the sea flooded with the coral -light of dawn. Then across the face of the picture comes the tiny -silhouettes of the fishermen carrying their nets. The cottage is next -shown in the glow of noon, and, lastly, by night, with the fisher boats -passing over the face of the moon. - -Then the scene changes. We see the inside of the cabin--the bed, the -wardrobe of oak and brass, the great stone fireplace, the ship hanging -over it, the old grandmother sitting by her spinning-wheel. To her come -the children begging for a story, and she tells them one from out the -past--a story of her youth, the rising of the Vendée. - -All this is made clear by three singers, who, somewhere in the -darkness, tell it in sweet, wild strains of Breton melody. There is a -soprano, a tenor, a bass; now one takes up the story, then another; -then all three voices blend with beautiful effect. And as they sing we -see the tiny silhouettes of the peasants, vivid and clear-cut, passing -across the face of the changing scene. Those strong, melodious voices -tell of how the farmer-soldiers rose and fought; how they marched -in the snow; how they suffered; how they died. It is sad, sweet, -beautiful; and now the music grows more dramatic; the action quickens; -the climax draws near. - -And as I sit there with eyes fixed on that luminous space, I feel -that something else, also terrible, is about to happen. Surely some -one is moving in the darkness behind us? Even in that black silence I -am conscious of a shadow blacker still. Surely I can hear the sound -of hard, panting breath? That dreadful breathing passes me, passes -Lorrimer, comes to an arrest behind Rougette. - -Then I hear a scream, shriek on shriek, such as I never dreamed within -the gamut of human agony. And in the hush of panic that follows the -lights go up. - -Rougette is lying on the floor, her head buried in her arms, uttering -heart-rending cries. Lorrimer, with a face of absolute horror, is -bending over her, trying to raise her as she grovels there in agony. - -What is it? A hundred faces are turned towards us, each the mask of -terror and dismay. I will always remember those faces that suddenly -flamed at us out of the dark, all so different, yet with the one awful -expression. - -Then I see a tiny bottle at my feet. Almost mechanically I stoop and -pick it up; but I drop it as if I had been stung. I fall to rubbing -my fingers in agony, and everywhere I rub there is a brown burn. Now -I understand the poor, writhing, twisting girl on the floor, and a -similar shudder of understanding seems to convulse the crowd. There -comes a hoarse whisper--“_Vitriol!_” - -Turning to the door, I am just in time to see a girl in black make her -escape, an olive-skinned girl with beetle-black hair and the eyes of an -odalisque. And Lorrimer looks at me in a ghastly way, and I know that -he too has seen. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE GREAT QUIETUS - - -“It’s terrible! It’s unspeakable!” I groaned, on arising next morning, -as I thought of the events of the night before. “That poor girl, so -good, so sweet! And to think that she should suffer so--through me, -through me.” - -There was a knock at the door, and Lorrimer appeared. “It’s horrible! -It’s unthinkable!” he moaned. “Poor Rougette, who never harmed a living -soul. And to think that I should have brought this calamity upon her.” - -“It’s my fault,” I objected; “I introduced Lucretia to you.” - -“No, no; it’s my fault,” he insisted. “I trifled with the girl’s -feelings.” - -“Well, any way,” I said, “what are we going to do about it?” - -“I don’t know. What do you think?” - -“I’d marry her,” I suggested. “But I can’t, being married already.” - -“I’ll marry her,” cried Lorrimer. “You know, last night on the way to -the hospital, when I saw that beautiful face covered with those hideous -bandages, I wept like a child. She told me not to mind. It was not my -fault. She would enter a convent, become a nun. Just fancy, Madden, -that lovely face eaten to the bone, a horrible sight....” - -“Perhaps it won’t be so bad, old chap. Perhaps she’s only burned on -one side; then the other side of her face will still be beautiful.” - -“Yes, that’s one blessing. I told her as they took her away. -‘Rougette,’ I said, ‘the day you come out of the hospital is the day -of our marriage. You must not think of anything else. I’ll devote my -life to you.’ Could I do less, old man? We may talk cynically about -women, but when it comes to the point, we’re all ready to die for ’em. -I’d have given anything last night if it had been me. It’s always the -innocent that suffer.” - -“Every one is talking of it this morning,” I observed. “It’s in all -the papers, but no one suspects who did it. Are you going to tell the -police?” - -“No, how can I? I’m indirectly to blame. But oh! if I can lay my hands -on that girl!” He broke off with a harsh laugh that was more eloquent -of vengeful rage than any words. - -“Well, cheer up, old man. I applaud your action in marrying Rougette. -And perhaps she won’t be so terribly disfigured after all.” - -So I accompanied Lorrimer on his way to the hospital, and we were going -down the Boul’ Mich’ when suddenly he turned. - -“Let me leave you now. Here’s that blithering little Bébérose coming to -buttonhole me and tell me of his love affairs. I’m not in a fit state -to listen at present. You just talk to him, will you?” - -So I was left to interview Monsieur Bébérose whom I had met once or -twice in his capacity as art patron, and the proud purchaser (for an -absurdly small price) of one of Lorrimer’s masterpieces. Monsieur -Bébérose is a retired manufacturer of Arles sausages, a man of fifty, -and reputed to be wealthy. He is a little, overfed man, not unremotely -resembling the animal from whose succulence his money has been made. -Besides the crimson button of the Legion, he wears as a watch-charm a -large gall-stone that had been extracted from him by a skilful surgeon. -On the fore-front of his head is a faint fringe of hair, trimmed and -parted like an incipient moustache; otherwise his skull would make an -excellent skating-rink for the flies. Add to this that he is a widower, -on the look-out for a second wife. - -“Well,” I hailed him, “you’re not married yet?” - -Monsieur Bébérose shook his head mournfully. “No, things do not march -at present. You remember I told you about Mademoiselle Juliette. Well, -I like that girl very much. I have known her since she was a baby. I -think I like to marry her. So I ask the mother. Well, she put me off. -She say she decide in a week. Then in a week I go back and she tell me -that she think Mademoiselle Juliette too young to marry me but she have -a girl friend, Mademoiselle Lucille, who want to get married. Perhaps I -would be pleased with the friend.” - -Here Monsieur Bébérose sighed deeply. - -“Well, she introduce me to Mademoiselle Lucille, and I give them all a -dinner at Champeaux! It cost me over one hundred francs, that dinner. -The way the mother of Mademoiselle Juliette drink champagne make me -afraid for her. I am pleased with Mademoiselle Lucille very well, and -I think I like to marry her. So I tell the mother if the girl, who is -orphan, is willing, it goes with me, and she says she will speak with -the girl and advise her.” - -Here Monsieur Bébérose began to get indignant. - -“So in a week I go back and say to the mother of Mademoiselle Juliette. -‘Well, how does it go with Mademoiselle Lucille?’ She shrug her -shoulders. - -“‘Lucille! Oh, yes; I have never asked her. I’ve been thinking it over, -and I think I’ll give you Juliette after all.’ - -“Well, I like Lucille best now, but I like Juliette, too, so I say: -‘Very well, Madame, it goes with me. When may I have the pleasure of -taking to the theatre my fiancée?’ - -“But Madame say it is not _convenable_ if I go out alone with her -daughter. She must accompany us. So when we go to the theatre she sit -between us; when we have dinner she watch me all the time. Indeed, -I have not been able to have one word in private with Mademoiselle -Juliette. Perhaps I am not reasonable; but I think I ought to find out -how she feels towards me before I become fiancé. I think marriage is -better if there is a little affection with it, don’t you?” - -“Yes, it’s preferable. I think.” - -“Of course, I know Juliette will obey her mother and marry me; but -me, I do not like the way they treat me about Lucille. Am I like a -sheep that they shall pull about? Besides, Juliette is so young--just -nineteen. It might be better if I find some nice young widow with a -little money, don’t you think?” - -I agreed with him that the matter was worthy of serious consideration, -and that the _belle-mère_ was likely to be a disturbing factor in his -domestic equation. So, solemnly warning him to be careful, I left him -more in doubt than before. - -When I reached home Anastasia was awaiting me. - -“Well, darleen, what is it that you have of news about Rougette?” - -“I don’t know. Lorrimer thinks she’ll have a mask down one side of her -face. He swears he’s going to marry her though. Fancy” (I shuddered) -“marrying a medallion. Now, there’s a dramatic situation for you. -Handsome, romantic, young artist--wife, supremely beautiful to port, -a hideous mask to starboard. His increasing love of the beautiful -side, his growing horror of the other. His guilty knowledge that he -is himself responsible for the disfigurement ... why! what a stunning -story it would make, and what a tragic _dénouement_! How mean of life -to steal so brazenly the material of fiction!” - -“Poor, poor girl,” sighed Anastasia. “I must go to the hospital and see -her this afternoon. And I too I have some news for you.” - -“Not bad, I hope?” - -“No, I sink you are please. It is that Monsieur Helstern have call. He -was so funny, so shy, so glad about somesing. Well, what you sink? He -and Frosine get marry very soon and want you to be witness.” - -“Good! It’ll be the best thing in the world for the old chap.” - -“Yes, he seem very happy--quite different.” - -“Funny,” I remarked, “how every one’s thoughts seem turning to -marriage. It must be epidemic. There’s Helstern and Frosine. Here’s -Lorrimer saying he’ll marry Rougette; and this morning, Monsieur -Bébérose. By Jove! and weren’t we talking about it too! Ah, there’s an -idea! Why shouldn’t we have our _second_ marriage at the same time as -Helstern and Lorrimer get tied up? You see four witnesses are needed -at the ceremony, two male and two female. We can act as one another’s -witnesses as well as get married ourselves. And just think of the money -we’ll save on the carriages and the supper! Talk of killing three birds -with one stone!” - -“We must get my mother’s _consentement_ first.” - -“Ah, yes, my belligerent _belle-mère_. Well, we’ll go and interview her -to-morrow.” - -“I’m afraid,” said Anastasia, blanching at the prospect. - -“You mustn’t be,” I said bravely; “you have _me_ to protect you. -Remember you’re my wife.” - -“Not by French law. But I will go with you, darleen. I know you are -strong.” - -She looked at me with undisguised admiration. I think that Anastasia -really thinks I am a hero. - -In the afternoon she returned from the hospital with cheering news. It -was not going so badly with Rougette after all. She had had a wonderful -escape. A great deal of the acid had lodged in her veil, and what she -had got began a little below the left ear. Her neck and breast were -burned badly, and she was suffering agony, but her beauty had been -spared. By wearing collars of an extra height scarcely any one would -suspect. - -“Monsieur Lorrimer was there too. He’s so change. I nevaire see a man -so serious. Truly, I sink he mean marry Rougette all right.” - -Next morning, bright and early, we sallied forth to tackle the -redoubtable Madame Séraphine. After reconnoitring cautiously we located -her in her stall in the fish pavilion throned high amid her crates of -_escargots_. As with beating hearts we approached we heard her voice in -angry _argot_ berating a meek wisp of a porter. Against the grey of her -surroundings her face loomed huge and ruddy, and her eyes had the hard -brightness of a hawk’s. Again I wondered how she could ever have been -the mother of my gentle Anastasia. - -“Your father must have been the most angelic of little men,” I murmured. - -“He was,” she answered breathlessly. - -“You’d better go first,” I suggested nervously. - -“No, you,” she protested, trying to get behind me. - -“But you’ve got to introduce me,” I objected, trying to get behind her. - -Then while we were rotating round each other suddenly the eyes of my -_belle-mère_ fell on us, and as they dwelt on Anastasia her mouth grew -grimmer, and her nose more aggressive. Her whole manner bristled with -pugnacity. - -“_Tiens! Tiens!_ if it isn’t, of all the world, my little Tasie.” - -Anastasia went forward meekly; I followed sheepishly. - -“Yes, Mémé,” she said; “I’ve come to visit you.” - -The majestic woman relaxed not, nor did she make any motion to embrace -her shrinking offspring. - -“Well,” she said, after a long, severe silence, “I imagine that it is -not all for pleasure you come to see your poor old mother. What is it?” - -“Mémé, I want to present to you my husband.” - -Here I bowed impressively. The big woman with the folded arms shifted -her gaze to me. It was a searching, sneering, almost derisive gaze, and -I hated her on the spot. - -“So!” she said, more grimly than ever, “and how is it you can get -married without your mother’s consent, if you please?” - -“We were married in England, Madame,” I said politely; “but now we want -to get married in France as well, and we are come to ask your consent.” - -“Ah!” she said sharply; “you are not really married then. And what if I -refuse my consent? I do not know you, young man. How do I know if you -are a fit husband for my precious little cabbage? Are you rich?” - -“No.” - -“Are you a Catholic?” - -“No.” - -“Not rich! Not a Catholic! And this man expects me to let him marry my -little chicken, I who am so good with the church and can afford to give -her a handsome _dot_. What is your business?” - -“I am a writer.” - -“_Quel toupet!_ Just the same as her worthless father, only he was -worse--a poet. No, young man. I think I would prefer a different kind -of husband for my sweet lamb.” - -“I won’t marry any one else, Mémé.” - -“Hold your tongue, girl! Do I not know my duty as a mother? You’ll -marry whom I choose.” - -“Then you refuse to give your consent?” I said with some heat. - -Her manner changed cunningly. - -“I do not say that. All I desire is to know you better. Will you come -and have dinner with me some Sunday evening?” - -After all, she was my _belle-mère_. I consented, and Anastasia seemed -relieved. She promised to write and give us a date. Then I shook hands -with her; Anastasia pecked at her in the French fashion, and there was, -to some appearance, a little family reconciliation. - -“Perhaps the old lady’s not so bad, after all,” I suggested; but -Anastasia was sceptical. - -“I do not trust her. She have some ruse. We must wait and see.” - -That was a memorable day; for on reaching home I felt the sudden spur -of inspiration, and sitting down before the ramshackle typewriter, I -headed up a clean sheet: - - -THE GREAT QUIETUS - -A NOVEL - - “The scene is on the top of a peak that overlooks a vast plain. A - majestic old man, bearded even as the prophets, stands there looking - at the Western sky which the setting sun has turned into an ocean of - gold. Island beyond island of cloud swims in that amber sea, each - coral tinted and fringed with crimson foam. And as he gazes, the - splendid old man is magnificently happy; for is he not the last man - left alive on this bad, sad earth, and is he not about to close his - eyes on it forever? - - “In the twenty-first century, luxury and wickedness had increased - to such an extent that the whole world became decadent. The art - of flying, brought to such perfection that all travelled by the - air, had annihilated space, and the world had become very small - indeed. Instead of Switzerland, people went for a week-end skiing - to the Pole; the unexplored places were Baedekerized, and the wild - creatures that formerly roamed their valleys relegated to the alleys - of zoological gardens. - - “Behold then, a familiar world, shorn of all mystery; a tamed world, - harnessed to the will of man; a sybaritic world, starred with - splendid cities and caparisoned with limitless luxury. Its population - had increased a thousand fold; its old religions were outgrown; its - moral ideas engulfed in a general welter of cynicism and sensuality. - - “And out of this dung-heap of degeneracy there arises a sect of - pessimists who declare that human nature is innately bad; that under - conditions of inordinate luxury, when the most exquisite refinements - are within the reach of the poorest, conditions of idleness, when all - the work of man is done by machinery, it is impossible for virtue to - flourish. War, struggle, rigorous conditions make for moral vigour. - Peace, security, enervating conditions result in weakness. The - blessings that increase of knowledge had heaped on man were in their - very plenitude proving a curse. But alas! it was too late. Never - could man go back to the old life of virility. There was only one - remedy. It was so easy. Even as far back as the benighted nineteenth - century philosophers had pointed it out: let every one cease to have - children. Let the race become extinct. - - “For one hundred years had the promulgation of this doctrine gone on. - From their very cradles the children had been trained to the idea - that parenthood was shameful, was criminal, was a sin against the - race. The highest moral duty of a couple was to die without issue. - The doctrine was easy of dissemination; for even to the remotest - parts of the earth all men were highly educated; all nations were - gathered in world commonwealth with a world language. - - “But accidents will happen; and it had taken a century to reduce - the population of the world down to a mere handful. For a score of - years all children born had been suppressed and now, as far as was - known, only a dozen people remained. On a given day these had sworn - to partake of a drug that would ensure them a painless and pleasant - death. That day was past; there only remained the chief priest to - close the account of humanity. - - “He too held the drug that meant his release, and as he gazed his - last on a depopulated world his heart was full of exultation. He - cursed it, this iniquitous earth, where poor, weak man had been flung - to serve his martyrdom. Well, man had outwitted nature; mind had - triumphed over matter. Now the end.... - - “And raising the fatal drug to his lips the last man drained it to - the dregs.” - -Here ended my prologue: now the story. - - “A poor woman, feeling the life stir within her, and loving it in - spite of their teaching, had crawled away and hid in the depths of - a forest. There she had given birth to a man-child; but, knowing - that her boy would be killed, this woman-rebel lurked in the forest, - living on its fruits and the milk of its deer. Then at last she - ventured to leave her child and revisit the world. Lo! she found that - the day of the Great Quietus has passed; there was no more human life - on the earth. So she returned to the forest and soon she too perished. - - “The boy thrived wonderously. His mother had told him that he was the - one human being on the planet. He had lived in a cave and fed of the - simple fruits of the earth, so that he grew to be a young god of the - wild-wood. But he was curious. He wanted to see the wonderful, wicked - world of which his mother had told him so much. So he set out on his - travels. - - “Like a superb young savage he tramped through Europe. He tamed a - horse to bear him; he explored the ruins of great cities--Vienna, - Paris, Berlin. In the ivy-grown palaces and the weed-stifled courts - of kings he killed lions and tigers; for all the wild animals had - escaped from the menageries and had reverted to a savage state. He - ached to know something of the histories of these places; but he - could not read, and all was meaningless to him. - - “He discovered how to use a boat, and in his experiments he was blown - across the channel to Britain. Then one day he lit a bonfire amid the - ruins of London. Nothing in the world but ruin, ruin. - - “He was as one at the birth of things for he understood nothing. He - knew of fire and knives, but not of wheels. He was a primitive man in - a world that has perished of super-civilisation. Yet as he cowered - by his fire in the centre of Trafalgar Square the vast silence of it - all weighed him down, and he felt oh! so lonely. He caressed the dogs - he had trained to follow and love him. His mother had been the only - human being he had ever seen and she had died when he was so young. - His memory of her was vague, but he could imagine no one different. - He knew nothing of sex, only that vast consuming loneliness, those - haunting desires he could not understand. - - “Then as he sat there brooding, into his life there came the woman--a - girl. Where she came from he never knew. Probably like himself she - was a deserted child, and like him she, too, was a child of nature, - superb, virile, unspoiled. She had tamed two leopards to defend her, - and she was clad in the skin of another. With her leopards she saved - his life, just as he was about to fall in battle against a pack of - wolves. - - “Their meeting was a wondrous idyll; their love an idyll still more - wonderful. There in the lovely Kentish woodland they roamed, a new - Adam and a new Eve. Then to them in that fresh and glowing world, - glad as at the birth of things, a child was born. - - “And here we leave them standing on a peak that overlooks a beautiful - plain, in the glory of the rising sun. The world rejoices; the sky - is full of song; the air is a-thrill with fate. There they stand - bathed in that yellow glow and hold aloft their child, the beginners - of a new race, a primal pair in a primal world. - - “For nature is stronger than man, and the Master of Destiny is - invincible.” - - * * * * * - -I was pounding away at my typewriter one morning, and Anastasia was out -on a marketing expedition, when there came a violent knocking at my -door. As I opened it Lorrimer almost fell into my arms. He was ghastly -and seemed about to faint. Staggering to the nearest chair he buried -his head in his hands. - -“What’s the matter?” - -He only groaned. - -“Heavens, man! tell me what’s wrong.” - -Suddenly he looked up at me with wild staring eyes. - -“Don’t touch me, Madden; I’m accursed. Don’t you see the brand of Cain -on me? I’m a murderer! Oh, God! a murderer.” - -He rocked up and down, sobbing convulsively. - -“What have you done?” I cried, horrified. “Tell me quick.” - -“I’ve killed her,” he panted; “I’ve killed Lucretia. She’s dead now, -dead in my studio. I’m on my way to give myself up to the police.” - -“Killed Lucretia?” - -“Yes, yes. I didn’t mean to do it. I was mad for revenge. I had her at -my mercy. I thought of poor Rougette. Her moans have haunted me night -and day. They’ve almost driven me mad. I can’t blot out the memory of -that poor, bandaged face. Then when I saw that female devil before me -something seemed to snap in my brain. So I’ve killed her. Now I’m -sorry; but it’s too late, too late.” - -“Don’t take it so badly, old chap. Nobody ever gets punished for murder -in France. They’ll bring in a verdict of _crime passionnel_, and you’ll -be acquitted. But tell me, quick. What’s happened?” - -He went on in that broken, excited way. - -“She did not know we had seen her that night. She came to me with the -most brazen effrontery. Pretended to sympathise with Rougette; wanted -me to take her back as a model. That was what maddened me, the smiling, -damned hypocrisy of her. Oh! devil! devil!” - -“Go on, quick; what did you do?” - -“I told her I was going to paint a picture of Mazeppa and wanted her to -pose for me.” - -“But Mazeppa wasn’t a female.” - -“She doesn’t know that. Well, on impulse I posed her on that dummy -horse I have, and I bound her to its back with straps, bound her so -strongly she could not move a muscle. She submitted till I had pulled -the last buckle, then she got alarmed, but I snapped a gag in her mouth -before she could scream.” - -“Yes, yes, and then?” - -Lorrimer drew a long, shuddering breath. - -“And then, Madden, I--I _varnished_ her.” - -“Varnished her?” - -“Yes. You see I read it in _Pithy Paragraphs_, an advertisement for -Silkoline Soap. It began: ‘No person covered with a coating of varnish -could live for more than half an hour.’ That gave me the idea. It -closes all the pores, you see. Well, there she was at my mercy. There -was a pot of shellac varnish handy. In a few minutes it was done. From -toe to top I varnished her. Then threw a sheet over her. And now....” - -“Good Heavens! How long ago?” - -“I’ve come straight here.” - -“Wait, man; perhaps it’s not too late yet. Perhaps--stay here till I -get back.” - -I leapt down the stairs; caught a taxi that was passing, shouted -the number of the house and street, adding that it was a matter of -life and death; leaped out before the taxi came to a stand; called -to the _concierge_ to follow me, and burst into Lorrimer’s studio. -Not a moment too soon. The girl was in a dead faint, and it seemed -as if every breath would be her last. In feverish haste I directed -the _concierge_ to unstrap her and wrap her up; then, carrying her -downstairs, we lifted her into the taxi. - -“The baths!” I cried to the chauffeur. “The baths behind the Closerie -de Lilas. And hurry, for Heaven’s sake! A life’s at stake.” - -In a few minutes we were there, and a nurse had the girl, who had now -recovered consciousness, in a hot bath. Then for an hour of throbbing -suspense, with aching muscles and dripping brows they fought for her -life. As valiantly as ever hero fought with sword and shield they -fought with soap and soda. In the end the nurse triumphed. Her skin was -considerably damaged but Lucretia was saved. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE SHADOW OF SUCCESS - - -I was killing my chief priest in a blaze of glory when Anastasia -invaded the room that between meals is called my bureau, at meals the -_salle-à-manger_, in the evening the _salon_. - -“Don’t speak to me,” I cried; “I’m at a critical point.” - -With which I ran my fingers through my hair, took hold of my teeming -skull with both hands, and glared fiercely at the blank sheet of paper -in my typewriter. With a look almost of awe the wife of the great -author tip-toed out again. - -About an hour after, having duly been delivered of my great thoughts, I -rejoined her. “What is it?” I asked kindly. - -“Oh, darleen, I have letter from my muzzaire. She want us have dinner -on Sunday. What must I say?” - -“Say yes, of course. The old lady wants to give us her consent and her -blessing. Incidentally, a handsome _dot_ for you. Shouldn’t wonder if -she’d taken a shine to me after all.” - -“Any one take shine to such lovely sing like you, darleen; but I don’t -know about my muzzaire. Well, I write and tell her we come. Oh, and -anuzzer sing, I have seen Rougette this morning. She look so happy. She -have come out of the _hôpital_, and she tell me she get married with -Monsieur Lorrimer, July. You nevaire knew she have been burn. It is -all down her neck and shoulder. You cannot see.” - -“I’m so glad. They say beauty is only skin-deep, but it’s deep enough -to change the destiny of nations. Who would not rather be born -beautiful than good? Why was I not born beautiful?” - -“You are, darleen. You are just beautiful, and what is better, you are -great writer.” - -(I’m afraid Anastasia sees me with the eyes of posterity.) - -“Well, now,” I went on, “I must try and bring off that triangular -marriage scheme of mine. We’ll fix it all up with my _belle-mère_ on -Sunday, and in the meantime I’ll go out and see the others.” - -So I set forth in high spirits. Everything was going beautifully it -seemed; and when a few moments later I happened on Monsieur Bébérose -issuing from his apartment, I beamed on him, and he beamed in return. -He was dressed with more care than usual; a hemispherical figure in a -frock coat and tall hat. He was anxiously trying to get a new pair of -lavender kid gloves on his podgy hands without splitting them, and the -imperial that gave distinction to his series of crisp chins had been -trimmed and brilliantined. Plainly Monsieur Bébérose had dressed for no -ordinary occasion, and chaffingly I told him so. - -“Ah, no! Ah, no!” he admitted coyly. “I go to give a _déjeûner_ to my -future _belle-mère_ at the Café Anglais.” - -“Ha! Who is it? Juliette or Lucille?” - -“Oh, neither,” he said, with the archness of a baby elephant. “It is a -new one. I think I will be satisfied this time.” - -“Is she a widow?” - -“No; but her mother is; and an old friend of mine.” - -“Is she pretty?” - -“Pretty; only twenty and with some money.” - -“Ah! young, charming and with a comfortable _dot_; what could be more -delightful? Allow me to congratulate you, my friend. How you must dream -of her!” - -“Truly, yes; day and night. She is adorable. She melts in the mouth.” - -“What a lucky dog you are! I’m dying to see her.” - -“But I have not seen her myself yet. I have just seen the mother. Ah! -I will have that pleasure in a few days though. Then it is she return -from the friend with whom she is visiting.” - -“Well, I wish you luck. I hope your troubles are at an end.” - -How pleasant it was, I thought, to see all these wild creatures of the -ranges being rounded up into the blissful corral of matrimony! How -comforting, after one’s own feathers have been trimmed, to see others -joining the ranks of the wing-clipped! Love should not be represented -as a rosy Cupid, but as a red-jowled recruiting sergeant. True, I have -one of the best wives in the world; yet, what man is there, who, if he -has ever roved the Barbary coasts of Philander Land, does not once in -a while sigh for the old freedom? Marriage is a constraint to be good, -against which the best of us feel moments of faint, futile rebellion. - -Sometimes I wished that Anastasia was not so desperately practical. -She seems to consider that I am a species of great child, and must be -looked after accordingly. I am an ardent suffragist; I have always -advocated the rights of woman; I have always believed in her higher -destiny; I scoff at the idea that woman’s sphere is the home, and -desire to see her marching shoulder to shoulder with man in the ranks -of progress. Yet, alas! I cannot make a convert of Anastasia. - -Often I have tried to interest her in the burning question; to inspire -in her a sense of having a mission, of being oppressed; but Anastasia -only laughs softly. She seems to have the ridiculous and old-fashioned -idea that her duty is to make me happy, to surround me with comfortable -routine, to remove from my daily path all irritating and distracting -protuberances. I have left, with elaborate carelessness on her kitchen -table, enough feminist literature to convert a dozen women. But -Anastasia only rearranges it neatly, props an open cook-book against -it, and studies some new recipe for stuffing duck. - -“Ah, no,” she would say. “I must not waste my time reading. That is not -serious of me. I have my _ménage_, my marketing, my sewing,-- Oh, so -much to do! If I threw away my time reading, my Lovely One might have -holes in his socks; and just think what a shame that would be for me!” - -Yes, it is sad to relate, but I believe if I had offered her the choice -between a new hat and the vote she would take the hat. - -How often have I wished she had more individuality! Her idea seems to -be to mould her nature to mine, so that every day she becomes more -like a faithful shadow. How anxiously she watches me as I eat my soup, -so afraid it may not be to my taste! How cheerful, how patient, how -eager to please she is! Oh, for a flare of temper sometimes, a sign -of spirit, something to show that she is a woman of character, of -originality! But no. Her duty, as she conceives it, is to minister to -my material comfort, to see that I enjoy my food, to make me wrap up -sufficiently. Yet in these things she is rather tyrannical, insisting -on my coming home to my meals at the hour I have decided on, emphatic -that I change my socks at least twice a week, indignant if I brush -my hair after putting on my coat. However, she keeps my things in -beautiful order, and although I feel at times that she is a little -exacting I yield with good grace. After all, one ought to consider -one’s wife sometimes. - -On the other hand, I have insisted on some concessions on her part -that are revolutionary to the French mind--that of sleeping with the -window open, for instance. I over-ruled her objection that the snow -and rain entering during the night, spoiled her _parquet_. She keeps -it beautifully polished, by the way, and claims that the shining of it -every day gives her enough exercise without the Swedish gymnastics I -insist on her taking under my direction. But I am so anxious she should -keep slim and lissom, and the exercises are certainly effective. - -But another matter is beginning to occupy my mind and to give me a -strange mixture of satisfaction and regret. This is the apparent -success of _Tom, Dick and Harry_. About a month ago I received my six -presentation copies. MacWaddy and Wedge had done their work well. -The cover was stirring in the extreme. An American publicity man on -his probation had seized on it as a medium for his first efforts. It -was advertised in the weekly, and even in the daily papers; a royal -princess was announced as having included it in her library, and more -or less picturesque paragraphs about the author began to go the round -of the press. The imaginative efforts of the publicity man were not -stultified by any sordid knowledge of his subject. - -Then press clippings began to come in. A great many of these were -a repetition of the puff on the paper wrapper, which I had written -myself, and therefore were favourable. But the reviewers who read -the books they review did not let me down so easily. _The Times_ -was tolerant; _The Academy_ acidulous; _The Spectator_ severe. On -the whole, however, my _début_ was decidedly successful. Nearly all -concluded by saying that “despite its obvious faults, the faults -of a beginner, its crudeness, its obviousness, its thinness of -character-drawing, this first book of Silenus Starset showed more than -the average promise, and his future work should be looked forward to -with some expectation.” - -I gave copies to Helstern and Lorrimer, and they were both enthusiastic -in that tolerant way one’s friends have of applauding one’s -performances. - -“For a first novel, it’s wonderful,” said the sculptor. - -“You’re a marvel for a beginner,” said the artist. - -These back-handed compliments rather discounted my pleasure. On the -other hand, Anastasia, who read it with rapture, thought it the most -wonderful production since “Les Misérables.” She hugged and treasured -it as if it were something rarely precious, and verily I believe if she -had been asked to choose between it and the Bible she would have chosen -_Tom, Dick and Harry_. - -Yes, it had all the appearance of success, and yet I was, in a way, -disappointed. It was the equal of my other work--no better, no worse. -It had the same fresh, impetuous spirit, the same wheedling, human -quality, the same light-hearted ingenuity. It had the points that made -for popularity: yet I had hoped to strike a truer note. I had a fatal -faculty for success. I began to fear that I was doomed irrevocably to -be a best-sellermonger. - -Well, it must be as the public willed. I could only write in the way -that was natural to me. Still I hoped that in _The Great Quietus_ -I would show that I could aspire to better things. There were -opportunities in it for idyllic description, for the display of -imagination. I would try to rise to this new occasion. - -So I was deep in the book the following Sunday morning when Anastasia -reminded me it was the day we had promised to dine with her mother. The -old lady, she said, had asked her to go in the afternoon and help to -prepare dinner. Would I follow about six in the evening? I promised, -glad to get the extra time on my manuscript. - -About six, then, I looked up from my work; suddenly remembered the -important engagement, and rushed on my best garments. I called a -taxi and told the chauffeur to stop at the beginning of the street. -Anastasia, if she saw me, would give me a lecture on extravagance. - -The house was in the rue Montgolfier, up five flights. I knocked and -Anastasia answered the door. She looked as if she had been crying. -There was a sound of conversation from an interior room, where I saw a -table set for dinner, with the red checked table-cloth beloved of the -_bourgeois_. - -“What’s the matter?” I whispered. - -“Oh, I’m so glad you come. Wat you think she want, that bad muzzaire of -me? She ask another man here and she want that I leave you and marry -him. He is quite rich, and she say she geeve me twenty tousand francs -for _dot_. All afternoon she _discute_ with me. She tell me I always am -poor wiz you, and nevaire have much _confort_. And then she say you are -stranger and some day you leave me. She tell me the uzzer man geeve me -automobile and I will be very grand. And what you sink? When I say no, -no, no, I nevaire, nevaire leeve you, she say she geeve you two tousand -francs and you geeve me up like nothing. Oh, I ’ave awful, awful time.” - -“I don’t care two pins for your mother,” I said. “But where’s the other -party to this arrangement? Where’s the damned Frenchman? I’m going to -knock his face in.” - -Suddenly Madame Guinoval appeared, wearing a black satin robe that -crackled on her and threatened to burst with every movement of her -swelling muscles. The slightly moustached mouth was grim as a closed -trap, and the red face was flushed and angry looking. - -I was furious, but I tried to be calm. - -“Madam,” I said, “Anastasia has just told me all. You are her mother -so I do not express my opinion of you, but,” I added in a voice of -thunder, “where is the sacred pig who wants to steal away my wife?” - -There was a movement of alarm from the dining-room. - -“Because here’s where I show,” I went on, “that an American is equal to -two Frenchmen. Let me get at the brute.” - -Anastasia clung to me, begging me to be calm, but Madame Guinoval was -haughtily intrepid. - -“Hegesippe! Hegesippe!” she cried, “come out and show this _coquin_ you -are a brave man.” - -There was no alacrity on the part of Hegesippe, so the lady entered and -fairly boosted him to the front. I stared; I gasped; my hands dropped; -for the suitor, looking very much alarmed indeed, was little Monsieur -Bébérose. - -“Well,” I said, “you’re a fine man to try and steal a friend’s wife.” - -It was now the turn of Anastasia and Madame Guinoval to gasp, for -Monsieur Bébérose burst away from the grasp of the latter and rushing -to me began to stammer a flood of apologies. He was so sorry; he had -not known how things were; he had been deceived. “It was _that_ woman -had deceived him,” he said dramatically, pointing to Madame Guinoval. - -“That woman” retorted by a terrible calm, a calm more menacing than any -storm, a calm pregnant with withering contempt. - -“Out of my house,” she said at last; “out, out, you _sale goujat_!” And -Monsieur Bébérose needed no second bidding. He grabbed his hat from the -rack and his cane from the stand and vanished. Then the virago turned -to us. Going into the bedroom she brought Anastasia’s coat and hat. She -ignored me utterly. - -“Do you still,” she said, “intend to remain with this man?” - -Anastasia nodded a determined head, at which the mother threw the coat -and hat at her feet. - -“Then go, and never let me see your face again. Never will I give my -consent to your marriage in France. May my tongue wither if I ever give -it.” - -“Put on your hat outside,” I said to Anastasia, and pushed her out. -Then I turned to the woman: - -“It does not matter,” I hissed. “You’re a devil. You’ve tried to play a -dirty game, but it won’t do. And now listen to me.” - -Then I took a step towards her and adopted the manner of a stage -villain. My face was apparently convulsed with rage, and my raised lips -showed my teeth in a vicious snarl. It was most effective. I vow the -woman shrank back a moment. - -“I’ll pay you out, you harridan. I’ll make you smart for this. Nobody -ever did me a bad turn but what I did them a worse. Beware, Madame, -beware. I will have my revenge.” - -I slammed the door in her face. Then I laughed loud and long. - -“I say! it’s all awfully funny, Little Thing. Now let’s go and have -some dinner in place of the one we should have had with your mother.” - -When we got home that night, another matter claimed my attention. On -opening _The Bookman_, which had arrived that morning, I found therein -a well-displayed advertisement of _Tom, Dick and Harry_. There was -half a column of press extracts carefully culled and pruned, the evil -of them having in some inexplicable way evaporated. But, oh, wonderful -fact that made me scratch my head thoughtfully! in bracketed italics -was the announcement: Seventh Impression. There was no guessing how -many copies went to an impression. If the publishers were boosting up -the number of editions by printing only five hundred copies at a time -this did not mean much. But it was hardly likely. In any case it did -not look as if MacWaddy and Wedge were losing money over their venture. - -The result was that next morning I read over my contract with them. -Thank goodness! I still had the American rights; so by the first post -I wrote to Widgeon & Co., the literary agents, putting the matter in -their hands. There was a reply by return saying that there were several -representatives of American firms in London at that time, and that they -would get in touch with them without delay. - -The following day there came a telegram: “Messrs. Liverwood & Son offer -to publish book on fifteen per cent. royalty basis. Will we accept. -Widgeon.” - -I immediately wired back: “Accept for immediate publication.” - -Well, that was off my mind anyway. A few days after, I got a letter -from MacWaddy & Wedge saying that they hoped to have a new book from me -soon. What were the prospects, they wanted to know, of me being able to -let them have it for their autumn lists? In which case they would begin -an advertising campaign right away. I wrote back that my affairs were -now in the hands of Widgeon & Co. and that all business would be done -through them. - -A week went past. Every day I had new proof that _Tom, Dick and Harry_ -was going well. Then one morning I had a letter from my agents. They -had, they said, an opportunity to place a good serial. Would I send -them as much of my new book as I had finished and give a synopsis of -the rest. I did so, and in three weeks’ time they wrote again to say -that the American magazine _Uplift_ had bought the serial rights for a -thousand dollars. - -That, too, was as satisfactory as it was unexpected. It was like -finding the money. Once more I seemed to have entered on the avenue of -success that seemed to open up before me in spite of myself. From now -on, there would be nothing but monotonous vistas of smooth going. I -was doomed to popular applause. Once more would I leap into the lists -as a writer of best-sellers. So strongly had I the gift of interesting -narrative that I could win half a dozen new reputations; of that I felt -sure. - -Yes, I had succeeded--no, I mean I had failed, failed by these later -lights that Paris had kindled within me. Here, amid art that is -eternal, art that means sacrifice, surrender, renunciation, I had -learned to despise that work which merely serves the caprice of an -hour. I had come to crave form, to strive for style. Yet what can one -do? My efforts for art’s sake were artificial and stilted; it was only -when I had a story to tell that I became entirely pleasing. Well, let -me take my own measure. I would always be a bagman of letters. In that -great division of scribes into sheep and goats I would never be other -than a bleating and incorrigible goat. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE FATE OF FAME - - -Madame Séraphine had spoiled my plan of a triple marriage, but there -was nothing to prevent a double one. It took place one midsummer -morning in the Mairie, rue Grenelle. On the strength of my thousand -dollars from the _Uplift_ people, I offered to pay all expenses. - -In the great gloomy chamber of the Mairie we occupied one of a series -of benches. Frosine and Rougette were looking radiant, and Helstern and -Lorrimer comported themselves as if getting married was part of their -daily routine. I was the only person at all excited. - -On the other benches were other bridal parties, a bridal party to a -bench. On a platform facing us sat a tall man with an Assyrian beard. -He wore evening dress traversed by a tricoloured sash. He took each -couple in turn, looking down on them with no more interest than if they -had been earwigs. Then he mumbled into his beard for about two minutes; -finally he cleared his throat and for the first time we heard him -distinctly: “The ceremony is terminated.” - -After he had spoken this phrase about a dozen times our turn came. -Joyfully I pushed forward my candidates and in a few minutes they were -admitted into the matrimonial fold according to the law of France. - -Then I whirled them off to Marguery’s where we had a lunch of -uproarious jollity, punctuated with kisses, compliments and toasts. -They would fain have lingered, but I whisked them off once more to the -Place Denfort Rochereau where on every Saturday afternoon assembles the -crowd of tourists that descends into the darkness of the Catacombs. I -bought candles for all, showed my permit to the door-keeper, and we -joined the long procession of candle-bearing cosmopolitans. The three -women were delighted. It seemed so original for a Parisian to visit the -Catacombs of Paris. - -So for miles we followed these weird galleries hewn from the living -rock and lined with the bones of their million dead. As we walked -in single file the flickering candles gruesomely lit up the brown -walls where the shank bones were piled with such meticulous neatness, -knob dove-tailing into hollow, and the whole face of them decorated -with fantastic frescoes of thousands of skulls. And behind these -cordwood-like piles were vast heaps of indistinguishable débris, the -bones of that mediæval myriad gutted from the graveyards when the great -city had to have more room. - -We were all emerging from a side-gallery when I pulled Anastasia back; -for there, at the head of a party of Cook’s tourists, whom should I see -but her enemy O’Flather. Luckily he did not notice her and she did not -recognise him, so I held my tongue. But I thought: - -“Ah, now if I were a writer of fantastic fiction, instead of a recorder -of feeble fact, what a chance I should have here! Could I not in some -way have left us in the darkness, all three together, our candles lost -down one of those charnel pits? Then imagine: a battle in the dark -between him and me, with the girl insensible between us. There in the -black bowels of Paris how we smash at one another with naked femurs in -our hands! How the bones and dust of death come toppling down on us! -How, finally, I bowl him over with a chance-hurled skull. Then imagine -how I wander there in the darkness with the girl in my arms! How we -starve and nearly go mad! And how at last, on the following Saturday, -the next batch of tourists finds us lying insensible at the foot of -the great stairs!” As I thought of these things, by an absent-minded -movement, I raised my candle. There was a fierce, frizzling noise. It -was the feathers on the hat of the stout dame in front. They shrunk in -a moment down to three weedy quills. Poor lady! she did not know, and -I--I confess it with shame--had not the moral courage to tell her. - -No sooner had we got into the open air again than I whirled my party -off again to Montmartre. There was a matinée at the Grand Guignol, and -I had taken seats in the low gallery. The pieces were more thrilling -than usual and the three women screamed ecstatically. - -For example: A father and son are left in charge of a solitary -lighthouse. (You see the living-room of the lighthouse; you hear the -howling of the storm.) - -Then the son confesses to the father that he has been bitten by a rabid -dog and that he feels the virus in his veins. He implores the father to -kill him, but the old man refuses. The storm increases. - -The son begins to go mad. He freezes, he burns, he raves, he weeps. -Night is failing. It is time to light the lamps. The old man goes to do -so: but the son is trying to kill himself and the father has to wrestle -with him. The hoarse horn of a ship is heard in the growing storm. - -There is no time to lose. The ship is close at hand, rushing on the -rocks. The old man leaves his son and springs to the rope-ladder -leading to the lights. He gets up it almost to the top, but the son is -after him. With the blood-curdling snarl of a mad animal he seizes his -father by the leg and buries his teeth in it. The old man kicks out, -and the son, loosing his hold, tumbles crashing to the stage below. The -curtain falls on the spectacle of the old man crouching over the dead -body of his boy and the doomed ship crashing on the rocks. - -This was one of the most cheerful pieces we saw, so that when we issued -forth again we were all in excellent frame of mind for an _apéritif_ -at the Moulin Rouge. We had dinner at the Abbaye, and finished up by -visiting those bizarre cabarets, Hell, Heaven and Annihilation. - -“It’s been a lovely day you’ve arranged for us,” said Lorrimer as we -broke up; “but one thing you missed to make it complete. Could you not -have contrived a visit to the Morgue?” - -“I tried,” I admitted mournfully, “but they’re not issuing permits any -more.” However, I agreed with him; it had been one of the loveliest -days I had ever spent. - -So Lorrimer and Rougette went off to Brittany, and Helstern and -Frosine to Normandy, and it seemed very lonely without them all. Yet -the days passed serenely enough in our little apartment in that quiet -by-street. I was becoming more and more absorbed in _The Great Quietus_ -which already was beginning to show signs of unruliness. My Pegasus, -harnessed to imagination, is hard to keep in hand, and I perceived -that, soon it would take the bit in its teeth. Anastasia was deeply -interested in some tapestry she was trying to imitate from a design in -the Cluny Museum. Sometimes for hours as we both worked you would not -hear a sound in the tiny room. - -Then when we were tired of toiling we would go out on, to me, the -pleasantest of all the boulevards, Montparnasse. We would walk down as -far as the Invalides, and, returning, sit in front of the Dome or the -Rotando Café and sip _Dubonnets_ while we watched the passing throng. -We mixed with the groups of artists and students that thronged the rue -de la Grand Chaumiere with its gleaming signs of Croquis schools, where -for half a franc one may sketch for three hours some nude damsel with -a wrist watch and very dirty feet. Or we spent a tranquil evening in -a Cinema, halfway down the Boulevard Raspail, whose cherry-coloured -lights saves the people on the apartments across the way a considerable -sum yearly in gas bills. - -Days of simple joys! What a world of difference a few extra francs -make. Economy still, but self-respecting economy, not sordid striving -to make ends meet. Anastasia would not waste anything. The remains of -the _gigot_ for dinner appeared as a _ragoût_ at lunch. The morning -milk left over must serve as the evening soup. Often I groaned in -spirit, and suggested a little more recklessness. But no! I must not -forget we were poor. We must cut our coat according to our cloth. - -It was useless to try and change her. She was of that race of born -house-wives who have made France the rich nation it is to-day. Early in -the morning see their kimono-clad arms protruded from their windows -to shake the energetic duster; a little later see them seated, trim -and smiling at the cash-desks in their husband’s shops. Centuries -of prudence are in their veins; industry is to them a religion, and -the instinct of thrift is almost tyrannical. I know one of them who -insisted on her daughter marrying an Englishman because she had sent -her to a school in Brighton for a year, and did not want to see the -money wasted. - -So, recognising the genius of the race, I submitted meekly to -Anastasia’s sense of economy. Her greatest delight was to spend the -afternoon in the great Magasins that lie behind the Opera. She would -spend three hours there, walking them from end to end, turning over -enormous quantities of stuff which she would throw aside in the -contemptuous way of the born shopper, swooping hawk-like, pressing -intrepidly through crowds that appalled me, breathing air that gave me -a headache, and in the end returning with six sous of riband, declaring -that she had had a glorious day. - -Often I wonder how a woman who is tired if she walks a mile in the open -air can walk ten in a close, heated department store without fatigue. -As I walk in the street Anastasia lags hopelessly in the rear, but the -moment we enter the Louvre or the Bon Marché there is a mighty change. -The enthusiasm of the bargain stalker gleams in her eyes; she becomes -alert, a creature of fierce and predatory activity. It is I who am -helpless now, I who try in vain to keep up, as in some marvellous way -she threads in and out that packed mob of sister bargain-stalkers. -She is still fresh when I am ready to drop with exhaustion, and she -knows the Galerie and the Printemps as well as I know my pocket. Her -only weakness is for special bargains. How often has she bought fancy -boxes of note-paper and envelopes, just because they were too cheap to -resist. I have enough rose and cream stationery to last me the balance -of my life. I believe she buys them for the sake of the box. - -As the days went on I found myself becoming more and more in love with -the lotus life of Bohemia. I began to dread making an engagement; it -weighed on me like a burden. I wanted to be free, free to do what I -liked every moment of my time. An engagement was a constraint. The -chances were that when the time came I did not feel in a sociable mood. -Yet I would have to take part in conversation that did not interest me; -I would have to adapt my thoughts to the thoughts of others. So Society -became to me a form of spiritual tyranny, a state where I could not be -myself, but had to play the complacent ape among people who were often -uncongenial. - -The fact of the matter was, I was overworking myself, living again that -strange intense life of the maker of books, heedless of the outside -world, and more and more vividly intent on the glowing world of my -dreams. When I felt the force flag within me I would stimulate myself -anew with draughts of strong black coffee. More and more was I the -martyr to my moods, a prey to strange enthusiasms, strange depressions. - -For hours I would sit tense over my typewriter, all nerves and desire; -now attacking it in a frenzy of whirling phrases, now wrestling with -the god of scribes for a few feeble fumbling words. Words--how I loved -them! What a glory it was to twist and torture them, to marshall and -command them, to work them like jewels into the gleaming fabric of a -story! - -As I walked the streets I had moments of wonderful exaltation; moments -when my brain would be full of strange gleams and shadows. I would -know the joy that is theirs who feel for a moment the inner spirit of -things. I would have the reeling sense of intoxication as the Right -Word shot into my consciousness. As I walked, the ground beneath my -feet would seem billowy, the world around strangely, deliciously -unreal, and the people would take on a new and marvellous aspect. -So light I felt, that I imagined my feet must have some prehensible -quality preventing me flying upward. - -Particularly I favoured walking in an evening of soft-falling rain. -It turned the boulevards into avenues of delight. The pavements were -of beaten gold; down streets that were like plaques of silver shot -ruby lights of taxicabs; the vivid leaves on the trees were clustered -jewels. Perhaps I would see two people descending from a shining -carriage, the lady in exquisite gown, held up to show silk-stockinged -ankles, the man in evening dress. “They are going to dinner,” I would -say; “to force themselves to be agreeable for three hours; to eat much -rich, unnecessary food. Ah! how much better to be one’s own self and to -walk and dream in the still, soft rain.” - -So on I would go, and the world would become like a shadow beside -the glow of my imagination. I would think of my work, thrill at its -drama, chuckle over its humour, choke at its pathos. I would talk -aloud my dialogues till people stared at me, even in Paris, this city -of privileged eccentricity. I was more absent-minded than ever, and -my nerves were often on edge. My manner became spasmodic, my temper -uncertain. I avoided my friends, took almost no notice of Anastasia; -in short, I was agonising in the travail of, alas! best-seller birth. - -For my story had once more got out of hand. It was writing itself. I -could not check it. I would rattle off page after page till the old -typewriter seemed to curse me and my frenzy. Then, if perchance I was -sitting mute and miserable before it, a few cups of that hot, black -coffee till my heart began to thump, and I would be at it once more. -I wanted to get it finished, to rid my mind of it, to send it away so -that I would never see it again. - -At last with a great spurt of effort I again wrote the sweetest word of -all--The End. I leaned back with a vast sigh: “Thank God, I can rest -now.” - -Then I looked at the manuscript sadly. - -“Another of them. I’ve no doubt it will sell in the tens of thousands. -It will be a success; yet what a failure! What a chance I had to make -art of it! What poetry! What romance! And I have sacrificed them for -what?--adventure, exciting narrative, melodrama. I had to invent a -villain, an educated super-ape who makes things hum. But I couldn’t -help it. It was just the way it came to me and I could do no other. - -“Oh, cursed Fate! I am doomed to success. Like a Nemesis it pursues me. -If I could only achieve one glorious failure how happy I would be! But -no. I am fated to become a writer with a vogue, a bloated bond-clipper. - -“Alas! No more the joy of the struggle, the hope, the despair. -Farewell, garrets and crusts! Farewell, light-hearted poverty! -Farewell, the gay, hard life! Bohemia, Paris, Youth--farewell!” - -And as I gazed at the manuscript that was to make for me a barrel of -money there never was more miserable scribe than I. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE MANUFACTURE OF A VILLAIN - - -“Here’s crime,” I said darkly, as I touched glasses with O’Flather. - -The man with the bull-dog face and the brindled hair knotched his sandy -eyebrows in interrogation. - -“Down with the police,” I went on, taking a gloomy gulp of grenadine. - -“Wot d’ye mean?” said my boon companion, suspending the operation of a -syphon to regard me suspiciously. - -“O’Flather,” I lowered my voice to a mysterious whisper--“have you -never longed to revel in violence and blood? Have you never longed to -be a villain?” - -“Can’t say as I have,” said O’Flather, somewhat relieved, proceeding to -sample the brandy and soda I had ordered for him. - -“Is there no one you hate?” I suggested; “hate with a deadly hatred. No -one you wish to be revenged on, terribly revenged on?” - -“Can’t say as there is,” said the fat man thoughtfully. “But wait; yes, -by the blasting blazes, there’s the skirt wot put my show on the blink. -I’d give a month in chokey to get even with her.” - -“What would you do if you met her?” I demanded. - -“Wot would I do?” he snarled, and his cod-mouth opened to show those -teeth like copper and verdigris clenched in venomous hate; “I’d do her -up, that’s wot I would do.” He banged his big, fat fist down on the -table. “I’d pound her face in. I’d beat her to a jelly. I’d leave about -as much life in her as a sick fly.” - -“Did you never find out where she went?” I asked. - -“Nary a trace,” he said vindictively. “I hiked it over here to see if -I could get on her tracks. They say if you wait long enough by the -Caffay-day-la-Pay corner all the folks you’ve ever known will come -along some day. Well, I’ve been waiting round there doing the guide -business, but nary a trace.” - -“What would you say if I told you where she is?” - -“I should say you was a good pal.” - -“Well, then, O’Flather, I saw her only this morning.” - -“The blazes! Tell me where an’ I’ll start after her right now.” - -“Easy on, my lad. Don’t get excited. Let’s talk the matter over coolly. -I’m sure it’s the girl I saw in the doorway of your Exhibition that -night. It struck me as so odd I inquired her name. Let me see; it was -Guin ... Guin ... Ah! Guinoval.” - -“By Christmas, that’s her; that’s her; curse her. Where is she?” - -“Wait a bit; wait a bit, O’Flather. Revenge is a beautiful thing. I -believe in it. If a man hits you hit him back, only harder. But while -I approve your motive, I deprecate your method. It’s too primitive, my -dear man, too brutally primitive.” - -“Wot d’ye mean? D’ye think it’s too much to beat her up after the dirty -trick she played me?” - -“Keep cool, O’Flather. Have a little imagination. There are other ways -that you could hurt her far more than by resorting to crude violence. -She’s a very honest girl, I believe. Sets a great deal on her -reputation. Well, then, instead of striking at the girl, strike at her -reputation.” - -“But how? Wotter you getting at?” - -“It’s simple enough. These days the popular form of villainy is White -Slavery. Become a White Slaver. What’s to prevent you abducting the -girl, having her taken to that Establishment you so strenuously -represent--your Crystal Palace? Once within those doors it’s pretty -hard for her to get out again. You have her at your mercy and the -Institution ought to pay you handsomely.” - -“But it’s a risky business. You know them French judges have no mercy -on a foreigner. If I was caught I’d get it in the neck.” - -“Don’t do the actual abduction yourself. You’re too fat and too -conspicuous to do the job yourself. Besides, she knows you. Get three -of these bullies that hang around the Crystal Palace to do it for you. -You wait there till they come with the girl.” - -“But how would they know her?” - -“That’s true. Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, O’Flather, being a bit -of a villain myself, and ready to help a pal; I’ll go with your cadets, -or whatever they are, and point out the girl. You engage your men. -We’ll all go down in a taxi. The chauffeur must understand that he’s -to ask no questions. When the girl comes along I point her out. Gaston -rushes in with a chloroformed rag. Alphonse and Achille grab her arms. -Presto! in a moment she’s in the taxi. In ten minutes she’s in your -Crystal Palace. Is it not easy?” - -“Seems so,” he said thoughtfully. “I think I could get the men for -to-night. Won’t two do? Sure it needs three?” - -“Yes,” I said thoughtfully; “it might be better even with four, but I -think three will do. I’ve found that she goes to work every morning -about two o’clock, and takes the same road always. It’s dark then, -and the road’s almost deserted. I can be at the Place de l’Opera at -half-past one, when you can meet me with your men and a taxi. How will -that do?” - -“Right O! I’ll be there. To-night then. Half-past one. And say! tell me -before you go whereabouts this abduction business is going to be done. -It don’t matter to me, but you might be a little more confidential. -Where’s she working?” - -“She’s working in the _Halles_ and she goes by the name of Séraphine -Guinoval.” - - * * * * * - -The night was come, and though I arrived punctually at the rendezvous -O’Flather and his myrmidons were there before me. The fat man was -tremendously excited and fearfully nervous. His hand shook so that he -spoiled two cigarettes before he got one rolled decently. He sank his -voice to a hoarse whisper. - -His accomplices were of the usual type of _souteneurs_--little, dark, -dapperly-dressed men with lantern-jawed faces, small black moustaches -and cigarettes in their cynical mouths. Their manner was sullenly cool -and contemptuous--a contempt that seemed to extend to their patron. -There was no time to lose. We all bundled into the waiting taxi. - -“Good luck to ye,” said O’Flather. “I’ll be off now and wait. The boys -know where to take the jade. Once they get her into the taxi the rest -is easy. I’ll be waiting there to give her the glad hand; and extend, -so to say, the hospitality of the mansion. You’re sure you know where -to drop on her?” - -“Sure. She’s as regular as clock-work, passing the same corner and -always alone. Rely on that part of it. The rest lies with your -satellites and with you.” - -“All right,” he chuckled malevolently. “The thing’s as good as done. So -long now. See you to-morrow same place.” - -The taxi darted off, and the last I saw of my villain was his immense -bull-dog face lividly glowering in the up-turned fur collar of his -coat, and his ham-like hand waved in farewell. - -We were embarked on the venture now, and even I felt a thrill as I -looked at the dark, dissolute faces of the men by my side. At that -moment the affair began to seem far more serious than I had bargained -for, and I almost wished myself out of it. But it was too late to turn -back. I must play my part in the plot. - -I had selected a narrow pavement and a dark doorway as the scene of -operations. It would be very easy for three men lurking there to -rush any passer-by into a taxi at the edge of the pavement without -attracting attention. As I explained, I could see my three braves -agreed with me. They shrugged their shoulders. - -“_Parbleu!_ It’s too easy,” they said, and retiring into the doorway -they lit fresh cigarettes. - -How slowly the time seemed to pass! I paced up and down the pavement -anxiously. Several times I felt like bolting. The false beard I had -donned was so uncomfortable; and, after all, I began to think, it -was rather tough on my _belle-mère_. There in the darkened doorway -I could see the glow of three cigarettes, and I could imagine the -contemptuous, sneering eyes behind them. Hunching forward, the -chauffeur seemed asleep. The street was silent, dark, deserted. Then -suddenly I heard a step ... it was her. - -Yes, there was no doubt. Passing under a distant lamp I had a -convincing glimpse of her. I could not mistake the massive figure -waddling along in the black serge costume of the market women, with the -black shawl over her shoulders, the black umbrella in the hand. She was -hatless too, and carried a satchel. All this I saw in a vivid moment -ere I turned to my bullies and whispered huskily: - -“Ready there, boys! She comes.” - -My excitement seemed to communicate itself to them. Their cigarettes -dropped, and Alphonse peered out almost nervously. - -“_Sapristi!_ that her?” he exclaimed hoarsely. “You are sure, Monsieur?” - -“Yes, yes; sure, sure. She’s a _large_ girl.” - -He shrugged his shoulders as if to say: “Monsieur, our patron, he has a -droll taste among the women, _par exemple_. But that is not our affair. -Steady there Gaston and Alphonse! Get ready for the spring.” - -The three men were tense and _couchant_; the chauffeur snored steadily; -the unsuspecting footsteps drew nearer and nearer. Crossing the street, -I stood in the shadow on the other side. - -What happened in the next half minute I can only surmise. I saw three -dark shadows launch themselves on another shadow. I heard a scream of -surprise that was instantly choked by a hairy masculine hand. I heard -another hoarse yell as a pair of strong teeth met in that masculine -hand. I heard volleys of fierce profane Gallic expletives, grunts, -groans, yelps of pain and the unmistakable whacking of an umbrella. -Evidently my desperadoes weren’t having it all their own way. The -bigger shadow seemed to be holding the smaller ones at bay, striking -with whirling blows at them every time they tried to rush in. The -smaller shadows seemed to be less and less inclined to rush in; each -was evidently nursing some sore and grievous hurt, and the joy of -battle did not glow in them. There is no doubt they would have retired -discomfited had not their doughty antagonist suddenly tripped and -fallen with a resounding thump backwards. Then with a mutual yell of -triumph they all knelt on her chest. - -She was down now, but not defeated. Still she fought from the ground, -but their united weight was too much for her. She fell exhausted. Then -with main strength they hauled, pushed, lifted her into the taxi, and -piling in after her, panting and bleeding from a score of wounds, they -sat on her as fearfully as one might sit on an exhausted wild cat. The -taxi glided away, and I saw them no more. - -As to the sequel, I found it all in the columns of the _Matin_ two -mornings after. Herewith is a general translation: - - “Madame Séraphine Guinoval is a buxom brunette who carries on a - flourishing business in Les Halles. To look at her no one would - suspect her of inspiring an ardent and reckless passion; yet early - yesterday morning Madame Guinoval was the victim of an abduction such - as might have occurred in the pages of romance. - - “It was while she was going to her work in the very early morning - that the too fascinating fair one was set upon by three young - apaches and conveyed to a well-known temple of Venus. Madame Guinoval - appears to have given a good account of herself, judging from the - condition of her assailants as they confronted the magistrate this - morning. All three suffer from bites, one received as he sat on the - lady’s head; their faces are scratched as by a vigorous young cougar; - two have eyes in mourning, while each claims to have received severe - bodily injuries. A more sorry trio of kidnappers never was seen. - - “But their plight is nothing to that of the instigator of the plot--a - certain Irish American, known as the Colonel Offlazaire, a well-known - _boulevardier_. He, it seems, became so infatuated with the charms of - the fair _Marchande d’escargots_ that with the impetuous gallantry - of his race he was determined to possess her at all costs. Alas! - luckless, lovelorn swain! He is now being patched up in the hospital. - - “The real trouble began, it seems, when they got the Guinoval safely - within that pension for young ladies kept by Madame Lebrun on the - rue Montmartre. They put her in a dark room and turned the key in - the door. Then to her entered the Chevalier Offlazaire, locked the - door, and turned on the light. He then must have entered into a - violent argument with the fair one, for presently were heard sounds - of commotion from behind the closed door, a man’s voice pleading for - mercy, and the smashing of furniture. So fierce, indeed, did the - turmoil become, that presently the proprietress of the establishment, - supported by a bodyguard of her fair pensionnaires, felt constrained - to open the door with her private key. - - “Not a moment too soon! For the unfortunate Chevalier Colonel was - already _hors de combat_, while over him, the personification of - outraged virtue, poised the amazonian Séraphine, whirling a chair - around her head in a berserker rage. Terrified, Madame Lebrun and her - protégées fled screaming; then the infuriated lady of the _Halles_ - proceeded to reduce the establishment to ruins. Very little that was - breakable escaped that flail-like chair swung by outraged virtue. - Particularly did she devote her attention to the room known as the - Crystal Palace, where she smashed all the mirrors that compose - the walls, and then ended by reducing to ruins the magnificent - candelabra. Her frenzy of destruction was only interrupted by the - arrival of the police. - - “In consequence of the serio-comic character of the affair, and its - disastrous effects on those who promoted it, the magistrate was - inclined to be lenient. A nominal fine of fifty francs was imposed on - each of the three accomplices, while the illustrious O’Flather was - fined two hundred francs, and found himself so ridiculously notorious - that he departed for pastures new.” - -(As for Madame Guinoval, I think she enjoyed the whole thing -immensely.) - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -A CHEQUE AND A CHECK - - -One morning I received a cheque for nine hundred dollars from Widgeon -& Co.--payment for _The Great Quietus_, now running serially in the -_Uplift_. Did I wave it in the air? Did I do a war-dance of delight? -No. I looked at it with sober sadness. The struggle was over. -Henceforward it was the easy money, the work that brought in ten times -its meed of reward. Alas! how I was doomed to prosperity! I banked the -cheque with a heavy heart. - -Always was it thus. I vowed each book would be my last. I would drop -out of the best-seller writing game, take to the country and raise -calves. Then, sooner or later the desire would come to leap into the -lists once more. There was usually a month’s boredom between books, and -I would go at it again. “Perhaps,” I would say, “I’ll be able to write -a failure this time.” - -So, having got _The Great Quietus_ off my hands already, I was having -this feeling of energy going to waste. One day then, as I walked -along the Avenue de la Grande Armée, I happened to stop in front of -an automobile agency. There in the window was displayed the neatest -_voiturette_ I had ever seen. It had motor-bicycle wheels, a tiny -tonneau for two, an engine strong enough for ordinary touring. It was -called the _Baby Mignonne_, and I fell in love with it on the spot. - -As I was admiring the dainty midget two American women stopped in front -of the window. - -“Isn’t it just the cutest thing?” said one. - -“Isn’t it just a perfect darling?” said the other. - -Then they passed on, leaving me tingling with pride at their verdict; -for on the spur of the moment I had made up my mind that this -diminutive runabout should belong to me. Ha! that was it. I was seeking -for a new character in which to express my energy. Well, I would become -a dashing motorist in a leather cap and goggles, swishing along in my -Baby Mignonne. Yet I hesitated a moment. - -The price was thirty-eight hundred francs. That would not leave much -out of my forty-five. It seemed a little indiscreet in a man who had -been fighting the wolf so long to spend the first decent bit of money -he made in an automobile; a man who lived in a garret, whose wardrobe -was not any too extensive, and whose wife, that very morning, had -finished a hat for winter wear with her own hands. Ah! now I came to -think of it, she had looked so pale leaning over her cherry ribands. -Now I understood my sudden impulse. It was for _her_ I was buying it; -so that I might drive her out; so that she might get lots of fresh air; -so that the roses might bloom in her cheeks again. With a sense of -splendid virtue, I said to the agent: “I’ll take it.” - -Then I halted: “But I don’t know how to drive one,” I said prudently. -“How do I know I can get a chauffeur’s certificate?” - -“Ah,” said the agent, “that was easy. There was a school for chauffeurs -next door, where for a hundred francs they qualified you for the -licence.” - -So I promised the man I would return when I could drive, and made -arrangements to begin lessons on the following day. - -I returned home full of my new hobby. At all costs I must keep it -a secret from her. Her economical soul would rebel at my splendid -sacrifice. Then again I wanted the surprise to be a dramatic one. I -would tell her one day to meet me at the Place de l’Opera, and as she -lingered, patiently waiting for me to come plodding along on “_train -onze_,” up I would dash on my Baby Mignonne. Removing my goggles, I -would laugh into her amazed face. Then I would remark in a casual way: - -“I thought you might be too tired to walk home, so I brought you round -your car. Jump in quickly. We’re blocking up the traffic.” - -So clearly did I see the picture that I chuckled over my coffee and -Camembert. - -“What make you so amuse?” she asked curiously. - -“Oh, nothing,” I said hurriedly. “I was just thinking of a little -business I have in hand.” - -I continued to chuckle throughout the day, and my wife continued to -wonder at this change in her husband. (Here let me change for a moment -from my view point to hers.) She never pryed into his affairs, but -nevertheless she watched him curiously. And day by day his conduct -was still more puzzling. Although an inveterate late riser, he sprang -from bed at half-past seven and dressed quickly. Then after a hurried -breakfast he said: “I’ve got an engagement at nine. Don’t wait for me.” -She did not dare ask him where he was going, but she saw an eager glow -in his eyes, a gladness as of one hastening to a tryst. - -And when he returned how joyous he was! With what a hearty appetite -he attacked his lunch! How demonstrative in his affection! (Wives, -when husbands grow demonstrative in their affection, begin to get -suspicious.) - -She marked, too, his unusual preoccupation. He had something on his -mind; something he was desperately anxious to keep from her. He seemed -afraid to meet her eye. She began to be anxious, even afraid. - -Next morning he arose at the same time and went off again on his -mysterious business. She fretted: she worried. She knew he was wilful -and headstrong; she knew he would always be an enigma to her; she loved -him for that very quality of aloofness; yet over all she loved him -because of his caprice, because some day she dreaded she might lose -him. He had moods she feared, subtle, harsh moods; then again he was -helpless and simple as a child. - -Yes, she had never been able to fathom his whimsical changes, and he -certainly was greatly excited about this affair. It could not be that -he was incubating a new novel, for that only made him irritable. Now -his eyes expressed a rare pleasure. What, O, what could this secret -business be? - -(So much for what I imagined to be the “Psychology of Anastasia” at -this moment. To return to myself.) - -I was certainly getting a great deal of fun out of my lessons. -The change from book-making to machinery was a salutary one, and -every day saw me more enthusiastic. There in the quiet roads of the -Bois-de-Boulogne I practised turning and backing, accompanied by an -instructor who controlled an extra set of brakes in case of accident. -I was beginning to be very proud of myself as I bowled around the Bois, -and was even becoming conceited when one morning my professor said to -me: - -“To-morrow, Monsieur, you must come in the afternoon instead of -the morning. Then we will drive along the Champs Elysées and the -boulevards, for it is necessary you have some experience in handling -the automobile in the midst of traffic. On the morning after, the -Inspector will come to examine you for your certificate.” - -I was tremendously excited. Instead of rising early the following day -I visibly astonished Anastasia by sleeping till ten o’clock. But after -lunch I announced that I was going out and would not be back to supper. - -I saw her face fall. Doubtless she thought: “His mysterious business -has only been transferred from forenoon to afternoon. I thought this -morning when he did not get up it was finished. It seems only the hour -is changed. But I will say nothing.” - -So she watched me from the window as I went away, and I believe the -position must have been getting on my nerves for that afternoon, amid -the bewildering traffic of Les Etoiles, I lost my head. Trying to avoid -a hand-barrow, I crashed into a cab, and of course the emergency brakes -refused to work. Considerable damage was done. There were two policemen -taking down names, a huge crowd, much excited gesticulation. In the end -I promised to call at the office of the cab proprietor and pay for the -damage. Sadly I drove back to the garage. Never, I thought, should I -pass my examination on the morrow. But my instructor cheered me up, -and I began to look forward to it hopefully. - -I arrived home trembling with excitement. I could hardly eat my supper, -and rose soon after it was over. - -“I’ve got an engagement this evening,” I said nervously; “I may be -late; don’t wait up for me.” - -I was conscious how furtive and suspicious my manner was. I turned away -to avoid her straight, penetrating gaze. - -“Won’t you tell me where you are going?” she said quietly. - -“Oh, just out on business,” I said irritably. “I have a matter to -attend to.” - -With this illuminating information I went off. I had the impression -that she was restraining herself with a great effort. Well, it was -certainly trying. - -I paid the proprietors of the cab a cheque for two hundred francs. Then -it was necessary to go round and inform the police that everything had -been settled. Then it seemed fit to promote a good feeling all round by -ordering a bottle of champagne. Then one must drink to my success as a -chauffeur in another bottle. When I reached home it was after midnight -and I was terribly tired. The excitement of the day had worn me out; -and, besides, there was the worry over the examination in the morning. -The wine too had made me very drowsy. - -Anastasia lay silent on her bed. She did not move as I entered so I -supposed she slept. Making as little noise as possible, I undressed. As -I blew out the candle my last impression was of the exceeding cosiness -of our little room. Particularly I noted our new dressing-table of -walnut, the armoire with mirror doors, and the fresh curtains of cream -cretonne with a design of roses. “It’s home,” I thought, “and how glad -I am to get back to it!” Then I crept between the sheets, and feeling -as if I could sleep for ever and ever, I launched into a troubled sea -of dreams. - - * * * * * - -“What’s the matter?” - -It seemed as if some one was shaking me furiously. Opening my eyes I -saw that it was Anastasia. - -“What, is it? Fire? Burglars?” I exclaimed. I had always made up my -mind in the case of the latter I would lock the bedroom door and -interview them through the keyhole. I am not a coward, but I have a -very strongly developed sense of self-preservation. - -“No, no; something more serious than that,” she answered in a choking -voice. - -“What then? Are you sick?” - -“Yes, yes, sick of everysing. I waken you up because you talk in your -sleep.” - -“Do I? Seems to me you needn’t waken me up just for that. What was I -saying?” - -“Saying? You talk all the time about _her_.” - -“Her? Who?” - -“Oh, do not try to deceive me any more. I know all.” - -“You know more than I do,” I said, astonished. “What do you mean?” - -“Oh, do I not know you have a _maîtresse_? Do I not know you go to see -her every day? Do I not know you are spending all your money with her? -For two weeks have I borne it, seeing you go every day to keep your -shameful assignations with her. Though it was almost driving me mad I -have said no word. Hoping that you would tire of her, that you would -come back to me, I have tried to bear it patiently. Oh, I have borne so -much! But when it comes to lying by your side, and hearing you cry out -and murmur expressions of love for her, I can bear it no longer. Please -excuse me for waking you, but you torture me so.” - -I stared. This was an Anastasia altogether new to me. Her voice had a -strange note of despair. Where had I heard it before? Ah! that night -on the Embankment, when she was such a hunted, desperate thing. Never -had I heard it since. Yet I knew the primal passion which lies deep -in every woman had awakened. I was silent, and no doubt my silence -seemed like guilt. But the fact was--her accusation had been launched -in tumultuous French, and I was innocently trying to translate it into -English. - -“What was I saying?” I said at last. - -“Oh, you cry all night, ‘Mignonne! Mignonne! Petite Mignonne!’ You say: -‘You are love; you are darleen.’ And sometimes you say: ‘You are cute -little sing.’ What is ‘cute little sing’? Somesing very _passionnante_ -I know. You have nevaire call me zat. And nevaire since we marry you -call me Mignonne.” - -Suddenly it all burst upon me, and I laughed. It did not strike me how -utterly heartless my laugh must have sounded. - -“So that’s it. You’ve found out all about Mignonne?” - -“Yes, yes. Who is this petite Mignonne? I kill her. I kill myself. Tell -me who she is. I go to her. I beg her not to take you from me. I ’ave -you first. You belong to me. No one shall ’ave you but me. Tell me who -she is.” - -“I cannot tell you,” I said, avoiding her gaze. - -“Zen it is true? You have _maîtresse_? You have deceive me! Oh, what a -poor, poor girl I am! Oh, God, help me!” - -She was sobbing bitterly. Now, I am so constituted that though I am -keenly sensitive to stage sobs and book sobs, domestic sobs only -irritate me. Outside I can revel in sentiment, but at home I seem to -resent anything that goes beyond the scope of everyday humdrum. I am -tear-proof (which is often a mighty good thing for a husband); so my -only answer was to pull the blankets over my head, and say in a rough -voice: - -“For goodness’ sake, shut up and let’s have a little sleep.” - -But there was going to be no sleep for me that night, and to have one’s -sleep invaded would make a lamb spit in the face of a lion. - -“Are you going to see her to-morrow?” she demanded tragically. - -“Yes,” I said, with a disgusted groan. Really the whole thing was -becoming too ridiculous. All along I had been irritated at her -jealousy, the more so as there had been certain grounds for it. It had -been the only fault I had found with her, and often I had been stung -to the point of protest. Now all my pent-up resentment surged to the -surface. - -“Oh, please, darleen, excuse me; please say you won’t go. Stay wiz your -leetle wife, darleen.” - -“I’ve got to go; it’s important.” - -“Promise me zen you shall see her for the last time. Promise me you’ll -say good-bye.” - -“I can’t promise that.” - -“You love her?” - -“Ye--es. I love her.” - -My mind was made up. There is no cure for jealousy like ridicule. It -would be a little hard, but I would keep the thing up for another day. -I would let matters come to a climax, then I would triumphantly drive -round on my little voiturette and say, pointing to the blue and gold -name plate: - -“There! Allow me to introduce to you ‘Little Mignonne.’” - -The whirl of the alarm-clock put an end to my efforts to get some -sleep, so up I sprang in by no means the best of tempers. My -examination at nine, and I had had a wretched night. - -Anastasia got up meekly to prepare the coffee. I ate without saying a -word, while she even excelled me in the eloquence of her silence. Never -eating a mouthful, she sat there with her hands clasped in her lap, -her eyes downcast. She seemed to be restraining herself very hard. The -domestic atmosphere was decidedly tense. - -At last I rose and put on my coat. - -“Then you’re going?” she said, breathing hard. - -“Yes, I’m going.” - -At that her pent-up passion burst forth. She cried in French: - -“If you go to her, if you see that woman again, I never want you to -come back. I never want to see you again. You can go forever.” - -“You forget,” I said, “this is my house.” - -She bowed her head. “Yes, you are right. I am nothing in it but a -housekeeper you do not have to give wages to, a convenience for you. -But that will be all right; I will go.” - -I shrugged my shoulders. “Really, you’re too absurd.” - -Suddenly she came to me and threw her arms around me, looking -frantically into my eyes. - -“Tell me, tell me, do you not love me?” - -I softly unloosened her grasp. An actress on the stage can do justice -to these emotional scenes. In real life, a little woman in a peignoir, -with hair dishevelled, only makes a hash of them. - -“Really,” I said with some annoyance, “I wish you would cease to play -the injured wife. You’re saying the very things I’ve been putting into -the mouths of my characters for the last five years. They don’t seem -real to me.” - -“Tell me. Do you love me?” - -“Why verge on the sentimental? Have I ever, since we were married, been -guilty of one word of love towards you?” - -“You have not.” - -“Yet we have been happy--at least I have. Then let us go on like -sensible, married people and take things for granted.” - -“If you do not love me, why did you marry me?” - -“Well, you know very well why. I married you because having saved you -from a watery grave, I was to a certain extent responsible for you. It -was up to me to do something, and it seemed to be the easiest way out -of the difficulty.” - -“Was that all?” - -“No, perhaps not all. I wanted some one to cook for me. You know how I -loathe eating at restaurants.” - -“Then you did not learn to care for me afterwards?” - -“Why as to that I never stopped to consider. Really it never occurred -to me. I was quite happy and contented. And I had my work to think of. -You know that takes all emotional expression out of me.” - -“And now you love this Mignonne?” - -“Hum! Ye--es, I love Petite Mignonne.” - -“Oh, I cannot bear it! I have come to love you so much. Try, try, to -geeve her up, darleen. It will keel me if you do not.” - -Here she sank on her knees, holding on to the skirts of my coat. - -“I--It’s too late to give her up now.” - -“Then, you’re going?” She still clung to me. - -I disengaged myself. “Yes, I’m going.” - -She rose to her feet. She was like a little Sarah Bernhardt, all -passion, tragic intensity. - -“Then go! shameful man. Go to the woman you love. I never want to see -you again. But know that you have broken my heart! Know that however -happy you may be there is never more happiness for me!” - -With these words ringing in my ears I closed the door behind me. Poor -little girl! Well, it was tough on her, but she must really learn to -curb that emotional temperament. And after all, it was only for a few -hours more. I would show her how foolish she had been, and she would -forever after be cured of jealousy. With this thought I hurried off to -my examination. - -I found the Inspector to be a most genial individual who desired -nothing more than that I should pass; so, profiting by my mishap of the -day previous, I acquitted myself to admiration. Elated with success, -I was returning merrily home when suddenly I remembered the domestic -cloud of the morning. My conscience pricked me. Perhaps after all -I had been a little harsh. Perhaps in the heat of the moment I had -said things I did not mean. Well, she had never resented anything of -the kind before. By the time I reached home she would have forgotten -all about it. I would hear her hurried run to the door to greet me. -“Hello! Little Thing,” I would say. And then she would kiss me, just as -lovingly as ever. Oh, I was so confident of her desperate affection! - -But, as I reached the door, there was an ominous stillness within. - -“She is trying to frighten me,” I thought; yet my hand trembled as I -put the key in the lock. - -“Hello, Little Thing!” - -No reply. A silence that somehow sickened me; then a sudden fear. -Perhaps I would find her dead, killed by her own hand in a moment of -despair. But, as I hurriedly hunted the rooms, the sickening feeling -vanished, for nowhere could I find any trace of her. The breakfast -things were on the table just as I had left them. Everything was the -same ... yet stay! there was a note addressed to me. - -Again that deadly sickness. I could scarce tear open the envelope. -There was a long letter written in French in an unsteady hand, and -blurred with many tears. Here is what I read: - - “I am leaving your house, where I am only in the way. Now you may - bring your Mignonne or any one else you wish. I would not stand for a - moment between you and your happiness. - - “For a long time I have felt keenly your coldness and indifference, - but I have suffered it because I thought it was due to the difference - of race between us. Now that I know you do not love me, I can remain - no longer. I do not think you will ever make any one happy. You are - too selfish. Your work is like a vampire. It sucks away all your - emotions, and leaves you with no feeling for those who love you. - - “I have tried to please you, to make you care for me, and I have - failed. I can try no more. You will never see me again, for I am - going away. I feel I cannot make you happy, and I do not want to be - a drag on you. You must not fear for me. I can work for a living, as - I did before. Do not try to seek me out. I am leaving Paris. You can - get a divorce very easily, then you can marry some one more worthy - of you. I will always love you, and bless you and bless you. For the - last time, - - “Your heart-broken WIFE.” - -I sat down and tried to collect my thoughts, I turned to the letter and -read it again. No; there it was, pitilessly plain. I was paralysed, -crushed by an immense self-pity. In fiction I would have made the -deserted husband tear his hair, and cry, “Curse her; oh, curse her!” -Then tear her picture down from the wall, and fall sobbing over it. If -there had been a child to cling to him it would have been all the more -effective. But this was reality. I did none of these things, I lit a -cigarette. - -“Well, if that’s not the limit!” I cried. “Who’d have thought she’d -have so much spirit. But she’ll come back. Of course she’ll come back.” - -So I sat down to await her homecoming, but oh! the house was very sad -and still and lonely! Never before had I realised how much her presence -in it had meant to me. I made some tea and ate some bread and butter, -and that night I went to bed very early and did not sleep at all. Next -morning I made some more tea and ate some more bread and butter, but I -did not wash any dishes. I was too sad to do that. - -The next day crawled past in the same lugubrious way. I went to the -police and reported her disappearance, and they began to search for -her. I approached the Morgue to make daily inquiries with fear and -trembling. I spent my days in looking for her. Every one sympathised -with me, as, wan and woebegone, I wandered round the Quarter. I did not -speak of my trouble but the whole world seemed to know, and the general -opinion seemed to be that she had gone off with some other man. They -hinted at this, and advised me to forget her. - -“I can’t forget her,” I cried to myself. “I never dreamed she meant -so much to me. Over and over again I live the time we spent together. -Looking back now, it seems so happy, the happiest time in my life. And -to be separated all through a wretched misunderstanding!” - -And every night I would sit all alone in the apartment, brooding -miserably, and hoping every moment to hear a knock at the door, and to -find that she had come back to me. But as time went on this hope faded. -Once, when I saw them fishing a drowned girl out of the Seine, I had a -moment of terrible fear. There in the boat it lay, a dripping, carrion -thing, and with a thousand others I pressed to peer. With relief, I saw -that the cadaver had fair hair. - -I began to write again, but the old, gay, whimsical spirit had gone out -of me, and in its place was one of bitterness. Yet I was prospering -amazingly. _Tom, Dick and Harry_ was selling among the popular books -in the American market, and it looked as if the new book was going to -be equally successful. Already had I received a royalty cheque for -three thousand dollars, and I had spent most of it in hiring private -detectives to search for Anastasia. For six months I believed I looked -the most wretched man in Paris. You see, I was playing the part of the -Deserted Husband as splendidly as I had played all my other parts. Yet -never did I fail to minutely analyse and record my feelings, and even -in my blackest woe I seemed to find a somewhat Byronic satisfaction. -Never did I cease to be the egotistic artist. - -But all my searchings were vain. The girl seemed to have disappeared as -if the Seine had swallowed her. I was wasting my life in vain regrets, -so after six months had gone I put my affairs into the hands of a -divorce lawyer, and having fulfilled all the requirements of French -law, I sailed for America. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -PRINCE OF DREAMERS - - -I was lucky in getting a state-room on the _Garguantuan_, and on -reading over the list of passengers I saw a name that seemed vaguely -familiar, Miss B. Tevandale. Where had I heard it before? - -Then my memory sluggishly prompted me. Wasn’t there a Miss Boadicea -Tevandale who had played some part in my life? Oh, Irony! when we -recall our past loves and have difficulty in remembering their names! - -For the first two days the weather was very unsettling and I decided -that I would better sustain my dignity by remaining in my cabin. On -the third, however, I ventured on deck, and there sure enough I saw a -Junoesque female striding mannishly up and down. Yes, it was Boadicea. -She was looking exasperatingly fit--I had almost written _fat_; but -really, she seemed to have grown positively adipose. - -“Miss Tevandale.” - -“Mr. Madden.” - -“Why, you look wretched,” she said, after the first greetings were over. - -“Yes; I’m a little seedy,” I answered wanly. “Haven’t quite got my -sea-legs yet. But you seem a good sailor?” - -“Aggressively so. But where have you been all this time? What wild, -strange land has been claiming you? All the world wondered. It seemed -as if you had dropped off the earth.” - -“I’ve been concealing myself in the heart of civilisation. And you? I -thought you would have been Mrs. Jarraway Tope by now.” - -“Why! Didn’t you get my letter? I wrote just after you left to say that -I had broken off my engagement.” - -“No; the letter never reached me. I suppose it got side-tracked -somewhere. So you didn’t marry Jarraway after all. Well, well, it’s a -funny world.” - -“You don’t seem tremendously excited at the news.” - -“Ah! You want me to ask why you broke it off. I beg your pardon. I did -not think I had the right to ask that.” - -“If you have no right, who has?” - -“I--I don’t quite understand.” - -“Don’t you remember the words you said when last we met?” - -I blush to say I did not remember, but I answered emotionally: - -“Yes; they are engraven on my memory forever.” - -“Then can you wonder?” - -“You don’t mean to say it was on my account you broke off your marriage -with a millionaire?” - -She answered me with a shade of bitterness. - -“Listen, Horace; there need be no mincing of matters between us -two. Since I saw you last I have been greatly interested in Woman’s -Suffrage. In fact I have been devoting myself body and soul to the -Cause. Even now I am returning from a series of meetings in England, -which I attended as a delegate from New York, and mixing with these -noble-minded women has completely cured me of that false modesty that -so handicaps our sex. I believe now that it is a woman’s privilege, -just as much as a man’s, to declare her affection. Horace, I love you. -I have always loved you from that day. Will you be my husband?” - -I grew pale. I hung my head. My lips trembled. - -“Boadicea,” I faltered, “I cannot. It is too late. I am already -married.” - -I saw the strong woman shrink as if she had received a blow. Then -quickly she recovered herself. - -“How was it? Tell me about it,” she said quickly. - -So there, as we watched the rolling of the whale-grey sea and each -billow seemed part of a cosmic conspiracy to upset my equilibrium, I -told her the story of Anastasia’s desertion. - -“Of course,” I said brokenly, “I’ll never see her again. In fact, even -now I am sueing for a divorce. In a few months I expect to be a free -man.” - -“My dearest friend, you have my sympathy.” - -Under the cover of our rugs I felt her strong capable hand steal to -meet mine. Here was a fine, lofty soul who could solace and understand -me. This big, handsome woman, with the cool, crisp voice, with the -clear, calm eye, with the features of confidence and command, was -surely one on whom a heart-broken world-weary man could lean a little -in his hour of weakness and trouble. I returned the pressure of that -large firm hand, and, moved by an emotion I could no longer suppress, I -turned and dived below. - -There is no matchmaker like the Atlantic Ocean; and so as the days went -on I grew more and more taken with the idea of espousing Boadicea. As -we sat there in our steamer chairs and watched the shrill wind whip the -billow peaks to spray, and the sudden rainbows gleam in the silvery -spendrift I listened to her arguments in favour of the Suffrage and -they seemed to me unanswerable. I, too, became inspired with a fierce -passion to devote my life to the Cause, to enter and throw myself in -the struggle of sex, to play my humble part in the Woman’s War. And in -Boadicea I had found my Joan of Arc. - -So as we shook hands on the New York pier we had every intention of -seeing one another again. - -“You have helped me greatly with your noble sympathy,” I said. - -“You have cheered me greatly with your splendid understanding,” she -answered. - -“We are comrades.” - -“Yes, we are good comrades--in the Cause.” - -She had to go West on a lecturing tour, and it was some months before I -saw her again. When I did, my first words were: - -“Boadicea, I’m a free man.” - -“Are you? How does it feel?” - -“Not at all natural. I don’t believe I’ll ever be satisfied till I’m -chained to the car again. Boadicea, do you remember those words you -spoke that day we met on the _Garguantuan_? Does your proposition still -hold good?” - -“What proposition?” - -“Let us unite our forces. Let us fight side by side. Boadicea, will you -not change your name to Madden? You know my sad history. Here then I -offer you the fragments of my heart.” - -“Oh, don’t. You make me feel like a cannibal.” - -“Here then I offer you my hand and name. I will try to make you the -most devoted of husbands.” - -“I am sure you will. Horace, we will work together for the good of the -Cause.” - -A month after we were married and spent our honeymoon in London, -chiefly in attending Suffragette meetings. Very soon I began to -discover that being wedded to a woman who is wedded to a Cause -is like being the understudy of your wife’s husband. And if that -rather militant suffragette happens to be a millionairess then one’s -negligibility is humiliatingly accentuated. I was only a millionaire -in francs, while Boadicea was a millionairess in dollars, and the -disparity of values in national currency began to become more and more -a painful fact to me. - -I was not long, too, in discovering that my sympathy with the Cause was -only skin-deep. Indeed, my suddenly discovered enthusiasm had surprised -even myself. It was unlike me to become so interested in real, vital -questions, that more than once I suspected myself of being a hypocrite. -At long distance the idea of Woman finding herself fascinated me just -as socialism fascinated me. I could dream and idealise and let my -imagination paint wonderful pictures of a woman’s world, but once the -matter became concrete, my enthusiasm took wings. Then it was I had my -first tiff with Boadicea. - -“Boa, I don’t want to march in the demonstration on Sunday,” I said -peevishly. - -“Why not, Horace?” demanded Boadicea with displeasure. - -“Oh, well, I don’t like the male suffragettes. They look so like fowls. -They remind me of vegetarians or temperance cranks. Some of the fellows -in the club chaffed me awfully the last time I marched with them.” - -“Oh, very well, Horace. Please yourself. Only I’m just a _little_ -disappointed in you.” - -“I wouldn’t mind so much,” I went on, “if the women were inspiring, -but they’re not. In the last demonstration I couldn’t help remarking -that nearly all the women who marched were homely and unattractive, -while those who watched the procession were often awfully pretty and -interesting. Now, couldn’t you reverse the thing--let the homely ones -line up and let the pretty ones march? Then I’d venture to bet you’d -convert half the men on the spot.” - -Boadicea stared. This was appalling heresy on my part; but I went on -bravely. - -“Another thing: why don’t they dress better? Do they think that the -inspiration of a great cause justifies them in being dowdy? I tell you, -well-fitting corsets and dainty shoes will do more for the freedom of -woman than all the argument in the world. Coax the Vote from the men; -don’t bully them. You’ll get it if you’re charming enough. Therein lies -your real strength--not in your intellect, but in your charm.” - -“Don’t tell me, Horace, you’re like all the rest of the men. A woman -with a pretty face can turn you round her finger!” - -“I’m sadly like most men, I find. I prefer charm and prettiness to -character and intellect; just as in my youth I preferred bad boys to -good. But, in any case, I refuse to march any more with these ‘_vieux -tableaux_.’ Remember I have a sense of humour.” - -“But all your enthusiasm? Your boiling indignation? Your thought of our -wrongs?” - -“Has all been overwhelmed by my sense of humour. One can only afford -to take trivial things seriously, and serious things trivially.” - -“So you are going to throw us over?” - -“Not at all. I believe in the Cause, but I won’t march. The cause of -woman would be all right if there were no women--I mean the chief enemy -to women’s suffrage is the suffragette. No woman has more influence -than the French woman. It is all the more powerful because it is -indirect. It is based on love. A Frenchwoman knows that to coax is -better than to bully.” - -“Oh, you’re always praising up the French women. Why don’t you go over -to Paris to live, if you are so fond of them?” - -“I never want to set foot in Paris again.” - -“But what about me? I’ve never been there. Am I never to see it?” - -“No; I don’t think you would like it.” - -“I think I would. I think we’d better go over there for the Spring.” - -Any opposition on my part made her determined, so that if I wanted -a thing very much I had to pretend the very opposite. On the other -hand, if I had expressed a keen wish to go to Paris she would have -objected strenuously. Her nature was very antagonistic. I admired her -greatly for her intellect, for her character; but she was one of those -self-possessed, logical, clear-brained women who get on your nerves, -and every day she was getting more and more on mine. - -We took an Italian Palace near the Parc Monceau, bought a limousine, -kept a dozen servants, moved in the Embassy crowd and had our names in -the Society column of the New York paper nearly every day. Life became -one beastly nuisance after another--luncheons, balls, dinners, theatre -parties. I, who had a Bohemian hatred of dressing, had to dress every -evening. I, who dreaded making an engagement because it interfered with -my liberty, found myself obliged to keep a book in which I recorded my -too numerous engagements. I, who had so strenuously objected to the -constraints of company, was obliged to force smiles and stroke people -the right way for hours on end. Was there ever such a slavery? It -seemed as if I never had a moment in which I could call my soul my own. -I was bored, heart-sick, goaded to rebellion. - -“Why can’t we be simple, even if we are rich?” I remonstrated. “It -would be far less trouble and we’d be far happier. I’m tired of trying -to live up to my valet. Let’s cut out this society racket and live -naturally.” - -“We can’t. We must live up to our position. It’s our duty. Besides, -I like this ‘society racket’ as you so vulgarly call it. It gives me -an opportunity to impress people with my views. And really, Horace, I -think you’re too ungrateful. You should be glad of the opportunity of -meeting so many nice people.” - -“Like Hades I should! Do you call that Irish countess we had for lunch -nice? She had a long face like a horse, blotched and covered with hair, -and spoke with the accent of a washerwoman. And that stiff Englishman--” - -“You can’t deny Sir Charles is awfully good form.” - -“Good form be hanged! I think he’s a pig-headed ass. I couldn’t -open my mouth without treading on his traditional corns. American -Spread-eagleism isn’t in it with British Lionrampantism. We have -a sense of humour that makes us laugh at our weaknesses, but the -Englishman’s are sacred. That Englishman actually believed that the -masses were being educated beyond their station, believed that they -should be kept in the place they belonged.” - -“Really you’re disgustingly democratic. What’s the use of having money -if it doesn’t make one better than other people who haven’t? As for Sir -Charles; I think he’s perfectly charming.” - -“Oh, yes, of course. You’re aping the English, like all the Americans -who come over here. Everything’s perfectly charming, or perfectly -dreadful. You’ll soon be ashamed of your own nationality. Bah! of all -snobs the Anglo-American one’s the most contemptible. Of all poses the -cosmopolitan one’s the most disgusting.” - -“Really your language is rather strong.” - -“It’s going to be stronger before I’m finished. I’ve been sitting quiet -in my little corner taking notes on you and your friends, and I’ve got -the stuff for a book out of our little splurge in society. There’s a -good many of your friends in it, Madam. I fear they’ll cut you dead -after they read it.” - -“If you publish such a work I’ll get a divorce.” - -“Go and get one.” - -“Oh, you’re a brute, a brute!” - -Here Boadicea stamped a number six shoe furiously on the floor. - -“Yes, and I’m glad of it. To woman’s duplicity let us men oppose our -brutality. When the worst comes to the worst we can always fall back on -the good old system of ‘spanking.’” - -“Oh! Oh! You dare not. You are not physically capable.” - -“Is that so? You’re a strong woman, Boa; but I still think I could use -the flat of a nice broad slipper on you.” - -She was speechless with wrath. Then, with another exclamation of -“brute,” she marched from the room. Soon after I heard her order the -car and go out. - -“Yes,” I murmured bitterly to my cigarette, “seems like you’d caught -a Tartar this time. Aren’t you sorry you ever married again? How -different it was before. Let’s see. What’s on to-night?” - -My little book showed me that I was due to dine with an ambassador. - -“What a nuisance! I’ve got to dress. I’ve got to stoke my physical -machine with food that isn’t suited to it. I’ve got to murmur inanities -to some under-dressed female. How I hate it all! There was my old -grandfather now. He died leaving a million, but up to his death he -lived as simply as the day he began working for wages. Ah! there was -a happy man. I remember when he used to come home for supper at night -they would bring him two bowls, one full of hot mashed potatoes, the -other of sweet, fresh milk. He would eat with a horn spoon, taking it -half full of potatoes, then loading up with milk. And how he enjoyed -it! What a glorious luxury it would be to sit down to-night to a bowl -of potatoes and a bowl of milk!” - -I stared drearily round the great room which we had sub-let from the -mistress of a Grand Duke. Such lavish luxury of mirror and marble, of -silk and satin-wood, furnished by an artist to satisfy an epicure! -Sumptuous splendour I suppose you would call it. But oh, what would I -not give to be back once more in the garret of the rue Gracieuse! Ay, -even there with its calico curtains and its home-made furniture. Or -sitting down to a dinner of roast chicken and _Veuve Amiot_ with.... -Oh, I can’t bear to mention even her name! The thought of her brings -a choke to my throat and a mist to my eyes.... How happy I was then, -and I didn’t know it! And how good she was! just a good little girl. I -didn’t think half enough of her. What a mistake it’s all been! - -I stared at the burnt-out cigarette, reflecting bitterly. - -“I should never have come back to this Paris. It just makes me unhappy. -At every turn of the street I expect to suddenly come face to face with -her. I can’t bear to visit the _rive gauche_. It’s haunted for me. I -see myself as I was then, swinging my old cherry-wood cane as I strode -so buoyantly along the quays. Every foot of that old Latin Quarter has -its memory. I can’t go there again. It’s too painful.” - -I rose and paced up and down the room. - -“God! wasn’t I happy though! Remember the afternoons in the Luxembourg -and the Bal Bullier, and the Boul’ Mich’. How I loved it all! How I -used to linger gazing at the old houses! How I used to dream, and -thrill, and gladden! Oh, the wonder of the Seine by night, the work, -the struggle, the visits to the Mont-de-Piété, the careless God-given -Bohemian days! It hurts me now to think of them.... It hurts me....” - -Going over to the mantelpiece I leaned one elbow on it, looking down -drearily at the fire. - -“Ah, Little Thing! How glad she always was when I came home! I can feel -her arms round my neck as she welcomed me, feel her soft kisses, see -the little room all bright and cheery. Oh, if these days would only -come again! Where is she now, I wonder? Poor, poor Little Thing.” - -As I stood there like a man stricken, miserable beyond all words, -suddenly I started. All the blood seemed to leave my heart. Some one -was talking to the butler in the hall. - -“Is Madam in please? I have bring some leetle _hem-broderie_ she want -see. She tell me to come now.” - -Just a tired, quiet, colourless voice, interrupted by a sudden cough, -yet oh, how sweet, how heaven-sweet to me! Again I listened. - -“Oh, she have gone out. I am so sorry. She have made appointment wiz me -for now and I have not much time. I will leave my _hem-broderie_ for -Madam to regard. Then I will call again to-morrow.” - -She was going, but I could not restrain myself. - -“Thomas,” I said to the man, “call her back. I will make a selection of -her work for Madam.” - -As I stood there by the mantelpiece with head bent, waiting, I saw in -the mirror the crimson curtains parted, and there stood a little, grey -figure, shrinking, shabby, surprised. Then I turned slowly and once -again we were face to face. - -“Little Thing!” - -She started. Her hand in its shabby, cotton glove went up to her -throat, and she made a step as if she would throw herself in my arms. - -“You?” - -“Yes,” I said miserably. “I never thought to see you again.” - -“And I did not, sink I evaire see you. It would have been better not.” - -“It would; but I’m glad, I’m glad.” - -“Yes, I am glad too, for I want to say how sorry I am I leave you like -that. I was mad wiz jealousy. I could not help it. After, I want very -much keel myself, but I have promised you I do not.” - -“No, no, it was my fault. I could have explained everything so easily. -But after all, it’s too late. What does it matter now?” - -“No, it does not mattaire much now. I am so glad for you you have got -divorce from me. I am very bad womans. Please excuse me.” - -“Yes, yes; but forgive me. I never cared enough for you--or at least I -never showed I cared. Now I know.” - -“You care now. Oh, that will make me so happy. You know there is not -much longer for me. The doctor tell me so. I am _poitrinaire_.” - -She shrugged her shoulders with a resigned little grimace. - -“But,” she went on, “now I shall be so glad. I don’t care for myself. -You remember for laughing you used to call me ‘Poor leetle Sing,’ and -I say: ‘No, I am not poor leetle sing, I am very, very, ’appy leetle -sing.’ Ah! but now I am poor leetle sing indeed.” - -“Can I not help you? I must.” - -“No, I will take nussing from you. And anyway it would not help much. -I make enough from my _hem-broderie_ to leeve, and I don’t want any -pleasure some more. Just to leeve. The sisters at the convent are very -good to me. I see them often, and when I am sick at the last I know -they will care for me. Really I am very well. Now I must go; I must -work; I lose time.” - -“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, let me do something!” - -“No, I am very good. I sink at you always, and I bless you. You see I -have the good souvenirs.” - -From the breast of her threadbare jacket she took a worn silver locket -and showed me a little snapshot of myself. - -“There, I have the souvenir of happy days. Now I must go.” - -She looked very frail, and of a colour almost transparent. She tried -hard to smile. Then she swayed as if she would faint, but recovered -herself by clutching at a chair. - -“Little Thing,” I said, “it’s too late, but we must at least shake -hands.” - -She pulled off a grey cotton glove and held out a hand all toilworn and -needle-warped. - -“Good-bye,” she said wearily. - -I seized the little thin hand, conscious that my hot tears were falling -on it. Looking up, I saw that her eyes too were a-stream with tears. - -“Good-bye,” I said chokingly. - -“Good-bye, darleen, good-bye for evaire....” - -That was all. She turned and left me standing there. I heard her -coughing as she went downstairs. Sinking down I sobbed as if my heart -would break.... - - * * * * * - -“What’s the mattaire, darleen?” - -It seemed as if some one was shaking me violently. My pillow was wet -with tears and the sobs still convulsed me. I opened staring eyes, -eyes that fell _on a dressing-table of walnut, an armoire with mirror -doors, and cretonne curtains, with a design of little roses_. Yet I -stared more, for Anastasia, fresh and dainty, but with a face of great -concern, was bending over me. - -“What’s the mattaire, darleen? For ten minutes I try to wake you up. -You have been having bad dream. You cry dreadful.” - -“Dream! Dream! Am I mad?... Where am I now?... Tell me quick.” - -“Oh, darleen, what’s the mattaire? You affrighten me....” - -“No, no; what’s the address of this house?” - -“Passage d’Enfer.” - -“And the date...? What’s the date?” - -“The twelve Novembre.” - -“But the year, the year?” - -“Why the year is Nineteen hundred thirteen.” - -“Thank God! I thought it was nineteen fourteen.” Then the whole truth -flashed on me. Prince of Dreamers! In a night I had dreamed the events -of a whole year of life. Yesterday was the day of my accident, and this -morning--why, I had to pass my examination for a chauffeur’s licence; -this morning at nine o’clock, and it was now eleven. Too late. - -Yet I did not care then for a thousand Inspectors. I was not married to -Boadicea. I still had Little Thing. I vow I was the happiest man in the -world. - -“Pack everything up,” I said. “We leave for America to-morrow.” - - * * * * * - -Once more I sat in the favourite chair of my favourite club, surveying -the incredible bank-book. Figures! Figures! More formidably than ever -they loomed up. Useless indeed to try and cope with this flood of -fortune. - -And now that I had two reputations to keep up, the flood was more -insistent than ever. Not only were there the best-sellers of Norman -Dane to bargain with, but also the best-sellers of Silenus Starset. -And for my own modest needs, with Anastasia’s careful management, my -little patrimony more than sufficed. What then was I going to do with -these senseless figures that insisted so in piling up, and yet meant -nothing to me? Suddenly the solution flashed on me, and as if it were -an illuminated banner I saw the words: - - JAMES HORACE MADDEN, PHILANTHROPIST. - -That was it. This wonderful gift of mine that made the acquisition of -money so easy, what should I do with it but exercise it for the good of -humanity? - -Yes, I would be a philanthropist; but on whom would I philanthrope? - -The answer was easy. Who better deserved my help than my fellow-scribes -who had failed, those high and delicate souls who had scorned to -commercialise their art, who were true to themselves and fought, for -all that was best in literature? Even as there was a home for old -actors, so I would found one for old authors, battered, beaten veterans -of the pen, who in their declining years would find rest, shelter, -sympathy under a generous roof. - -Yes, writing popular fiction had become a habit with me, almost a -vice. I was afraid I could never give it up. But here would be my -extenuation. The money the public gave me for pleasing them I would -spend on those others who, because they were artists, failed to -please. And in this way at least I would indirectly be of some use to -literature. - -Then again; what a splendid example it would be to my brother -best-seller makers, turning out their three books a year and their -half dozen after they are dead. Let them, too, show their zeal for -literature by devoting the bulk of their ill-gotten gains to its -encouragement. - -The club had changed very little. I saw the same members, looking a -little more mutinous about the waist line. There was Vane and Quince, -qualifying perhaps for my home. I greeted them cordially, aglow with -altruism. After all, it was a day of paltry achievement. We were all -small men, and none of us weighed on the scale. I felt very humble -indeed. Quince had been right. I would never be one of those writers -whom all the world admires--and doesn’t read. Truly I was one of the -goats. - -But that night at dinner in the Knickerbocker I threw back my head and -laughed. And Anastasia in a new evening gown looked at me in surprise -and demanded what was the matter. I surveyed her over a brimming glass -of champagne. - -“Extraordinary thing,” I thought; “isn’t it absurd? I’m actually -falling in love with my own wife.” - - -THE END - - - - -FOOTNOTE: - -[A] This was written in the Spring of 1914. - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Archaic or variant spelling and hyphenation have been retained. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRETENDER *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the - United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where - you are located before using this eBook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that: - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/68849-0.zip b/old/68849-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index c7f0c4c..0000000 --- a/old/68849-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/68849-h.zip b/old/68849-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index b9a24f5..0000000 --- a/old/68849-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/68849-h/68849-h.htm b/old/68849-h/68849-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 58e5eba..0000000 --- a/old/68849-h/68849-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14246 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<head> - <meta charset="UTF-8" /> - <title> - The pretender, by Robert W. Service—A Project Gutenberg eBook - </title> - <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover" /> - <style> /* <![CDATA[ */ - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2,h3 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - -hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} -h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} -h3.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} - -table { - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; -} - -.tdr {text-align: right;} -.tdc {text-align: center;} - -.pagenum { - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; - font-weight: normal; - font-variant: normal; - text-indent: 0; -} - -.blockquot { - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; -} - -.x-ebookmaker .blockquot { - margin-left: 7.5%; - margin-right: 7.5%; -} - -.hangingindent {text-indent: -2em; } - -.indentright {margin-right: 4em;} - -.indent2 {margin-left: 2em;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.ph1 {text-align: center; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;} -.ph2 {text-align: center; font-size: xx-large; font-weight: bold;} - -div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always;} -div.titlepage p {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 2em;} - -.large {font-size: 125%;} - -.x-ebookmaker .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; - page-break-inside: avoid; - max-width: 100%; -} - -.footnote {margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} - -.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 75%; text-align: right;} - -.fnanchor { - vertical-align: super; - font-size: .8em; - text-decoration: - none; -} - -.poetry-container {text-align: center;} -.poetry {display: inline-block; text-align: left;} -.poetry .verse {text-indent: -2.5em; padding-left: 3em;} -.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} -.poetry .indent {text-indent: 1.5em;} -.poetry .indent4 {text-indent: 4.5em;} -.poetry .first {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} -.poetry .center {text-align: center;} -@media print { .poetry {display: block;} } -.x-ebookmaker .poetry {display: block;} - -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; - padding: 1em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - - /* ]]> */ </style> -</head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The pretender, by Robert W. Service</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The pretender</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>A story of the Latin Quarter</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Robert W. Service</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August 26, 2022 [eBook #68849]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRETENDER ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<h1>THE PRETENDER</h1> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center">In deference to the opinion of the publishers the -Author has consented to certain alterations being -made in his work.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="titlepage"> - -<p class="ph2">THE PRETENDER<br /> -<small>A Story of the Latin Quarter</small></p> - -<p>BY<br /> -<span class="large">ROBERT W. SERVICE</span><br /> -<br /> -<span class="smcap">Author of “Songs of a Sourdough,” “Trail<br /> -of ’98,” etc.</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p>NEW YORK<br /> -DODD, MEAD & COMPANY<br /> -1914</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"> -<span class="smcap">Copyright, Canada, 1914<br /> -By</span> ROBERT W. SERVICE<br /> -<br /> -VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY<br /> -BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph2">THE PRETENDER</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“Of Books and Scribes there are no end:</div> -<div class="indent">This Plague—and who can doubt it?</div> -<div class="verse">Dismays me so, I’ve sadly penned</div> -<div class="indent"><i>Another</i> book about it.”</div> -</div></div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table> - -<tr><td class="tdr"><small>CHAPTER</small></td><td class="tdr" colspan="2"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="tdc" colspan="3">BOOK I—THE CHALLENGE</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">I</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Happiest Young Man in Manhattan</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1"> 1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">II</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Sheep and the Goats</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_10"> 10</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">III</td><td> <span class="smcap">Grilled Kidney and Bacon</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_20"> 20</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">IV</td><td> <span class="smcap">An Unintentional Philanderer</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_28"> 28</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">V</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Seasick Sentimentalist</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_40"> 40</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VI</td><td> <span class="smcap">An Involuntary Fiancé</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_48"> 48</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VII</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Battle of Ink</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_61"> 61</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VIII</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Girl Who Looked Interesting</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_69"> 69</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">IX</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Chewing Gum of Destiny</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_78"> 78</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">X</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Young Man Who Makes Good</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_89"> 89</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="tdc" colspan="3">BOOK II—THE STRUGGLE</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">I</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Newly-weds</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_101"> 101</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">II</td><td> <span class="smcap">That Muddle-Headed Santa Claus</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_114"> 114</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">III</td><td> <span class="smcap">The City of Light</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_123"> 123</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">IV</td><td> <span class="smcap">The City of Laughter</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_133"> 133</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">V</td><td> <span class="smcap">The City of Love</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_145"> 145</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VI</td><td> <span class="smcap">Getting Down to Cases</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_156"> 156</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VII</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Merry Month of May</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_166"> 166</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VIII</td><td> “<span class="smcap">Tom, Dick and Harry</span>”</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_181"> 181</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">IX</td><td> <span class="smcap">An Unexpected Development</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_193"> 193</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">X</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Life and Death of Dorothy Madden</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_204"> 204</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="tdc" colspan="3">BOOK III—THE AWAKENING</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">I</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Stress of the Struggle</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_215"> 215</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">II</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Darkest Hour</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_231"> 231</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">III</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Dawn</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_241"> 241</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">IV</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Chapter That Begins Well and ends Badly</span>     </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_258"> 258</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">V</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Great Quietus</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_271"> 271</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VI</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Shadow of Success</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_286"> 286</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VII</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Fate of Fame</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_298"> 298</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VIII</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Manufacture of a Villain</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_308"> 308</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">IX</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Cheque and a Check</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_317"> 317</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">X</td><td> <span class="smcap">Prince of Dreamers</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_333"> 333</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">BOOK I—THE CHALLENGE</h2> - -<h3>CHAPTER I<br /> - -THE HAPPIEST YOUNG MAN IN MANHATTAN</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">To</span> have omnibus tastes and an automobile income—how -ironic?</p> - -<p>With this reflexion I let myself collapse into a padded -chair of transcendent comfort, lit a cigarette and inspected -once more the amazing bank-book. Since I -had seen it last several credit entries had been made—over -twenty thousand dollars; and in the meantime, -dawdling and dreaming in the woods of Maine, all I -had managed to squander was a paltry thousand. -Being a man of imagination I sought for a simile. As -I sat there by the favourite window of my favourite -club I could see great snowflakes falling in the quiet -square, and at that moment it seemed to me that I -too was standing under a snowfall, a snowfall of dollars -steadily banking me about.</p> - -<p>For a moment I revelled in the charming vision, then -like a flash it changed. Now I could see two figures -locked in Homeric combat. Like a serene over-soul I -watched them, I, philosopher, life-critic; for was not -one of them James H. Madden, a man of affairs, the -other, J. Horace Madden, dilettante and dreamer.... -Look! from that clutter of stale snow a form springs -triumphant. Hurrah! It is the near-poet, the man -on the side of the angels.— And so rejoiced was I at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span> -this issue that I regarded the little bank-book almost -resentfully.</p> - -<p>“Figures, figures,” I sighed, “what do you mean to -me? Crabbed symbols on a smudgy page! can you -buy for me that fresh Spring-morning feeling in the -brain, that rapture of a fine thing finely done? Ah -no! the luxury you spell means care and worry. In -comfort is contentment. And am I not content? Nay! -in all Manhattan is there man more happy? Young, -famous, free—could life possibly be more charming? -And so in my tower of tranquillity let me work and -dream; and every now and then, little book, your totals -will grow absurd, and I will look at you and say: -‘Figures, figures, what do you mean to me?’</p> - -<p>“But, after all,” I went on to reflect, “Money is not -so utterly a nuisance. Pleasant indeed to think that -when most are pondering over the problem of the permanent -meal-ticket, you are yourself well settled on the -sunny side of Easy Street. Poets have piped of Arcady, -have chorused of Bohemia, have expressed their -enthusiasm for Elysian fields, but who has come to -chant the praise of Easy Street? Yet surely it is -the kindliest of all? Behind its smiling windows are -no maddening constraints, no irking servitudes, no -tyranny of time. Just sunshine, laughter, mockery of -masters— Oh, a thousand times blessed, golden, glorious -Easy Street!”</p> - -<p>Here I lighted a fresh cigarette and settled more -snugly in that chair of kingly comfort.</p> - -<p>“Behold in me,” I continued lazily, “a being specially -favoured of the gods. Born if not with a silver -spoon in my mouth at least with one of a genteel quality -of nickel, blest with a boyhood notably cheering and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> -serene, granted while still in my teens success that -others fight for to the grave’s edge, untouched by a -single sorrow, unthwarted by a solitary defeat—does -it not seem as if my path in life had been ever preceded -by an Olympian steam roller macadamising the way?</p> - -<p>“True, as to appearance, the gods have failed to -flatter me. If you, gentle reader, who are as perfect -as the Apollo Belvedere, gaze, at your chiselled features -in the silver side of your morning tea-pot, you will get -a good idea of mine. But there—I refer you to a copy -of <i>Wisdom for Women</i>, the well-known feminist Weekly. -It contains an illustrated interview, one of that celebrated -series, <i>Lions in their Dens</i>. Harken unto this:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“A tall, tight-lipped young man, eager, yet abstracted; -eyes quizzical, mouth a straight line, brow of a dreamer, -chin of a flirtatious stockbroker. His gleaming glasses -suggest the journalist, his prominent nose the tank-town -tragedian. Add to that that he has a complexion unæsthetically -sanguine, and that his flaxen hair, receding from his -forehead, gives him a fictitious look of intellectuality, and -you have a combination easier to describe than to imagine....”</p> -</div> - -<p>“What a blessing it is we cannot see ourselves as -others see us! How it would fill life with intolerable -veracities! Dear lady who wrote the above, I can -forgive you for the Roman nose, for the flirtatious -chin, nay, even for the fictitious intellectuality of my -noble brow, but for one thing I can never think of -you with joy. You wrote of me that I was ‘a mould -of fashion and a glass of form.’ Since then, alas! I -have been compelled to live up to your description. -Bohemian to the backbone, lover of the flannel suit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span> -of freedom and the silken shirt of ease, how I have -suffered in such clutch of <i>comme-il-faut</i> no tongue can -tell. Yet thanks to a Fifth Avenue tailor even a little -sartorial success has fallen to my lot.”</p> - -<p>Success! some men seem to have a magic power of -attracting it, and I think I must be one. Sitting there -in the window of the club, as I watched the shadows -steal into the square, and the snow thicken to a fluttering -curtain I positively purred with satisfaction. Behind -me the silent library was lit only by a fire of -glowing coals. The jocund light gleamed on the carved -oak of the book-cases, and each diamond pane winked -jovially. Yet cheerful though it was my thoughts -were far more rosy.</p> - -<p>But now my reverie was being broken. Two men -were approaching, and by their voices I knew them -to be Quince the critic and Vaine the poet. The first -was a representative of the School of Suds, the second -an exponent of the School of Sediment; but as neither -were included in the number of my more intimate enemies -I did not turn to greet them.</p> - -<p>Goring Quince is a stall-fed man with a purple face, -cotton-coloured hair and supercilious eyebrows. He is -an incubator of epigrams. His articles are riots of -rhetoric, and it is marvellous how completely he can -drown a poor little idea in a vat of verbiage.</p> - -<p>Herrick Vaine is a puffy, pimply person, with a -mincing manner and an emasculated voice. He might -have been a poet of note but for two things: while -reading his work you always have a feeling that you -have seen something oddly like it before; and after -you have read it all you retain is a certain dark-brown -taste on the mental palate. Otherwise he is all right.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span>And now, having described the principals, let me -record the little dialogue to which I was the unseen -listener.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<div class="hangingindent"> -<p><span class="smcap">Vaine</span> (<i>with elaborate carelessness</i>): By the way, -you haven’t read my latest book, I suppose?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Quince</span> (<i>cooingly</i>): Why yes, my boy. I lost no -time in reading it. I positively wallowed—I -mean revelled in it. Reminds me of Baudelaire -in spots. Without you and a chosen few -what would literature be?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Vaine</span> (<i>enraptured</i>): How lovely of you to say so. -You know I value your opinion more than any -in the world.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Quince</span> (<i>waving his gold-rimmed eyeglasses</i>): Not -at all. Merely my duty as a watchdog of -letters. Yes, I thought your <i>Songs Saturnalian</i> -in a class by itself; but now I can say without -being accused of a lapse of literary judgment -that your <i>Poems Plutonian</i> marks a distinct -epoch in modern poetry. There is an undefinable -<i>something</i> in your work, a <i>je ne sais quoi</i> -... you know.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Vaine</span>: Yes; thank you, thank you.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Quince</span>: Is it selling, by the way?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Vaine</span>: Thank heaven, no! How banal! Popular -success would imply artistic failure. To the -public true art must always be inaccessible. -If ever I find my work becoming bourgeois, it -will be because I have committed artistic -suicide. On my bended knees I pray to be -delivered from popularity.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Quince</span>: I see. You prefer the award of posterity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span> -to the reward of prosperity. Well, no doubt -time will bring you your meed of recognition. -In the meantime give me a copy of the poems, -and I will review it in next week’s <i>Compass</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Vaine</span>: Will you indeed. That honour alone -will repay me for writing it. By the way, I -imagine I saw a copy in the library. Let me -look.<br /> -<br /> -(As Vaine had put it there himself his doubt -seemed a little superfluous. He switched on a -light, and from the ranked preciosity of a -certain shelf he selected a slim, gilt volume.)</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Vaine</span>: <i>Poems Plutonian</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Quince</span> (<i>taking it in his fat, soft hands</i>): How -utterly exquisite! What charming generosity -of margin!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Vaine</span>: Yes; you know the great fault of books, -to my mind, is that they contain printed matter. -Some day I dream of writing a book that shall -be nearly all margin, a book from which the -crudely obvious shall be eliminated, a book of -exquisite intrusion, of supreme suggestion, -where magic words like rosaries of pearls shall -glimmer down the pages. I really think that -books are the curse of literature. If every -writer were compelled to grave his works on -brass and copper from how much that is vain -and vapid would we not be delivered?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Quince</span>: Ah, yes! Still books have their advantages. -Here, for example, am I going to burn -the incense of a cigar before the putrescent—I -mean the iridescent altar of art. Now if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> -<i>Poems Plutonian</i> were inscribed on brass or -stone I confess I should hesitate. What are -those things?<br /> -<br /> -(He pointed to a separate shelf, on which -stood nine volumes with somewhat aggressive -covers.)</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Vaine</span>: Well may you ask. Brazen strumpets who -have stumbled into the temple of Apollo. -These, my dear sir, are the so-called novels of -Norman Dane. You see, as a member of the -club, he is supposed to give the library a copy -of his books. We all hoped he wouldn’t, but -he came egregiously forward. Of course we -couldn’t refuse the monstrous things.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Quince</span>: No, I understand. What’s this? <i>The -Yellow Streak</i>: Two hundred thousand! <i>The -Dipsomaniac</i>: Sixth Edition!! <i>Rattlesnake -Ranch</i>: Tenth Impression!!! Why, what a -disgusting lot of money the man must be -making!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Vaine</span>: Yes, the Indiana Idol, the Boy Bestsellermonger. -A perfect bounder as regards Art. -But he knows how to truckle to the mob. His -books sell by the ton. They’re so bad, they’re -almost good.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Quince</span> (<i>with surprising feeling</i>): There! I don’t -agree with you. He doesn’t even know how -to please the public. It takes a clever man to -do that, and Norman Dane is only a dry-goods -clerk spoiled. No, the point is—he is -the public, the apotheosis of the vulgar intelligence. -Don’t think for a moment he is writing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span> -down to the level of the mob. He charms the -great half-educated because he himself belongs -to them. He can’t help it.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Vaine</span>: Yes, but there are so many plebeian novelists. -How do you account for Dane’s spectacular -success?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Quince</span>: A fool’s luck! He happened to hit the -psychological moment. When he leaped into -the lists with <i>The Haunted Taxicab</i> taxis had -just come out, and at the same moment there -was a mania for mystery stories. Take two -popular <i>motifs</i>, mix recklessly, spice with -sentiment and sauce with sensation—there you -have the <i>recipé</i> of a best-seller. His book fluked -into favour. His publishers put their weight -behind it. In a month he found himself famous -from Maine to Mexico. But he couldn’t do it -again; no, not in a thousand years. What has -he done since? Live on his name. Step cunningly -in his tracks. Bah! I tell you Norman -Dane’s an upstart, a faker; to the very -heart of him a shallow, ignorant pretender....</p> -</div></div> - -<p>Whatever else the poor chap might be was lost in -the distance as the two men moved away. For a long -time after they had gone I did not stir. The fluttering -snow-butterflies seemed to have become great moths, -that hovered in the radiance of the nearest arc-light -and dashed to a watery doom. Pensively I gazed into -that greenish glamour, pulling at a burnt-out cigarette.</p> - -<p>At last I rose, and going to the book-case regarded -the nine volumes of flamboyant isolation.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span>“An upstart,” I sighed softly; “a faker, a pretender....”</p> - -<p>And to tell the truth I was sorely taken aback; for -you see in my hours of industry I am a maker of books -and my pen name is Norman Dane.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II<br /> - -THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Whether</span> or not a sense of humour is an attribute of -the Divine, I am too ignorant of theology to conjecture; -but I am sure that as a sustaining power amid -the tribulations of life it is one of the blessedest of dispensations.</p> - -<p>For a moment, I must confess, the words of Quince -and Vaine stung me to resentment. Being one of -these people who think in moving pictures, I had a -gratifying vision in which I was clutching them savagely -and knocking their heads together. Then the -whole thing struck me on the funny side, and a little -page boy, entering to turn on the lights, must have -been amazed to hear me burst into sudden laughter.</p> - -<p>So that presently, as Mr. Quince, having spilt some -cigar ash over the still uncut leaves of <i>Poems Plutonian</i>, -was arising to daintily dust the volume, I approached -him with a bright and happy smile.</p> - -<p>“Hullo, Quince,” I began, cheerily.</p> - -<p>He looked up. His eyes gleamed frosty interrogation, -and his clipped grey moustache seemed to bristle -in his purple face.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” he grunted.</p> - -<p>“It’s about that matter we spoke of this morning. -You know I’ve been thinking it over, and I’ve decided -to go on that note of yours.”</p> - -<p>Quince was astonished. He was also overjoyed; but -his manner was elaborately off-hand.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span>“Ah! Thanks awfully, Madden. Only a matter of -renewal, you know. Old endorser went off to Europe, -and the bank got after me. Well, you’ll go on the -note, then?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, on one condition.”</p> - -<p>“Hum! Condition! What?” he demanded anxiously.</p> - -<p>“Well,” I said. “I believe one good turn deserves -another. Now I was down at the bank this morning, -and I know you’re in rather a hole about that renewal. -Backers for thousand dollar notes aren’t picked up so -easily. However, I’m willing to go on it if you’ll”—here -I paused deliberately, “give my last book a good -write up in your next <i>Compass causerie</i>.”</p> - -<p>His face fell. “I’m afraid—you see, I’ve promised -Vaine—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hang Vaine! Sidetrack him.”</p> - -<p>“But—there’s the policy of the paper—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, well, I’ll buy a controlling interest, and alter -your policy. But, as a matter of fact, you know they’ll -print anything over your name.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—well, there are my own standards, the ideals -I have fought for—”</p> - -<p>“Rot! Look here, Quince, let’s be honest. We’re -both in the writing game for what we can get out of -it. We may strut and brag; but we know in our hearts -there’s none of us of much account. Why, man, show -me half a dozen writers of to-day who’ll be remembered -twenty years after they’re dead?”</p> - -<p>“I protest—”</p> - -<p>“You know it’s true. We’re bagmen in a negligible -day. Now, I don’t want you to alter your standards; -all I want of you is to adjust them. You know that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> -as soon as you see a book of mine coming along you -get your knife out. You’ve flayed me from the start. -You do it on principle. You’ve got regular formulas -of abuse. My characters are sticks, my plots chaotic, -my incidents melodramatic. You judge my work by -your academic standards. Don’t do that. Don’t -judge it as art—judge it as entertainment. Does it -entertain?”</p> - -<p>“Possibly it does—the average, unthinking man.”</p> - -<p>“Precisely. He’s my audience. My business is to -amuse him, to take him outside of himself for an hour -or two.”</p> - -<p>“It’s our duty to elevate his taste.”</p> - -<p>“Fiddlesticks! my dear chap. I don’t take myself -so seriously as that. And, anyway, it’s hopeless. If -you don’t give him the stuff he wants, he won’t take -any. You’ll never educate the masses to anything -higher than the satisfaction of their appetites. They -want frenzied fiction, plot, action. The men want a -good yarn, the women sentiment, and we writers want—the -money.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a sad state of affairs, I admit.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, admit that my books fill the bill. -They’re good yarns, they’re exciting, they’re healthy. -Surely they don’t deserve wholesale condemnation. So -go home, my dear Quince, and begin a little screed like -this:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“In the past we have frequently found occasion to deal -severely with the novels of Norman Dane, and to regret -that he refuses to use those high gifts he undoubtedly -possesses; but on opening his latest novel, <i>The House of a -Hundred Scandals</i>, we are agreeably surprised to note a -decided awakening of artistic conscience.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> -And so on. No one knows how to do it better than -you. Bring to the bank to-morrow a proof of the -article, and I’ll put my name on the back of your -note.”</p> -</div> - -<p>“I—I don’t know. I’ll think it over. Perhaps -I’ve been a little too dogmatic. Let me see—Literary -Criticism and the Point of View—yes, I’ll see what I -can do.”</p> - -<p>As I left him ruefully brooding over the idea I felt -suddenly ashamed of myself.</p> - -<p>“Poor old chap!” I thought; “I’ve certainly taken -a mean advantage of him. Perhaps, after all, he may -be right and I wrong. I begin to wonder: Have I -earned success, or only achieved it? It seems to me -this literary camp is divided into two bands, the sheep -and the goats, and, sooner or later, a man must ask -himself which he belongs to. Am I a sheep or am I a -goat?”</p> - -<p>But I quickly steeled myself. Why should I have -compunction? Was I not in a land where money was -the standard of success? Here then was the virtue of -my bloated bank-book—Power. Let them sneer at -me, these æsthetic apes, these flabby degenerates. -There by the door was a group of them, and I ventured -to bet that they were all in debt to their tailors. Yet -they regarded me as an outsider, a barbarian. Looking -around for some object to soothe my ruffled feelings, -I espied the red, beefsteak-and-beer face of Porkinson, -the broker. Here was a philistine, an unabashed -disciple of the money god. I hailed him.</p> - -<p>Over our second whiskey I told Porkinson of the -affair in the library. He laughed a ruddy, rolling -laugh.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>“What do you care?” he roared raucously. “You -put the stuff over and grab the coin—that’s the game, -isn’t it? Let those highbrow freaks knock you all -they want—you’ve got away with the goods. And, -anyway, they’ve got the wrong dope. Why, I guess -I’m just as level-headed as the next man, and I wouldn’t -give a cent for the piffle they turn out. When I’m -running to catch a train I grab one of your books -every time. I know if there’s none of the boys on -board to have a card game with I’ve got something -to keep me from being tired between drinks. What I -like about your yarns, old man, is that they keep me -guessing all the time, and the fellow never gets the -girl till the last page. I always skip a whole lot, I -get so darned interested. I once read a book of yours -clean through between breakfast and lunch.”</p> - -<p>Thanking Porkinson for his enthusiasm, which somehow -failed to elate me, I took the elevator up to my -apartment on the tenth story of the club. Travers, -the artist, had a studio adjoining me, and, seeing a light -under his door, I knocked.</p> - -<p>“Enter,” called Travers.</p> - -<p>He was a little frail old man, with a peaked, grey -face framed in a plenitude of iron-grey hair, and ending -in a white Vandyke beard. A nervous trouble made -him twitch his right eye continually, sometimes emphasising -his statements with curious effect. He believed -he was one of the greatest painters in the world; -yet that very day three of his best pictures had been -refused by the Academy.</p> - -<p>“I knew it,” he cried excitedly; “I knew when I -sent them they’d come back. It’s happened for the -last ten years. They know if they hung me I’d kill<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> -every one else in the room. They’re afraid of my -mountains.” (A wink.) “Their little souls can’t -conceive of any scenery beyond Connecticut. But it’s -the last time I’ll send.” (A wink.) “I’ll get recognition -elsewhere, London, Paris; then when they want -my pictures for their walls they’ll have to come and -beg, yes, beg for them.” (A portentous wink.)</p> - -<p>Every year he vowed the same thing; every year -he canvassed the members of the hanging committee; -every year his pictures came cruelly back; yet his faith -in himself was invincible.</p> - -<p>“I tell you what,” I said; “you might be one of -the popular painters of the day if you only looked -at it right. Here you go painting straight scenery as -it was in the days before Adam. You object to the -least hint of humanity—a hut, a bridge, a boat. My -dear sir, what the General Public wants is the human, -the dramatic. There’s that River Rapids picture you -did two years ago, and it’s still on your hands. Now -that’s good. That water’s alive, it boils; as I look -at it I can hear it roar, and feel the sting of the spray. -But—it’s straight water, and the G.P. won’t take its -water straight. Now just paint two men in a birch-bark -canoe going down these rapids. Paint in a big -rock, call it <i>A Close Shave</i>, and you’ll sell that picture -like winking.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I couldn’t do that. You’re talking like a -tradesman.”</p> - -<p>“There’s that sunset,” I went on. “It’s splendid. -That colour seems to burn a hole in the canvas. But -just you paint in a black cross against that smouldering -sky, and see how it gives significance, aye, and -poetry to the picture. Call it <i>The Lone Grave</i>.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>“But don’t you see,” said Travers, with some irritation, -“I’m trying to express a mood of Nature. -Surely there’s enough poetry in Nature without trying -to drag in lone graves?”</p> - -<p>“Not for the G.P. You’ve got to give it sentiment. -Did that millionaire brewer buy anything?”</p> - -<p>Travers sighed rather wofully.</p> - -<p>“No, he kept on asking me where my pictures were, -and I kept on telling him they weren’t anywhere, they -were everywhere; they were in his own heart if he only -looked deep enough. They were just moods of nature. -He couldn’t see it. I believe he bought an eight by ten -canvas at Rosenheimer’s Department Store: <i>Moses -Smiting the Rock</i>.”</p> - -<p>“There you are. He was getting more for his -money. He wanted action, interest. Daresay he had -the gush of water coloured to look like beer. But I’ll -tell you what I’ll do—I’ll give you five hundred for -that thing you call <i>Morning Mist in the Valley</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Sorry,” said Travers, with a look of miserable hesitation; -“I don’t want to sell that. It’s the best thing -I’ve done. I want to leave it to the nation.”</p> - -<p>“All right. You know best. Good-night.”</p> - -<p>I knew I had offered more than the market value of -the picture; I knew that Travers had not sold a canvas -for months; I knew that he often ate only one meal -a day, and that if he chose, he could paint commercial -pictures; so I could not but admire the little man who, -in the face of scorn, neglect, starvation even, clung to -his ideals and refused to prostitute his art. But this -knowledge did not tend to restore my self-esteem, and -it was in a mood of singular self-criticism I entered my -room.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>As I switched on the light the first thing I saw was -my reflection in a large mirror. Long and grimly I -gazed, hands in pockets, legs widespread, head drooping. -I have often thought of that moment. It -seemed as if the reflection I saw was other than myself, -was, indeed, almost a stranger to me.</p> - -<p>“Ha!” I cried, grimacing at the man in the mirror; -“you’re getting found out, are you? Tell me, now, -beneath your wrappings of selfishness and sham is there -anything honest and essential? Is there a real <i>You</i>, -such as might stand naked in the wind-swept spaces of -eternity? Or are you, down to your very soul’s depths -a player of parts?”</p> - -<p>Then my mood changed, and I savagely paced the -room.</p> - -<p>“Oh, the fools! The hypocrites! Can’t they see -that I am cleverer than they? Can’t they see that I -could write their futile sonnets, their fatuous odes? -But if I did, wouldn’t I starve? Am I to be blamed -if I refuse? It’s all right to starve if one’s doing immortal -work; but not six men in the world to-day are -doing that. We’re ephemera. Our stuff serves the -moment. Then take the cash, and let the credit go.”</p> - -<p>I took off my boots, and threw them viciously into a -corner.</p> - -<p>“How Quince upset me to-night! So I made a -chance hit with my first book? Well, it’s true the public -were up on their toes for it. But then I would have -succeeded anyway. As to catering to the mass—I -admit it. I’m between the devil and the deep sea. The -publishers keep rushing me for the sort of thing that -will sell, and the million Porkinsons keep clamouring -for the sort of thing they can read without having to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> -think. For the sake of his theoretical wife and six -children, what can a poor devil do but commercialise his -ideals?”</p> - -<p>Here I paused thoughtfully, with one arm out of -my coat.</p> - -<p>“After all, is a book of fiction not entertainment -just as much as a play? There’s your audience, the -public. You’ve got to try and please them, to be entertaining -from cover to cover. Better be immoral -than be dull. And when it comes to audiences, give -me a big one of just plain ‘folks,’ to a small one of -highbrows.”</p> - -<p>With knitted brows and lips pursed doubtfully, I -proceeded to wind up my watch.</p> - -<p>“Anyway, I haven’t written for money; I’ve written -for popularity. It’s nice to think you can get on a -train and find some one reading your books—even if -it’s only the nigger porter. True, my popularity has -meant about twenty-five thousand a year to me; but -it’s not my fault if my publishers insist on paying me -such big royalties. And I’ve not spent the money. -I’ve gone on living on my private income. Then the -writing itself has been such a distraction. Lord! how -I have enjoyed it! Granted that my notion of Hades -would be to be condemned to read my own books, yet, -such as they are, I’ve done my best with them. I’ve -lived them as I wrote. I’ve laughed with joy at their -humour. I’ve shed real tears (with just as much joy) -at their pathos.”</p> - -<p>I gave a wrench at my collar, expressive of savage -perplexity; on which the stud shot out, and cheerfully -proceeded to roll under the wardrobe.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I’ve done things I shouldn’t? I’ve made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span> -coincidence work overtime; I’ve grafted on love scenes -so that the artist could get in one or two ‘clinch pictures.’ -On my last page you’ll find the heroine clutched -to the hero’s waistcoat; but—they all do it. One’s -got to, or get out of the game.”</p> - -<p>Here I disappeared for a moment; and when I re-entered, -clad in pale-blue pyjamas, I was calm and -cheerful again.</p> - -<p>“So old Quince said I’d succeeded by a fluke. Well, -I’d just like to bet my year’s income against his that I -could make a fresh start and do the same thing all over -again. By Jove! What an idea! Why not? Go -away to London, cut adrift from friends and funds, -fight my way up the ladder from the very bottom. -After all, I’ve had the devil’s own luck, everything in -my favour. It’s hardly been a fair test. Perhaps I -really am a four-flusher. Even now I begin to doubt -myself. It seems like a challenge.”</p> - -<p>Switching off the light I jumped into bed.</p> - -<p>“Life’s too appallingly prosy. Here for seven years -I’ve been imagining romance; it’s time I tried to live -it a little. Yes, I’ll go to-morrow.... London ... -garret ... poverty ... struggle ... triumph....”</p> - -<p>And at this point, any one caring to listen at my door -might have heard issuing from those soft blankets a -sound resembling the intermittent harshness of a buzz-saw -going through cordwood.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III<br /> - -GRILLED KIDNEY AND BACON</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">I was</span> awakened at eight o’clock by the alarm in my -watch, and lay a few minutes debating whether or not -I should rise. I have always rebelled against the convention -that makes us go to bed at night and get up in -the morning. How much less primitive to go to bed in -the morning and get up at night! But in either case -we should abhor crude and violent awakenings. We -should awake rhythmically, on pulsing ripples of consciousness. -Personally, I should like to be awakened -by gentle music, viols and harps playing soft strains -of half-forgotten melodies. I should like to be roused -by the breath of violets, to open my eyes to a vista of -still lake on which float swans whiter than ivory.</p> - -<p>What I did open my eyes to was a vista of shivery -sunshine, steely blue sky, and snow on the roofs of the -neighbouring sky-scrapers. I was indeed comfortable. -Outside the heat-zone of my body the sheets were of -a delectable coolness, and from head to heel I felt as if -I were dissolving in some exquisite oil of ease.</p> - -<p>Lying there enjoying that ineffable tranquillity, I -subjected myself to my morning diagnosis. My soul -is, I consider, a dark continent which it is my life’s -business to explore. This morning, then, in my capacity -of explorer, I started even as Crusoe must have -done when he saw the naked footprint in the sand. -Extraordinary phenomenon! I had actually awakened<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span> -of the same mind as that in which I fell asleep.</p> - -<p>Propping myself up I lit a cigarette.</p> - -<p>“Well, young fellow,” I greeted my face in the mirror, -“so we’re still doubtful of ourself? Want to make -fresh start, go to London and starve in garret as per -romantic formula? What foolishness! But let’s be -thankful for folly. Some day we’ll be wise, and life -will seem so worn and stale and grey. So here’s for -London.”</p> - -<p>With that I sprang up and disappeared into the -bath-room from which you might have heard a series -of grunts and groans as of some one violently dumb-belling; -then a series of snorts and splutters as of some -one splashing in icy water; then the hissing noise one -usually associates with the rubbing down of horses. -After all of which, in a pink glow and a Turkish bath-robe, -appeared a radiant young man.</p> - -<p>Taking down the receiver of my telephone I listened -for a moment.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it’s me, Miss Devereux. Give me the dining-room, -please.... Dining-room?... Yes, it’s Mr. -Madden speaking. I want to order breakfast.... -No, not grape-fruit, I said <i>breakfast</i>—Grilled kidney -and bacon, toast and Ceylon tea. That’s all, thank -you.”</p> - -<p>In parenthesis I may say I do my best work on kidney -and bacon. There is, I find, a remarkable affinity -between what I eat and what I write. Before tackling -a scene of blood I indulge in a slab of beefsteak, extra -rare; for tender sentiment I find there is nothing like -a previous debauch on angel cake and orange pekoe; -while if I have to kill any one I usually prime myself -with coffee and caviare sandwiches. But as far as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> -ordinary narrative is concerned I find kidney and bacon -an excellent stimulus.</p> - -<p>“How extremely agreeable this life is,” I reflected -as I resumed dressing. “No care, no responsibility, -neither jolt nor jar in the machinery. It’s almost too -pleasant to be natural. Now, if I had a house, servants, -a wife, the trouble would just be beginning at this -time. As it is everything conspires to save me from -friction. But it’ll soon be all over. I never quite -realised that. My last day of gilded ease. To-day -a young man of fashion in a New York club, to-morrow -a skulking tramp in the steerage of an ocean liner. -Yes, I’ll go in the steerage.”</p> - -<p>Perhaps it was to heighten the contrast that I dressed -with unusual care. From a score of lounging suits -I selected a soft one of slatey grey; shirt, tie and socks -to match; cuff-links of antique silver, and a scarf-pin -of a pearl clutched in a silver claw; a hat of grey -velour, and shoes with grey cloth uppers. Thus panoplied -I sallied forth, a very symphony in grey.</p> - -<p>At this early hour the dining-room was empty, and -three girls flew to wait on me. For the first time it -struck me as being odd. Surely, I thought, if things -were as they should be, woman would not be waiting -on man. Here am I, a strong, healthy brute of a male, -lolling back like a lord, while these frail females fly -like slaves to fulfil my desires. Yet I work three hours -a day, they ten. I am rich, they painfully poor. -There’s something all wrong with the world; but we’re -so used to looking at wrong we’ve come to think it -right.</p> - -<p>A strange spirit of dissatisfaction was stirring in me, -of desire to see life from the other side. As I took my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> -breakfast I studied the girls, trying to imagine what -they thought, how they lived. Although there were -no other members in the dining-room at that moment, -each waitress was obliged to remain at her post. How -deadly monotonous, standing there at attention! How -tired they must be by the end of the day! Then I -noticed that one of them, under cover of her apron, -was taking surreptitious peeps at a yellow-covered book. -At that moment the lynx-eyed lady superintendent entered, -caught her in the act, and proceeded to rate her -soundly. I hate scenes of any kind, and this particularly -pained me, for I saw that the all-too-tempting -volume was a cheap edition of <i>The Haunted Taxicab</i>.</p> - -<p>Then that moving picture imagination of mine began -to flicker. The girl had gone from the room with tears -in her eyes. Surely, thought I, she has been dismissed. -A blur came between me and my plate and the film unreeled....</p> - -<p>Ah! I see her trying to get other employment, failing -again and again, sinking deeper into the mire of misery -and despair. Then at last the time comes when the -brave, proud heart is broken; the proud, sweet eyes -flinch at another day of bitterness and failure. They -recognise, they accent the end.</p> - -<p>It is a freezing night of mid-winter, and I am walking -down Broadway. Suddenly I am accosted by a -girl with a hard, painted face, a girl who smiles the -forced smile of fallen womanhood.</p> - -<p>“Silvia!” I gasp.</p> - -<p>She shrinks from me. “You!” she cries. “The -author of my ruin; you, whose book I was dismissed -for reading, unable to resist peering into the pages<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> -you had invested with such fatally fascinating -charm....”</p> - -<p>As the scene came up before me tears filled my eyes, -and fearful that they might drop on my kidney and -bacon I averted my head. At the same moment the -waitress came back with a saucy giggle and resumed -her post. I was somewhat dashed, nevertheless I decided -it would do for a short story, and taking out my -idea book I noted it down.</p> - -<p>“Now,” I said, “let’s see the morning paper.... -How lucky! The <i>Garguantuan</i> sails to-morrow. I’ll -just catch her. Splendid!”</p> - -<p>That histrionic temperament of mine began to thrill. -Had not my whole life been dominated by my dramatic -conception of myself? Student, actor, cowboy, I had -played half a dozen parts, and into each I had put my -whole heart. Here, then, was a new one: let me realise -it quickly. So taken was I with the idea that I, -who had never in my life known what it was to want -a hundred dollars, retired to the reading-room, and, -inspired by the kidney and bacon, took out a little gold -pencil, and with it dinted in my idea book the following -sonnet:</p> - -<p class="center">TO LITERATURE</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="first">“I, a poor, passion-goaded garreteer,</div> -<div class="verse">A pensive enervate of book and pen,</div> -<div class="verse">Who, in the bannered triumph-march of men</div> -<div class="verse">Lag like a sorry starveling in the rear—</div> -<div class="verse">Shall I not curse thee, mistress mine? I peer</div> -<div class="verse">Up from life’s saturnalia, and then</div> -<div class="verse">Shrink back a-shudder to my garret den,</div> -<div class="verse">Seeing no prospect of a glass of beer.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> -<div class="first">“What have I suffered, Siren, for thy sake!</div> -<div class="verse">What scorn endured, what happiness foregone!</div> -<div class="verse">What weariness and woe! What cruel ache</div> -<div class="verse">Of failure ’mid a thousand vigils wan!</div> -<div class="verse">Yet do I shrine thee as each day I wake.</div> -<div class="verse">Wishing I had another shirt to pawn.”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>I smoked two large cigars over my sonnet before I -finally got it straight. This in spite of the fact that -I had a hundred and one other things to do. If the -house had been burning I believe the firemen would have -dragged me out muttering and puzzling over my sonnet. -My rhymes bucked on me; and, though I had -rounded up a likely bunch of words, I just couldn’t get -them into the corral. Finally, with more of perspiration -than inspiration, the thing was done.</p> - -<p>“Hullo, Madden!” said some one as I wrote the -last line, and looking up I saw young Hadsley, a breezy -cotillion leader, who had recently been admitted into -his father’s law firm.</p> - -<p>“Rotten nuisance, this early snow,” went on Hadsley. -“Mucks things up so. ’Fraid it’ll spoil the game -on Saturday.”</p> - -<p>“I hope not,” I replied fervently. The game was -the Yale-Princeton football match, and I was terribly -eager to see my old college win.</p> - -<p>“By the way,” suggested Hadsley, “if you care to -go I’ll run you down on my car.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, I’d like it,” I exclaimed enthusiastically. -“I’ll be simply delighted.” Then like a flash I remembered.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no! After all, I’m sorry, I can’t. I expect -to be in mid-ocean by Saturday.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span>“Ah, indeed! That sounds interesting. Going to -Europe! Wish I was. When do you start?”</p> - -<p>“To-morrow on the <i>Garguantuan</i>.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t say! Why, the Chumley Graces are -going on her. Of course, you remember the three girls—awfully -jolly, play golf divinely, used to be called -the Three Graces? They’re so peeved they’re missing -the game, but the old man won’t stay for it. They’re -taking their car and going to tour Europe. How nice -for you! You’ll have no end of a good time going -over.”</p> - -<p>Malediction! Could I never out-pace prosperity? -Could I never throw off the yoke of fortune?</p> - -<p>“Oh, well, it’s not settled yet,” I went on quickly. -“I may not be able to make it for to-morrow. I may -have to take a later boat. So don’t say anything -about it, there’s a good fellow.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, all right. The surprise will be all the jollier -when they see you. Well, good-bye, old man, and good -luck. You’ll get the news of the game by wireless. -Gee! I wish I was in your shoes.”</p> - -<p>Hadsley was off, leaving me gnawing at an imaginary -moustache. “The Chumley Graces going on the <i>Garguantuan</i>. -That means I can never go steerage, and -I have set my heart on going steerage. Let’s see the -paper again. Hurrah! There’s an Italian steamer -sailing to-morrow morning. Well, that’ll do.”</p> - -<p>I was now in a whirlwind of energy, packing and -making final arrangements. At the steamship office, -when I asked for a ticket, the clerk beamed on me.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, we can give you a nice suite on the main -deck, the best we have on the boat. Lucky it’s not -taken.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>My moral courage almost failed me. “No, no!” I -said hastily. “It’s not for me. It’s for one of my -servants whose way I’m paying back to Italy. Give -me a steerage ticket.”</p> - -<p>“Coward! Coward!” hissed Conscience in my ear. -“You’re making a bad beginning.”</p> - -<p>Just before lunch I remembered my business with -Quince, and, jumping into a taxi, whisked down to the -Bank. The manager received me effusively. The note -was prepared—only wanted a satisfactory endorser. -I scratched my name on the back of it, then, speaking -into the telephone on the manager’s desk, I got Quince -on the line.</p> - -<p>“Hullo! This is Madden speaking. I say, Quince, -I have fixed up that note for you.”</p> - -<p>(A confused murmur that might be construed as -thanks.)</p> - -<p>“And about that article, never mind. I find I won’t -need it.”</p> - -<p>(Another confused murmur that might be construed -as relief.)</p> - -<p>“No, I’ve come to the conclusion you’re right. The -book’s not the right stuff. If you praised it you’d -probably have a hard time getting square with your -conscience. So we’ll let it go at that. Good-bye.”</p> - -<p>Then I slammed the receiver on the hook, feeling that -I had gained more than I had lost.</p> - -<p>By three o’clock everything had been done that could -be done. I was on the point of giving a sigh of relief, -when all at once I remembered two farewell calls I -really ought to make.</p> - -<p>“I’d almost forgotten them,” I said. “I must say -good-bye to Mrs. Fitz and Miss Tevandale.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV<br /> - -AN UNINTENTIONAL PHILANDERER</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">To</span> believe a woman who tells you her age is twenty-nine -is to show a naïve confidence in her veracity. -Twenty-nine is an almost impossible age. No woman -is twenty-nine for more than one year, yet by a process -of elasticity it is often made to extend over half a dozen. -True, the following years are insolent, unworthy of -acknowledgment, best punished by being haughtily ignored. -For to rest on twenty-nine as long as she dare -is every woman’s right.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fitzbarrington had been twenty-nine for four -or five years, but if she had said thirty-nine, no one -would have expressed particular surprise. However, -there were reasons. Captain Fitzbarrington, who was -in receipt of a monthly allowance, had been engaged for -some years in a book entitled <i>The Beers of America</i>, -the experimental investigations for which absorbed the -greater part of his income. Mrs. Fitz, then, had a -hard time of it, and it was wonderful how she managed -to dress so well and keep on smiling.</p> - -<p>She received me in the rather faded drawing-room -of the house in Harlem. She herself was rather faded, -with pale, sentimental eyes, and a complex complexion. -How pathetic is the woman of thirty, who, feeling youth -with all that it means slipping away from her, makes -a last frantic fight to retain it! Mrs. Fitz, on this occasion, -was just a little more faded, a little more restored,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> -a little more thirty-ninish than usual; and she -welcomed me with a little more than her usual warmth.</p> - -<p>“I’m so glad to see you,” she said, giving me both -hands. “You know, I was just thinking of you.”</p> - -<p>This clearly called for a gallant reply, so I answered, -“Ah! that must be telepathy, for you know I’m <i>always</i> -thinking of you.”</p> - -<p>Yet I could have bitten my tongue as soon as I heard -the last phrase slip from my mouth. There was a sudden -catch in her breath; a soft light beaconed in her -eyes. Confound the thing! why do the women we don’t -want to always take us seriously, and those we are serious -with always persist in regarding us as a joke? I -hastened to change the subject.</p> - -<p>“Ah, how are the kiddies?”</p> - -<p>The kiddies were Ronnie and Lonnie, two twin boys, -very sticky and strenuous, whom in my heart I detested.</p> - -<p>“The darlings! They’re always so well. Heaven -knows what I should do without them.”</p> - -<p>“And <i>he</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he! I haven’t seen him for three days, not -since the remittance arrived, and then you can guess -the state he was in.”</p> - -<p>“My poor friend! I’m so sorry.” (How I hated -my voice for vibrating as I said this, but for the life of -me I could not help it. At such a moment tricks I had -learnt in my short stage career came to me almost unconsciously.)</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t pity me,” she said; “you know a -woman hates any one who pities her.”</p> - -<p>“Then I mustn’t make you hate me.” (Again that -infernal fighting-with-repressed feeling note.) “Well,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> -you know you have my deepest sympathy,” I added -hastily.</p> - -<p>She certainly had. My Irish heart melts at a tale -of woe, or is roused to fiery wrath at the recital of a -wrong. I feel far more keenly than the person concerned. -Yet, alas! the moment after I am ready to -laugh heartily with the next one.</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed, I know it,” she spoke quickly. “It -almost makes it worth while to suffer for that. You -know how much it means to me, how much it helps, -don’t you?”</p> - -<p>There was an awkward pause. She was waiting for -me to take my cue, and I was staring at a mental sign-board, -“Dangerous Ground.” I tried to say, “Well, -I’m glad,” in a friendly way, but, to my infinite disgust, -my voice broke. She caught the note, as of suppressed -emotion. With wide eyes she looked at me as -if she would read my soul: her flat bosom heaved, -then suddenly she leaned forward and her voice was -tense.</p> - -<p>“Horace,” she breathed, “do you love me?”</p> - -<p>Now, when a female asks an unprotected male if he -loves her there can be only two answers: Yes or No. -If No, a scene follows in which he feels like a brute. -If Yes, he saves her feelings and gives Time a chance -to straighten things out. The situation is embarrassing -and calls for delicate handling. I am sadly lacking -in moral courage, and kindness of heart has always -been my weakness. To say “No” would be to deal a -deathblow to this woman’s hope, to leave her crushed -and broken, to drive her to despair, perhaps even to -suicide. Besides—it would be awfully impolite.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I’d better humour her,” I thought. So I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> -too leaned forward, and in the same husky voice I -answered, “Stella, how can you ask?”</p> - -<p>“Cora,” she corrected gently. I was rather taken -aback. Yet I am not the first man who has called the -lady of the moment by the name of her predecessor. It -is one of life’s embarrassing situations. However, I -went on:</p> - -<p>“Cora, how could you guess?”</p> - -<p>“How does a woman know these things?” she answered -passionately. “Could I not read it in your -eyes alone?”</p> - -<p>“Ah! my eyes—yes, my eyes....” Inwardly I -added, “Damn my eyes!” Then, after a pause in -which I was conscious of her wide, bright, expectant -regard I repeated lamely, “Ye—es, my eyes.”</p> - -<p>But she was evidently waiting for me to rise to the -occasion. She leaned still further forward; then suddenly -she laid her hands on mine.</p> - -<p>“You mustn’t kiss me,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, I mustn’t,” I agreed hastily. I hadn’t the -slightest intention of doing it.</p> - -<p>“No, no, that would ruin us. We must control ourselves. -If Charley were to discover our secret he would -kill me. Oh, I’ve known for long, so long that you -loved me; but you were too fine, too honourable to show -it. Now, what are we going to do? The situation is -full of danger.”</p> - -<p>“Do!” I said glumly, “I don’t know. It’s beastly -awkward.” Then with an effort I cheered up. I tried -to look at her with sad, stern eyes. I let my voice go -down an octave.</p> - -<p>“There’s only one thing to do, Nora—I mean, Cora, -only one thing: I—must—go—away.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>“No, no, not that,” she cried.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, I must; I must put the world between us. -We must never meet again.”</p> - -<p>I could feel fresh courage in my heart, also the steerage -ticket in my pocket. In a near-by mirror I had a -glimpse of my face, and was pleased to see how it was -stern and set. I was pleased to see also that she was -looking at me as if I were a hero.</p> - -<p>“Brave! Noble!” she whispered. “I knew it. -Oh, I understand so well! It’s for me you’re doing -this. How proud I am of you!”</p> - -<p>Then, with my returning sense of safety, the dramatic -instinct began to seethe in me. Apparently I had got -out of the difficulty easily enough. Now to end things -gracefully.</p> - -<p>“Oh, what an irony life is!” I breathed. “How -happy we could have been, just we two in some garden -of roses. Oh, if we were only free, free to fly to the -ends of the earth together, to the heart of the desert, -to the shadow of the pole—only together! Why did -we meet like this, too late, too late?”</p> - -<p>“Is it too late?” she panted, catching fire at my -words. “Why should we let life cheat us of our joy? -Take me away, darling, to some far, far land where no -one will know us, where we can live, love, dream. What -does it matter? There will be a ten days’ scandal; he -will get a divorce; all will soon be forgotten. Oh, take -me away, sweetheart; take me away!”</p> - -<p>By this time I was quite under the spell of my histrionic -imagination. Here was a dramatic situation, -and, though the heavens fall, I must work it out artistically. -I threw caution to the winds and my arms -around the lady.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>“Yes,” I cried. “Come with me. Come now, let us -fly together. I want you; I need you; I cannot live -without you. Make me the happiest man in the world. -Let me live for you, just to adore you, to make your -life one long, sweet dream of bliss.”</p> - -<p>These were phrases from one of my novels, and they -slipped out almost unconsciously. Again in that convenient -mirror I saw myself with parted lips and eyes -agleam. “How well I’m doing this!” the artist in -me applauded. “Ass! Ass!” hissed the critical -overself. My attitude was a picture of passionate supplication, -yet my whole heart was a prayer to the -guardian that watches over fools.</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t tempt me,” she cried; “it’s terrible. Yes, -yes, I’ll go now. Let’s lose no time in case I -weaken ... at once.... I’ll just get my hat and -cloak. Wait a moment—”</p> - -<p>She was gone. Horror of horrors! What had I -done? Here I was eloping with a woman for whom -I did not care two pins. What mad folly had got into -me? As I stared blankly at the door through which -she had passed it seemed to be suddenly invested with -all the properties of tragedy. Soon she would emerge -from it clad for the flight, and—I must accompany -her. Could I not escape? The window? But no, it -was six stories high. By heaven, I must go through -with it! Let my life be ruined, I must play the game. -As I sat there, waiting for her to reappear, never in -the history of eloping humanity was there man more -miserable.</p> - -<p>Then at last she came— Oh, merciful gods, without -her hat!</p> - -<p>“How can I tell you,” she moaned. “My courage<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> -failed me. I couldn’t bear to leave my children. There -were their little photographs staring at me so reproachfully -from the dressing-table. For their sakes I must -stay and bear with him. After all, he is their father.”</p> - -<p>“Is he? I mean, of course he is.” How my brain -was reeling with joy! At that moment I loved the terrible -twins with a great and lasting love.</p> - -<p>“Forgive you, Flora,” I said nobly. “There is -nothing to forgive. I can only love you the more. -You are right. Never must they think of their mother -with the blush of shame. No, for their dear sakes we -must each do our duty, though our hearts may break. -I will go away, never to return. Yet, my dearest, I -will always think of you as the noblest woman in the -world.”</p> - -<p>“And I you too, dearest. You shall be my hero, -and I shall adore you to the last day of my life. Now -go, go quickly lest I weaken; and don’t” (here she -leaned closely to me), “don’t kiss me—not even -once....”</p> - -<p>“No, I won’t. It’s hard, hard—but I won’t. And -listen, darling—if ever anything should happen to <i>him</i>, -if at any time we should both find ourselves free, promise, -promise me you’ll write to me. <i>I’ll come to you -though the whole world lies between us.</i> By my life, -by my honour I swear it.”</p> - -<p>“I promise,” she said fervently. She looked as if -she was going to weaken again, and I thought I had -better get away quickly. A phrase from one of my -novels came into my mind: “Here the brave voice -broke.”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye,” I cried. “Good-bye for ever. I shall -never blame you, darling. Perhaps in another land<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> -I’ll find my happiness again. Then some day, when -we both are bent and grey, and sentiment lies buried -under the frosts of time, we’ll meet again, and, clasping -hands, confess that all was for the best. And now, -God bless you, Dora ... for the last, last time, good-bye.”</p> - -<p>Here “the brave voice broke” beautifully; then -slowly and with drooping head I made my exit from the -room. Once in the street I drew a deep breath.</p> - -<p>“To be over-sympathetic is to be misunderstood,” -I sighed. “Well, I’ve given her a precious memory. -Poor Mrs. Fitz!”</p> - -<p>And, come to think of it, I had never kissed her, not -even once.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Fifteen minutes later I had reached Riverside Drive, -and was being shown into the luxurious apartment of -Miss Boadicia Tevandale.</p> - -<p>She was an orphan and an heiress, only child of -Tevandale the big corporation lawyer, himself an author, -whose <i>Tevandale on Torts</i> had almost as big a -circulation as my <i>Haunted Taxicab</i>. Socially she -moved in a more exalted sphere than I, but we had met -at some of the less exclusive functions, and she had -majestically annexed me.</p> - -<p>Though her dearest enemy could not have called her -“fat,” there was just a suggestion of a suggestion that -at some time in the future she might possibly develop -what might be described as an adipose approximation. -At present she was merely “big.”</p> - -<p>I rather resent bigness in a woman. A female’s first -duty is to be feminine—to be small, dainty, helpless. -I genuinely dislike holding a hand if it is larger than<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> -my own, and I can understand the feelings of Wainwright -who poisoned his sister-in-law because her thick -ankles annoyed him. However, Boadicia had really -been very nice to me. It would have been terribly rude -on my part to have ignored her overtures of friendship. -Consequently we had been seen much together, -and had drifted into what the world regarded as a sentimental -attachment. With my faculty, then, for entering -into such situations, I was sometimes convinced -that my feelings for her were those of real warmth. -Indeed, once or twice, in moments of great enthusiasm, -I almost suspected myself of being mildly in love with -her.</p> - -<p>She received me radiantly, and she, too, gave me both -hands. On the third finger of the left one I noted the -sparkle of a new diamond.</p> - -<p>“Hello, stranger,” she said, gaily. “Just in time -for tea. It seems ages since I’ve seen you. Why -haven’t you been near me for a whole fortnight?”</p> - -<p>I was going to make the usual excuses, when suddenly -that devil of sentiment entered into me. So, trying -to give my face a pinched look, I answered in a hollow -voice:</p> - -<p>“Can <i>you</i> ask that?”</p> - -<p>She looked at me in surprise. “Why, Horace, -what’s the matter?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you women, you women!” I groaned bitterly.</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” she demanded, with some -amazement.</p> - -<p>“What do I mean? Are you blind? Have you no -eyes as well as no heart? Can you not see how I have -loved you this long, long while; loved you with a passion -no tongue can tell? And now—”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>I pointed dramatically to the new ring.</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>that</i>! Why, you don’t mean to say—”</p> - -<p>“I mean to say that after I read of your engagement -in this morning’s <i>Town Tattle</i> I went straight off -and took a passage for Europe. I leave to-morrow. -I’ve just come to say good-bye.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m sorry, so sorry you feel that way about it. -I never dreamed—”</p> - -<p>“No, I have uttered no word, given no sign. How -could I, knowing the difference in our social positions? -Break, break my heart, but I must hold my tongue. -So it seems I have kept my secret better even than I -knew. But it does not matter now. I have no word -of reproach. To-morrow I go, never to return. I pray -you may be happy, very happy. And so, good-bye....”</p> - -<p>“Wait a moment! Good gracious!”</p> - -<p>She laid a detaining hand on my arm, but I shook it -off quite roughly, and strode to the window. My face -was stern and set; my shoulders heaved with emotion. -I had seen the leading man in our <i>Cruel Chicago</i> Company -(in which I doubled the parts of the waiter -and the policeman) use the same gesture with great -effect.</p> - -<p>“Why did I ever meet you?” I said harshly to a -passing taxicab.</p> - -<p>And strange as it may seem, at that moment I had -really worked myself into the spirit of the scene. I -actually felt a blighted being, the victim of a woman’s -wiles. Then she was there at my side, pale, agitated.</p> - -<p>“I’m so grieved. Why didn’t you speak? If I’d -only known you cared. But then, you know, nobody -takes you seriously. Perhaps, though, it’s not too late.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span> -If you really, really care so much I’ll try to break off -my engagement with Bunny.”</p> - -<p>(Bunny was Mr. Jarraway Tope, an elderly Pittsburg -manufacturer of suspenders—Tope’s “Never-tear -Ever-wear Suspenders.”)</p> - -<p>“No, no, it’s too late now,” I interrupted eagerly. -“Things could never be the same. Besides, he loves -you. He’s a good old fellow. He will make you happy, -far happier than I could. He is rich; I am poor. It -is better so.”</p> - -<p>“Riches are not everything,” she pouted miserably.</p> - -<p>“No, but they’re the best imitation of it I know. -Oh, you hothouse flowers! You creatures of lace and -luxury! You don’t know what it is to be poor, to live -from hand to mouth. How could you be happy in a -cottage—I mean a Brooklyn flat? No, no, Boadicia, -we must not let sentiment blind us. Never will I drag -you down.”</p> - -<p>“But there’s no question of poverty. You make -lots of money?”</p> - -<p>“A mere pittance,” I cried bitterly. “It’s my publishers -who make the money. I’m no man of business. -On a few beggarly royalties how can I hold up my end? -No, I must put the world between us. Oh, it will be all -right. Some day when we are both old and grey, and -sentiment lies buried under the frost of time, we will -perhaps meet again, and, clasping hands, confess that -all was for the best.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I hate to let you go away like that. If you -have no money, I have.”</p> - -<p>“As if I could ever touch a penny of yours,” I interrupted -her sternly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span>“Horace,” she pleaded, “you cut me to the heart. -Don’t go.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes. Believe me it’s best. Why prolong this -painful scene? I’ll pray for your happiness, for both -of your happinesses, yours and Bunny’s. Perhaps my -heart’s not so badly broken after all.” (I smiled a -brave, twisted smile.) “For the last time, good-bye, -good-bye.”</p> - -<p>With that I rushed blindly from the room. When -I reached the street, I wiped away a few beads of -perspiration.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you everlasting, sentimental humbug!” I cried. -“One of these days you’ll get nicely nailed to the cross -of your folly.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V<br /> - -A SEASICK SENTIMENTALIST</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">If</span> ever I should come to write my autobiography (as -I fondly hope in the fulness of time my recognition as -the American Dumas will justify me in doing) it will -fall easily into chapters. For, so far, my life has consisted -of distinct periods, each inspired by a dramatic -conception of myself. Let me then try to forecast its -probable divisions.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><i>Chapter I.</i>—Boyhood. Violently imaginative period.—Devouring -ambition to become pirate chief.—Organised -the “Band of Blood.”—Antipathy to study.—Favourite -literature: Jack Harkaway.</p> - -<p><i>Chapter II.</i>—Youth. Violently athletic period.—Devouring -ambition to become great first baseman.—Organised -the Angoras. Continued antipathy to study.—Favourite -literature: The sporting rags.</p> - -<p><i>Chapter III.</i>—Cubhood. Violently red blood period.—Devouring -ambition to become champion broncho -buster.—Went to Wyoming, and became the most cowboyish -cowboy in seven counties.—Favourite literature: -The yellow rags.</p> - -<p>Chapter IV.<i>—Undergraduate days. Violently intellectual -</i>period.—Devouring ambition to become literary -mandarin.—Gave up games and became a bookworm.—Commenced -to write, but disdained anything less than -an epic.—Favourite literature: The French decadents.</p> - -<p><i>Chapter V.</i>—Adolescence. Violently histrionic period.—Devouring<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> -ambition to become a second Mansfield.—Joined -the <i>Cruel Chicago</i> Company as general -utility.—Chief literature: The theatrical rags.</p> - -<p><i>Chapter VI.</i>—Manhood. At age of twenty-one -wrote <i>The Haunted Taxicab</i>, and scored immediate success.—Devouring -ambition to write the Great American -Novel.—Published nine more books in next five years, -and managed to hold my own.</p> -</div> - -<p>There you are—down to the time of which the present -record tells. And now, in accordance with the plot, -let me continue.</p> - -<p>On a certain muggy morning of late November, a -young man of conspicuously furtive bearing might have -been seen climbing aboard the steamer bound for Naples. -He wore the brim of his velour hat turned down, with -the air of one who entirely wishes to avoid observation.</p> - -<p>Over one arm hung a mackintosh, and at the end of -the other dangled an alligator-skin suitcase. An inventory -of its contents would have resulted as follows: -A silk-lined, blue serge suit; three silk <i>négligé</i> shirts; -three suits silk pyjamas; three suits silk underwear; -three pairs silk socks; several silk ties, and sundry toilet -articles.</p> - -<p>If, in the above list, an insistence on the princely -fabric is to be remarked, I must confess that I shrink -from the contact of baser material. It was then with -some dismay that I descended into the bowels of the -ship, and was piloted to my berth by a squinting steward -in shirt-sleeves. I gazed with distaste at the threadbare -cotton blanket that was to replace the cambric -sheets of the mighty. Then I looked at the oblique-eyed -one, and observed that nonchalantly over his arm<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> -was hung another blanket of more sympathetic texture, -and that his palm protruded in a mercenary curve. -So into that venial hollow I dropped half a dollar, and -took the extra blanket. Then throwing my suitcase on -the berth, I went on deck.</p> - -<p>Shades of Cæsar! Garibaldi! Carusa! What had I -“gone up against”? One and all my fellow passengers -seemed to be of the race of garlic eaters. Not a -stodgy Saxon face among them. Verily I was marooned -in a sea of dagos. Here we were, caged like -cattle; above us, a tier of curious faces, the superior -second class; still higher, looking down with disdain, -the fastidious firsts. And here, herded with these degenerate -Latins, under these derisive eyes, must I remain -many days. What a wretched prospect! What -rotten luck! And all the fault of these gad-about -Chumley Graces, confound them!</p> - -<p>But I did not lament for long. If ever there is an -opening for the sentimentalist it is on leaving for the -first time his native land. Could it be expected, then, -that I, a professional purveyor of sentiment, would be -silent? Nay! as I watched the Statue of Liberty diminish -to an interrogation mark, I delivered myself -somewhat as follows:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="first">“Grey sea, grey sky, and grey, so grey</div> -<div class="verse">The ragged roof-line of my home;</div> -<div class="verse">Yet greyer far my mood than they,</div> -<div class="verse">As here amid this spawn of Rome</div> -<div class="verse">With tenderness undreamt before</div> -<div class="verse">I sigh: ‘Adieu, my native shore!’</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="first">“To thee my wistful eyes I strain;</div> -<div class="verse">To thee, brave burg, I wave my hand;</div> -<div class="verse">Good-bye, oh giddy Tungsten Lane!</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span> -<div class="verse">Good-bye, oh great Skyscraper Land!</div> -<div class="verse">Good-bye, Fifth Avenue so splendid...!!”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>And here my doggerel I ended.... Horrors on horrors! -Could I believe my eyes? There, looking down -from the promenade deck, in long ulsters and jaunty -velour hats, were the three Misses Chumley Grace. -They were laughing happily, and looking right at me. -Could anything, I wonder, have equalled the rapidity of -my retreat? As rabbit dives into its burrow, as otter -into its pool, so dived I, down, down to the dark hole -they called my cabin, where I collapsed disgustedly on -my bunk.</p> - -<p>And there for five days I remained.</p> - -<p>It may be assumed (so much are we the creatures of -an artificial environment) that it is only in the more -acute phases of life we realise our truer selves. As a -woman in the dental chair, as a fat man coaxing a bed -down a narrow stairway, as both sexes in the clutches -of <i>mal-de-mer</i>, are for the moment stripped of all paltering -pretence, so in the days that followed I had many -illuminating glimpses of my inner nature. Never was a -man more rent, racked, ravaged by the torments of sea-sickness. -But let me read you an extract from my -diary:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Eight hundred Italians on board, and we are packed -like sardines in a keg. Our wedge-shaped cabin is innocent -of ventilation. The bunks are three tiers high and -three abreast; so that, as I have an outer one, a hulky -Dago ascends and descends me a hundred times a day. -Also I am on the lower row, and as both the men above -me are violently sick, my situation may be imagined. The -sourly stinking floors are swilled out every morning. My<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span> -only comfort is that I am too calloused with misery to care -about anything.</p> - -<p>“It’s the awful, brutal sinking that fixes me; as if I -were suddenly being let down the elevator shaft of the -Singer Building at full speed, ten thousand times a day, -then as suddenly yanked up again. By the dim light I can -see hundreds of cockroaches crawling everywhere around -me, elongated, coffee-coloured cockroaches, big ones, middle-sized -ones, tiny baby ones. They wander to and fro, -fearless and apparently aimless. But perhaps I am wrong -about this. Perhaps they are moved by a purpose; perhaps -they are even in the midst of a celebration—following -the mazes of a cockroach cotillion. As I lie watching -them I speculate on this. What they live on may be -guessed at. And as if to mock me on my bed of woe all -the rollicking, frolicking sea-songs I have ever heard keep -up a devilish concert in my head, singing the praises of this -fiendish and insatiable sea.”</p> -</div> - -<p>For nine-tenths of his time the artist lives the lives -of other men more vividly than his own; for the other -tenth, his own ten times more vividly than other men. -Of such transcendent tenths creation comes. It was -then from the very poignancy of my sufferings that I -began to evolve a paper on the pangs of <i>mal-de-mer</i>. -It was to be the final expression of the psychology of -sea-sickness. Even as I lay squirming in that sour, -viscid gloom I rejoiced in the rapture of creation. It -seemed, I thought, the best thing I had ever done. -Though I had not put pen to paper, there it was, clearly -written in my brain, every word sure of its election, -every sentence ringing true. I longed to see it staring -me from the printed page.</p> - -<p>And on the morning of the sixth day I arose and -regarded my shaving mirror. My face had peaked and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> -paled, and was covered with fluffy hair, so that I looked -like a pre-Raphaelite Christ. Indeed, so æsthetic was -my appearance I had to restrain myself from speaking -in blank verse.</p> - -<p>How glorious was the clear, sweet air again! | With -every breath of it I felt new life. | The sea was very -amiable now, | and playing children paved the sunlit -deck. | A score of babies punctuated the picturesque -confusion. On the decks above the plebeian seconds -and the patrician firsts presented two tiers of amused -faces. They were like curious spectators looking down -into a bear pit.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly did I realise my severance from my -class, and, strange to say, it aroused in me a kind of -defiant rage. For the first time democracy inspired -me. For five days I had starved and suffered—or -was it five years? Anyway, the life of luxury and -ease seemed far away. Goaded by the gay shouts of -the shuffle-boarders on the upper deck, I felt to the full -the resentment of the under-dog; yea, ready to raise -the red flag of revolt behind blood-boltered barricades -of hate.</p> - -<p>But all at once I became conscious of another sensation -equally exorbitant. It was the first pang of a -hunger such as never in my life had I endured. In -imagination I saw myself at Sherry’s, conning the bill -of fare. With what an undreamt-of gusto I made a -selection! How I revelled in a dazzling vision of -delicate dishes served with sympathy! It was a -gourmet’s dream, the exquisite conception of a modern -Lucullus. I almost drooled as I dictated it to a -reverent head-waiter. Yea, I was half hunger-mad. -When, oh when, would lunch-time come?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span>It came. It was the first meal I had seen served -in the steerage, and it was served in buckets. You -dipped into one, spiked a slab of beef floating in greasy -swill, shovelled a wad of macaroni from a tin wash-basin -to your tin plate, grabbed a chunk of stale bread -from a clothes basket: there you were, set up for another -five hours.</p> - -<p>Too ravenous to demur, I seized my tin plate and -rushed the ration-slingers. The messy meat I could not -stomach, but I pryed loose a little mountain of macaroni. -I was busy wolfing it when on looking up I saw the -youngest Miss Chumley Grace regarding me curiously. -With many others she had come to see the animals -fed.</p> - -<p>“It’s dollars to doughnuts,” I thought, “she’ll never -know me in this beard. But all the same I’ll keep my -face concealed.”</p> - -<p>I had finished feeding, and was washing my plate -at a running tap, when all at once I dropped it as if it -had been red-hot. Brushing every one aside I made -a leap for my cabin, and reached it, I will swear, in -record time. Frantically I felt under the pillow of my -bunk. Too late! Too late! The wallet in which I -kept my money was gone.</p> - -<p>“Alas!” I sighed. “My faith in Roman honesty -has received a nasty knock.”</p> - -<p>I did not report my loss. I was afraid the inevitable -fuss would betray me to the Chumley Graces. I -seemed to spend my whole time dodging them now. -Once or twice I found the spectacled gaze of poppa -fixed upon me. Many times I sneaked away under the -scrutiny of the girls. All this added to my other<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> -miseries, which in themselves might have served Dante -for another canto of his Inferno.</p> - -<p>But at last it was over. There was the blue bay of -Naples. Now we were manœuvring into the seething -harbour. Now we were keeping off with streams of -water boatmen who retaliated by hurling billets of -wood. Now we were throwing dimes to the diving -boys. Now there ran through the ship the thrill of -first contact with the dock. Hurrah! In a few more -moments I should be free, free to follow the Trail of -Beautiful Adventure. True, I was broke; but what -a fine, clean feeling that was!</p> - -<p>Clutching my alligator-skin suitcase I reconnoitered, -with conspiratorial wariness. Cautiously I crept out. -Softly I sneaked over to the nearest gangway. My -foot was on it; in another moment I would have made -my escape. I could have laughed with joy when—a -little hand was laid on my arm, and turning quickly -I found myself face to face with the youngest Miss -Chumley Grace.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Madden,” she chirped, “we knew you all -along, but it’s been such fun watching you. Do tell -me, now, aren’t you just doing it for a bet?”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI<br /> - -AN INVOLUNTARY FIANCÉ</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Alas</span> and alas! I am engaged—an engagement -according to Hoyle, sanctioned by poppa and sealed -with a solitaire—irrevocably, overwhelmingly, engaged.</p> - -<p>Who would have dreamed it? But in the great -round-up of matrimony, isn’t it always the unexpected -that happens? I was run down, roped, thrown, before -I knew what was happening to me. And the brand on -me is “Guinivere Chumley Grace.”</p> - -<p>She is the youngest, the open-airiest, the most super-strenuous -of the sporting sisters. She slays foxes, -slaughters pheasants, has even made an air-flight. I -have no doubt she despises poor, ordinary women who -cook steaks, darn socks and take an intelligent interest -in babies.</p> - -<p>And this is the girl I am going to marry, I who hate -horse-flesh, would not slay a blue-bottle promenading -on my nose, admire the domestic virtues, and hope that -a woman will never cease to scream at the sight of a -mouse. Can it be wondered at that I am in the depths -of despair?</p> - -<p>And it is all the fault of Italy?</p> - -<p>Naples sprang at me, and, as we say, “put it all -over me.” Such welters of colourful life! Such visions -of joy and dirt! Such hot-beds of rank-growing humanity! -Diving boys and piratical longshoremen; -plumed guardians of the police and ragged <i>lazzaroni</i>; -whooping donkey drivers and pestiferous guides;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span> -clamour, colour, confusion, all to bewilder my prim -Manhattan mind.</p> - -<p>What a disappointment that had been; to stand there -one exultant moment with the Trail of Beautiful Adventure -glimmering before; the next, to be hemmed in by -the jubilant Chumley Graces, and hurried to the -haughtiest of hotels, where poppa insisted on cashing -my cheque for five hundred dollars.</p> - -<p>But resignation to one’s fate is comparatively easy -in Naples. There, where villa and vineyard dream by -an amethystine sea where purple Capri and violet Vesuvius -shimmer and change with every mood of sun and -breeze, the line of least resistance seems alluringly appropriate.</p> - -<p>There were days in which (accompanied by Miss -Guinivere Chumley Grace) I roamed the Via Roma, -stimulated by the vivid life that seethed around me; -when I watched the bronze fishermen pull in their long, -sea-curving nets; when the laziness of the <i>lazzaroni</i> fell -upon me.</p> - -<p>There were evenings in which (accompanied by -Guinivere Chumley Grace) I sat on the terrace of the -hotel, caressed by the balmy breeze, listening to the -far-borne melody of mandolins, and gazing at the topaz -lights that fringed the throbbing vast of foam and -starlight.</p> - -<p>There were nights when (accompanied by Guinivere) -I watched the dull reflection of fiery-bowled Vesuvius, -dreaming of the richly storied past, and feeling my -heart stir with a thousand sweet wonderings of romance.</p> - -<p>Can it be wondered, then, that some of this rapture -and romance found an echo in my heart? Here was -the time, the place, and—Guinivere. Only by a violent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> -effort could I have saved myself, and violent efforts -in Naples are unpopular. No; everything seemed to -happen with relentless logic; and so one afternoon, looking -down on the sweeping glory of the bay the following -conversation took place:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<div class="hangingindent"> -<p><span class="smcap">She</span>: Isn’t it ripping?</p> - -<p>I: Yes, it’s too lovely for words. Why cannot we -make our lives a harvest of such golden -memories?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">She</span>: Yes, it would be awfully jolly, wouldn’t it?</p> - -<p>I: If we cannot make the moment eternal, let us at -least live eternal in the moment.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">She</span>: But how can we?</p> -</div></div> - -<p>I wasn’t sure how we could, nor was I sure what I -meant; but the freckled face was looking up at me so -inquiringly, and the crisp-lipped mouth was pouted so -invitingly that I sought the solution there. She, on -her part, evidently found it so satisfactory that I laid -considerable emphasis on it, and I was still further -accentuating the emphasis when on looking up I found -myself confronted by the stony, spectacled stare of -poppa.</p> - -<p>Anathema! Miseracordia! After that there was -nothing to do but ask for his blessing. I could not -plead poverty, for he is a director in most of the railways -in which I hold shares. The god of fools, who -had so often moved to save me, had this time left me -on the lurch. So it came about that I spent three -hundred dollars out of my five in the purchase of a -diamond ring; and there matters stand.</p> - -<p>Well, I shall have to go through with it. If there -is one idea more than another I hold up to myself -it is that of The Man who Makes Good. I have never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> -been untrue to my promises; and now I have promised -Guinivere a cottage at Newport and a flat in town. -Life looms before me a grey vista of conventional -monotony and Riverside Drive.</p> - -<p>If only she cared for any of the things I do! But -no! She is one of the useless daughters of the rich, -who expect to be petted, pampered and provided for -in the way they have been accustomed, forgetting that -the old man struggled a lifetime to give them that -limousine and the house on Fifth Avenue. She is one -of the great army of women who think men should -sweat that women may spend. I have always maintained -that it was a woman’s place to do her share of -the work; and here I was, marrying a pleasure-seeker, -an idler.</p> - -<p>Better, I thought, some daughter of democracy; yea, -even such a one as but a little ago tidied my apartment, -that dark-haired damsel with the melancholy mouth and -the eyes of an odalisque.</p> - -<p>As I pretended to work I had often watched my -charming chambermaid; but my interest was purely professional, -till one day it was stimulated by an unusual -incident. There was a villainous-looking valet-de-chambre -who brought me my coffee and rolls in the -morning, and who presided over a little pantry from -which they seemed to emanate. Passing this pantry, I -witnessed a brisk scuffle between the chambermaid and -the valet. He made an effort to kiss her, and she repulsed -him with evident disgust. From then on I could -see the two were at daggers drawn, and that the man -only waited a chance to take his revenge.</p> - -<p>After that, it may not be deemed strange that I -should have taken a more personal interest in my hand-maid;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> -that I should have practised my Italian on her -on every opportunity; that I should have found her -name to be Lucrezia Poppolini, and that of her tormentor, -Victor. A spirit of protection glowed in me; -I half hoped for dramatic developments, pitied her in -her evident unhappiness, and vowed that if she were -persecuted any more I would take a hand in the game.</p> - -<p>In a rhapsodic vein I had begun an article on Naples, -and ranged far and wide in search of impressions. It -was one evening I had pleaded work to escape from -Guinivere (who was getting on my nerves), and I had -sought the quarter of the town down by the fish-market. -Frequently had I been moved to remark that in Naples -there seemed to be no danger of depopulation, and the -appearance of a good woman approaching strengthened -my conviction. Then as she came close I saw that she -was only a girl, very poor, and intensely miserable. -But something else made me start and stare: she was -the exact counterpart of my interesting chambermaid.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps they are twin sisters,” thought I. “This -girl’s trouble would account for the worry and sadness -on the face of Lucrezia. Here is material for drama.”</p> - -<p>So taken was I by my twin-sister theory, that I ended -by half-convincing myself I was right. Then, by a -little play of fancy, I allowed for the following dramatis -personæ:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“Victor, the Villainous Valet.</div> -<div class="verse">Lucrezia, the Chaste Chambermaid.</div> -<div class="verse">Twin Sister in trouble.</div> -<div class="verse">False Lover of Twin Sister.</div> -<div class="verse">Aged Parent.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Thus you will see how my little drama was interesting -me. On her daily visits to my room, I watched my poor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> -heroine with sympathetic heart. What was going to -happen? Probably Aged Parent would stab False -Lover, and Villainous Valet, who happened to witness -the deed, would demand as the price of his silence the -honour of Chaste Chambermaid. How I began to hate -the man as he roused me at eight o’clock with my steaming -Mocha! How I began to pity the girl as dreary -and distraught she changed my towels! Surely the -<i>dénouement</i> was close at hand.</p> - -<p>Poppa and I shared a parlour from which opened out -respective bedrooms. It had outlook on the bay, and -often the girls would sit there with their father instead -of in their own <i>salon</i>. I was not surprised, then, on -my return from a copy-hunting expedition to hear the -sound of many voices coming from within.</p> - -<p>But I was decidedly surprised, on opening the door, -to find quite a dramatic scene being enacted. The backs -of the actors were to me, and they did not see me enter. -In the centre of the stage, as it were, were Victor -and Lucrezia. Behind them the fat little manager of -the hotel. To the right poppa and Guinivere. To the -left Edythe and Gladys, the elder sisters.</p> - -<p>Lucrezia looked pale as death, and cowered as if -some one had struck her. Facing her, with flashing eyes -and accusive digit was the vengeful Victor. The little -manager was trying to control the situation, while -poppa and offspring, staring blankly, were endeavouring -to follow the Italian of it.</p> - -<p>“Baggage! Thief!” Victor was crying. “I saw -her. I stole after her! I watched her enter the signor’s -room. There on the dressing-table it was, the little -purse he had so carelessly left. She draws near, she -examines it ... quick! She pushes it into her blouse—so.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span> -Oh, I saw it all through the chink of the -door.”</p> - -<p>“No, no,” the girl protested, in accents of terror and -distress; “I took nothing, I swear by the Virgin, nothing. -He lies. He would make for me trouble. I am -innocent, innocent.”</p> - -<p>“I am no liar,” snarled the man. “If you do not -believe me, see—she has it now. Search her. Look -in the bosom of her dress. Ah! I will....”</p> - -<p>He caught her roughly. There was a scuffle in which -she screamed, and from her corsage he tore forth a -small flat object.</p> - -<p>“What did I tell you!” he cried vindictively. “Who -is the liar now? Oh, thief! thief! I, Victor, have unmasked -thee—”</p> - -<p>Here he turned round and suddenly beheld me. His -manner grew more exultant. “Ha! It is the signor -himself.”</p> - -<p>Then I saw that what he held out so triumphantly -was my little gold purse, and in the breathless pause -that followed, cinema pictures were flashing and flickering -in my brain. How vivid they were! Twin sister -imploring aid—girl distracted—no money to give her—What’s -to be done?—Suddenly sees gold purse—Temptation: -“I’ll just borrow one little piece. The -signor will never miss it. Some day I’ll pay it back.”</p> - -<p>How she struggles, gazes at it like one fascinated, -puts out a hand, shrinks back, looks round fearfully! -Then at last she takes it in her hand;—a sudden -noise,—impulsively she pushes it in the bosom of her -dress. Then Victor’s high pitched voice of denunciation, -bringing every one on the scene.</p> - -<p>All this I saw in a luminous moment, but—where<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span> -did I come in? My heart bled for the poor girl so tried, -so tempted. A quixotic flame leapt in me. There was -the vindictive valet; there was the frail Lucrezia; there -was the centre of the stage waiting for what?—me. -Ah! could I ever resist the centre of the stage?</p> - -<p>So I stepped quietly forward, and, to complete the -artistic effect, the girl, who had been gazing at me with -growing terror, swayed as if to faint. Deftly I caught -her over my left arm; then with the other hand I -snatched the purse from the astonished Victor, and deliberately -pushed it back into the blouse of Lucrezia.</p> - -<p>“The girl is innocent,” I said calmly; “the money -is her own. I, myself, gave it to her,—this morning.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Of the scene that followed I have no vivid recollection. -I was conscious that poppa herded his flock hurriedly -from the room; that Lucrezia disappeared with surprising -suddenness; that the dumbfounded Victor was -ordered to “begone” by an indignant <i>maître d’hôtel</i>, -who, while extremely polite, seemed to regard me with -something of reproach.</p> - -<p>I was, in fact, rather dazed by my sudden action, so -hastily packing the alligator-skin suitcase I paid my -bill and ordered a carriage. Telling the man to drive -in the direction of Possillipo, I there selected a hotel of -a more diffident type, and, in view of my reduced -finances, engaged a single room.</p> - -<p>The day following was memorable for two interviews. -The first, in the forenoon, was with poppa. He had no -doubt found my address from the coachman, and had -come to have it out with me. In his most puritanical -manner he wanted to know why I gave the girl the -money.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>“I refuse to explain,” I said sourly.</p> - -<p>“Then, sir, I must refuse to consider you worthy of -my daughter’s hand.”</p> - -<p>My heart leapt. Escape from Guinivere! It seemed -too good to be true. Lucrezia, I thank thee! Nor do -I grudge thee twice the gold thy purse contains. Concealing -my joy I answered:</p> - -<p>“It shall be as you please, sir.”</p> - -<p>His church-deacon face relaxed a little. He had evidently -expected more trouble.</p> - -<p>“And I must ask you, sir, not to communicate with -her in any way.”</p> - -<p>I summoned a look of sadness worthy of a lover whose -heart is broken.</p> - -<p>“As her father,” I observed submissively, “your -wishes must be respected.”</p> - -<p>He laid a small box on the table. “Guinivere returns -you your ring.” Then he hesitated a little. -“Have you nothing at all to say for yourself? I too -have been young; I can make some allowance, but there -are limits. I don’t like to think that you are an absolute -scoundrel.”</p> - -<p>“If I were to tell you,” I said, “that I gave the girl -the money out of pure philanthropy, gave it to help a -wretched twin sister with an unborn babe,—what would -you say?”</p> - -<p>“I would say you were trying to bolster up your -intrigue with a fiction. Bah! Young men don’t give -purses of gold to pretty girls out of philanthropy. -Besides, we have discovered that your precious friend -is nothing more or less than a hotel thief. A detective -arrived just after you left and identified her.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>“I don’t believe it,” I said indignantly. “These -Italian women all look alike. Where’s the poor girl -now?”</p> - -<p>He grinned sarcastically. “Probably it is I who -should ask you that.”</p> - -<p>His meaning was so obvious I rose and smilingly -opened the door. Off he went with a snort, and that -was the last I ever saw of poppa.</p> - -<p>But my second interview! It took place at ten in -the evening. I was reading the Italian paper in bed -when there came a soft knock at my door.</p> - -<p>“Come in,” I said, thinking it was the valet with my -nightcap. Then, as if moved by a spring I sat bolt -upright. With one hand I tried to fasten the neck -button of my pyjamas, with the other to smooth down -my disordered locks. I verily believe I blushed all over, -for who should my late visitor be but—Lucrezia.</p> - -<p>She was dressed astonishingly well, and looked altogether -different from the slim, trim domestic I had -known. Indeed, being all in black, she might have well -passed for a charming young widow. Of course I was -embarrassed beyond all words, but if she shared my feeling -she did not show it.</p> - -<p>“Oh, signor, how can I thank you?” she cried, advancing -swiftly.</p> - -<p>“Not at all,” I stammered; “pray calm yourself. -Excuse me receiving you in this deshabille. Please take -a seat.”</p> - -<p>I indicated a chair some distance away, but to my -confusion she seated herself near me. I reached for -my jacket and wriggled into it; after which I felt more -at ease.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>“I have just found out where you were,” she began. -“I could not wait until to-morrow to thank you. -You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”</p> - -<p>Really she spoke remarkably well. Really she looked -remarkably stunning. Her complexion had the tone of -old ivory, and her eyes of an odalisque seemed to refract -all the light of the room. I could feel them fixed on -me in a distracting, magnetising way.</p> - -<p>“Don’t mention it,” I answered; “there’s nothing -to forgive. It’s very good of you to think of thanking -me.”</p> - -<p>She begun to fumble with a glove button. “Tell -me,” she almost whispered, “tell me, why did you do -it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I—I don’t quite know?”</p> - -<p>She threw out her hands with an impulsive gesture. -Her black eyes glowed fiercely, then grew soft.</p> - -<p>“Was it because you—you loved me?”</p> - -<p>I stared. This was too much. Was the girl mad? -I replied with some asperity:</p> - -<p>“No, it was because I thought you must be in some -desperate trouble. I was sorry for you. I wanted to -save you.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! you were right. I was in great trouble, and -you alone understood. You are noble, signor, noble; -but you are cold. We women of the South, we are so -different. When we love, we love with all the heart. -We do not conceal it; we do not deny it. Know, then, -signor, from the moment you came so bravely to my aid -like some hero of romance I loved you, loved you with -a passion that makes me forget all else. And you, you -do not care. It is nothing to you. Oh, unhappy me! -Tell me, signor, do you not think you can love me?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span>I shrank back to the furthest limit of the bed-post. -Again I thought: “Surely the girl is mad, perhaps -dangerous as well. I’ve heard that these Neapolitan -girls all carry daggers. I hope this young lady -doesn’t follow the fashion. I think I’d better humour -her.”</p> - -<p>Aloud I said: “I don’t know. This is so sudden -I haven’t had time to analyse my feelings yet. Perhaps -I do. Give me to-night to think of it. Come to-morrow. -But anyway, why should I let myself love you? -I am a bird of passage. I have business. I must go -away in a few days.”</p> - -<p>“Where is the signor going?”</p> - -<p>“To Paris,” I said cautiously.</p> - -<p>Her strange eyes gleamed with tragic fire. “If you -go to Paris without me,” she cried passionately, “I will -follow you.”</p> - -<p>“Well, well,” I said soothingly, “we’ll see. But -now please leave me to think of all this. Don’t you -see I’m agitated? You’ve taken me by surprise. -Please give me till to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>Her brows knit with jealous suspicion. I half -thought she was going to reach for that dagger, but -instead she rose abruptly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you are cold, you men of the North. I shall -leave you at once.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I answered eagerly; “go quickly, before any -one finds you here.”</p> - -<p>“Bah!” she exploded with fierce contempt; “what -does it matter? But, signor, will you let me kiss -you?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly, if you wish.” I extended one cheek.</p> - -<p>She gave me a quick, smothering embrace from which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> -I had difficulty in detaching myself. “To-morrow, -then, without fail. But where and when?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll meet you at the Aquarium at eleven o’clock,” -I said.</p> - -<p>“At the Aquarium, then. And you’ll think of me? -And you’ll try to love me?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, I will. Please go out very quietly. Au -revoir till eleven to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>But by eleven o’clock next morning I was exultantly -on my way to London.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII<br /> - -A BOTTLE OF INK</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> disadvantage of persistent globe-trotting is that -it makes the world so deplorably provincial. With -familiarity the glamour of the far and strange is swept -away, till at last there is nothing left to startle and -delight. Better, indeed, to leave shrines unvisited -and shores unsought; then may we still hold them -fondly under the domination of dream.</p> - -<p>Much had I read of the lure of London, of its hold -upon the heart; but to the end I entirely failed to -realise its charm. To me in those grim December -days it always remained the City of Grime and Gloom, -so that I ultimately left it the poorer by a score of -lost illusions.</p> - -<p>Drawing near the Great Grey City—how I had -looked forward to this moment as, alert to every impression, -I stared from the window of the train! Yet -at its very threshold I shrank appalled. Could I believe -my eyes? There confronting me was street after -street of tiny houses all built in the same way. Nay, -I do not exaggerate. They were as alike as ninepins, -dirty, drab cubes, each with the same oblong of sordid -back-yard, the same fringe of abortive front garden. -Oh what a welter of architectural crime! Could it -be wondered at that the bricks of which they were -composed seemed to blush with shame?</p> - -<p>Then the roofs closed in till they formed a veritable -plain, on which regiments of chimneys seemed to stand<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> -at attention amid saffron fog. Then great, gloomy corrugations, -down which I could see ant-like armies moving -hither and thither: then an arrest in a place of -steam and smoke and skurrying and shouting: Charing -Cross Station.</p> - -<p>How it was spitefully cold! Autos squattered -through the tar-black mud. A fine drizzle of rain -was falling, yet save myself no one seemed to mind -it—so cheery and comfortable seemed those red-faced -Islanders in their City of Soot. Soot, at that moment, -was to me all-dominant. Eagerly it overlaid the -buildings of brick; joyfully it grimed those of stone. -It swathed the monuments, and it achieved on the -churches daring effects in black and grey. After all, -it had undoubted artistic value. Then a smudge of -it settled on my nose, and with every breath I seemed -to inhale it. Finally a skittish motor bus bespattered -me with that tar-like mud and I felt dirtier than ever.</p> - -<p>But what amount of drizzle could damp my romantic -ardour as suitcase in hand I stood in Trafalgar Square? -Here was another occasion for that sentimental reverie -which was my specialty, so I began:</p> - -<p>“Alone in London, in the seething centre of its -canorous immensity. Around me swirl the swift, -incurious crowds. Oh, City of a million sorrows! -here do I come to thee poor, friendless, unknown, -yet oh! so rich in hope. Shall I then knock at thy -countless doors in vain? Shall I then—”</p> - -<p>A sneeze interrupted me at this point. It is hard -to sneeze and be sentimental; besides, I recognised -in the words I had just spoken those I had put into -the mouth of Harold Cleaveshaw, hero of my novel, -<i>The Handicap</i>. But then Harold had posed in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span> -centre of Madison Square and addressed his remarks -to the Flatiron Building, while I was addressing the -Nelson Monument and a fountain whose water seemed -saturated with soot.</p> - -<p>Do not think the moment was wasted, however. -Far from it. The likeness suggested an article comparing -the two cities. For instance: New York, a -concretion; London, an accretion; New York, an uplift; -London, an outspread; New York, blatant; London, -smug; New York, a city on tiptoe, raw, bright, -wind-besomed; London, the nightmare of a dyspeptic -chimney-sweep; New York, a city born, organic, spontaneous; -London, an accident, a patchwork, a piecing -on; and so on.</p> - -<p>Pondering these and other points of contrast, I -wandered up Charing Cross Road into Oxford Street. -In a bookshop I saw, with a curious feeling of detachment, -a sixpenny edition of my novel, <i>The Red Corpuscle</i>. -Somehow at that moment I could scarcely associate -myself with it. So absorbed was I becoming in -my new part that the previous one was already unreal -to me. I took up the book with positive dislike, and -was turning it over when an officious shop-boy suggested:</p> - -<p>“Don’t you want to read it, mister?”</p> - -<p>“Heaven forbid!” I replied; “I wrote it.”</p> - -<p>He sniffed, as much as to say, “Think you’re smart, -don’t you?”</p> - -<p>Up Southampton Row I chanced, and in a little -street off Tavistock Square I found a temporary home. -A cat sleeping on a window-sill suggested Peace, and -a donkey-cart piled high with cabbages pointed to -Plenty. But as cabbages do not find favour in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> -tyrannical laboratory of my digestion, I vetoed Mrs. -Switcher’s proposal that I take dinner in the house. -However, I ordered ham and eggs every morning, with -an alternative of haddock or sausage and bacon.</p> - -<p>These matters settled, I found myself the tenant of -a fourth-floor front in a flat brick building of triumphant -ugliness. I could see a melancholy angle of the -square, some soot-smeared trees stretching in inky tentacles -to a sullen sky, a soggy garden that seemed -steeped in despairing contemplation of its own unworthiness.</p> - -<p>For Mrs. Switcher, my landlady, I conceived an enthusiastic -dislike. A sour, grinding woman who reminded -me of a meat-axe, I christened her Rain-in-the-Face -in further resemblance of a celebrated Indian -Chief. But if I found in her no source of a sympathetic -inspiration, in the near-by Reading-room of the British -Museum there certainly was. In that studious calm, -under battalions of books secure in their circles of immortality, -I was profoundly happy. Often I would -pause to study those about me, the spectacled men, the -literary hack with the shiny coat-sleeve of the Reading-room -habitué, the women whose bilious complexions and -poky skirts suggested the league of desperate spinsterhood.</p> - -<p>A thousand ghosts haunted that great dome. It -was a mosaic of faces of dead and gone authors, wistfully -watching to see if you would read their books. -And if you did, how they hovered down from the -greyness and smiled sweetly on you; other ghosts there -were too, ghosts of the famous ones who had bent over -these very benches, who had delved into that mine of -thought just as I was delving. Here they had toiled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> -and triumphed, even as I would toil and triumph. -Spurred and exalted, under that great dome where the -only sound seemed to be the whirr of busy brains, I -spent hours of rarest rapture.</p> - -<p>To the solitary the spirits whisper. Ideas came to -me at this time in a bewildering swarm, and often I -regretted some fancy lost, some subtlety unset to -words. So by book-browsing, by curious roaming, by -brooding thought, my mental life extended its horizons. -Yet knowing no one, speaking to no one, living so -much within myself, each day became more dreamlike -and unreal. There were times when I almost doubted -my own identity, times when, if you had assured me -I was John Smith, I would have been inclined to agree -with you.</p> - -<p>With positive joy I watched my money filter away. -“Good!” I reflected. “I shall soon be penniless, reduced -to eating stale crusts and sleeping on the iron -benches of the Embankment. Who can divine the dazzling -possibilities of vicissitude? All my life I have -battled with prosperity; now, at last, I shall achieve -adversity. I will descend the ladder of success. I will -rub shoulders with Destitution. I may even be introduced -to Brother Despair.”</p> - -<p>Enthusiasm glowed in me at the thought, and absorbed -in those ambitious dreams I cried: “Thank -God for life’s depths, that we may have the glory of -outclimbing them.”</p> - -<p>And here be it said, we make a mistake when we -pity the poor. It is the rich we should pity, those -who have never known the joy of poverty, the ecstasy -of squeezing the dollar to the last cent. How good -the plain fare looks to our hunger! How sweet the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> -rest after toil! How exciting the uncertainty of the -next day’s supper! How glorious the unexpected windfall -of a few coppers! Was ever nectar so exquisite -as that cup of coffee quaffed at the stall on the Embankment -after a night spent on those excruciating benches? -Never to have been desperately poor—ah! that is -never to have lived.</p> - -<p>My shibboleth at this time was a large bottle of ink -which I bought and placed on my mantelpiece. -Through a haze of cigarette smoke I would address -it whimsically:</p> - -<p>“Oh, exquisite fluid, what magic words are hidden -in thine ebon heart! What lover’s raptures and what -gems of thought! Let others turn to dusty ledgers -your celestial stream, to bills of lading and to dull -notorial deeds; to me you are the poet’s dream, the -freaksome fancy of the essayist, the stuff that shapes -itself in precious prose. In you, oh most divine elixir, -fame and fortune are dissolved. In you, enchanted -liquid, strange stories simmer, and bright humour bubbles -up. Oh, magical bottle, of whom I will make -life and light, gold and jewels, laughter and tears, -thrill to your dusky heart with the sense of immortality!”</p> - -<p>It was while surveying the garbage heap in the rear -of Mrs. Switcher’s premises that there came to me the -idea of a short story, to be called <i>The Microbe</i>.</p> - -<p>Through reading an article in a magazine Mr. Perkins, -a middle-aged clerk in a dry-salter’s warehouse, -becomes interested in the Germ Theory. Half-contemptuous -at first, he begins to make a study of it, and -soon is quite fascinated. Being of a high-strung, imaginative -nature, the thing gets on his nerves, and he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> -begins to think germs, to dream germs, to dread germs -every moment of his life. He fears them in the air he -breathes, in the food he eats, even on the library books -that tell him all about them.</p> - -<p>Mr. Perkins becomes obsessed. He refuses to kiss -the somewhat overblown rose of his affections, to enter -a train, an omnibus, a theatre. He analyses his food, -sterilises his water, disinfects his room daily, till his -landlady gives him notice. Finally he can no longer -breathe the air of a microbe-infected office, and he resigns -the situation he has held for twenty years to -become a tramp. Yet even here, in the wind on the -heath, on the hill’s top, by the yeasty sea, there is no -peace for him. He broods, he fasts, he becomes a monomaniac. -Then he thinks of the germs in his own body, -of the good microbes and the naughty microbes fighting -their vendetta from birth to death, his very blood -their battleground.</p> - -<p>No longer can he bear it. He realises the impossibility -of escape. He himself is a little world, a civil -war of microbes. How he hates them! Yet there remains -to him his revenge. Ha! Ha! He has the power -to destroy that world. So beggared, broken, desperate, -he returns to London, and with a wild shriek of -joy he throws himself from the Tower Bridge.</p> - -<p>Yea, even in the end he has been destroyed by a -microbe, the most deadly of all, the terrible Microbe -called Fear.</p> - -<p>One morning, dreamily incubating my story, I happened -to glance out of my window. I was gazing absently -on my corner of the lugubrious square when -a little figure of a girl came into view. She wore a -grey mantle, and her face was like a splash of white.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span> -Walking with a quick, determined step, in a moment -she had disappeared.</p> - -<p>In about five minutes I happened to look up again. -There was the same slim figure rounding the corner, -to again disappear.</p> - -<p>“Something automatic about this,” I said; “it’s -getting interesting.” So, taking out my watch, I -judged the time, and in another five minutes I looked -up. Yes, there was my girl in grey walking with the -same purposeful stride.</p> - -<p>“This is getting monotonous,” I observed, after I -had seen her appear and disappear a few more times. -“Such persistent pedestrianism destroys my powers -of concentration. Let me then sally forth and see -what this mysterious young female is celebrating. -Perhaps if I stare at her hard enough she will choose -either Russell or Bloomsbury Square for her constitutional, -and not distract a poor, hard-working story-grinder -at his labours.”</p> - -<p>But when I got outside I found she had gone, so I -decided to seek my beloved Reading-Room and look -up some articles on microbes.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII<br /> - -THE GIRL WHO LOOKED INTERESTING</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">After</span> a hard skirmish with the catalogue of the Reading-Room, -which, with reference and counter-reference, -defied me stubbornly, yet finally yielded to my assault, -I found myself, three hours later, seated in an A.B.C. -restaurant in Southampton Row.</p> - -<p>From motives of economy I had given up eating dinners. -Breakfast and a meat lunch were now my sole -fortifying occasions, and of the latter this A.B.C. was -oftenest the scene. I liked its friendly fires, its red -plush chairs, its air of thrift and cheer. Behold me, -then, a studiously shabby young man, eating a shilling -lunch and wearing as a symbol of my servitude a celluloid -collar. Little would you have dreamed that but -two short months before I had been toying with terrapin -in the gold room of Delmonico’s.</p> - -<p>But such dramatic contrasts charm me, and I was -placidly engaged in the excavation of a Melton Mowbray -pie, when a girl in grey took a place at the next -table. Her long mantle was rather the worse for wear, -her hat a cheap straw. Her small hands were encased -in cotton gloves, and her feet in foreign-looking shoes.</p> - -<p>“Painfully poor,” I thought, “yet evidently a -worshipper of the goddess <i>Comme-il-faut</i>.” Then—“Why, -surely I know her? Surely it is my mysterious -female of the matutinal Marathon.”</p> - -<p>With timid hesitation she ordered a bun and milk. -How interesting her voice was! It had a bell-like quality<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> -the more marked because she spoke with a strong -inflection, and an odd precision of accent. A voice -with colour, I thought; violet; yes, she had a violet -voice.</p> - -<p>But I had not seen her face, only beneath her low -straw hat her hair of a gleamy brown, very fine of -texture and so thick as to seem almost black. It was -brought round in a coiled braid over each ear, and, -where it parted at the back, showed a neck of ivory -whiteness. Somewhat curiously I wished she would -turn her head.</p> - -<p>Then, as if to please me, she did so, and what I saw -was almost the face of a child, so small and delicate of -feature was it. It was almost colourless, of a pure -pallor that contrasted with the rich darkness of her -hair. The mouth was small and wistfully sweet, the -chin rather long and fine, the cheeks faintly hollowed. -Her brow, I noted, was broad and full, her eyebrows -frank and well-defined. But it was the eyes themselves -that arrested me. They were set far apart and of a -rare and faultless sea-blue. Such eyes in a woman of -real beauty would have been pools of love for many a -fool to drown in, and even in this fragile, shrinking girl -they were haunting, thrilling eyes. For the rest, she -was small, slender, sad-looking, and tired, yes, tired, as -if she wanted to rest and rest and rest.</p> - -<p>“A consumptive type,” I thought irritably. “Seems -quite worn out. Why does she persist in that pedestrian -foolishness—that’s what I want to know?”</p> - -<p>I watched her as she ate her bun, and when she rose -I rose too. She payed out of a worn little purse, a -plethoric purse, but, alas! its fulness was of copper. -Down Woburn Street she disappeared, and I looked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span> -after her with some concern. A gentle, shrinking -creature, pathetically afraid of life.</p> - -<p>“God help her,” I said, “in this ruthless city, if -she has neither friends nor money.” I decided I would -write a story around her, a story of struggle and temptation. -Yes, I would call it <i>The Girl Who Looked Interesting</i>.</p> - -<p>That night I thought a good deal about my girl -and my story, but next morning a distraction occurred. -London revealed itself in the glory of a fog. At last I -was exultant. Here was the city I had come so far -to see. For the squat buildings seemed to take on -dignity and height. Through the mellow haze they -loomed as vaguely as the domiciles of a dream. The -streets were corridors of mystery, and alone, abysmally -alone, I seemed to be in some city of fantasy and fear.</p> - -<p>But the river—there the fog achieved its ghostliest -effects. As I wandered down the clammy embankment, -cloud-built bridges emerged ethereally, and the -flat barges were masses of mysterious shadow. St. -Stephen’s was a spectral suggestion, and Whitehall a -delicate silver-point etching. I thanked the gods for -this evasive and intangible London, half-hidden, half-revealed -in its vesture of all-mystifying fog.</p> - -<p>Well, I was tired at last, and I turned to go home. -But I must have missed my way, for I found myself in -a long dim street, which I judged by its furniture-fringed -pavement to be Tottenham Court Road. Filled -with a pleasant sense of adventure, I kept on till I -came to what must have been Hampstead Road. -There my eyes were drawn to a large flamboyant painting -above the window of a shop in a side-street. Drawing -near, I read in flaring letters the following:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span></p> - -<p class="center">EXHIBITION<br /> -<br /> -<span class="smcap">Amazing! Amusing! Unique!</span><br /> -<br /> -O’FLATHER’S EDUCATED FLEAS<br /> -<br /> -As performed with tremendous success before<br /> -all the Crowned Heads of Europe and the<br /> -Potentates of Asia. For a limited<br /> -time Professor O’Flather will<br /> -give the people of London<br /> -the opportunity of seeing<br /> -this extraordinary<br /> -exhibition.<br /> -Entertaining!<br /> -Instructive!<br /> -Original!<br /> -Come<br /> -and<br /> -See<br /> -<br /> -THE SCIENTIFIC MARVEL OF THE CENTURY!<br /> -<br /> -The marvellous insects that have all the<br /> -intelligence of human beings.<br /> -<br /> -Admission, Sixpence.         Children Half-price.</p> - -<p>A large canvas showed a number of insects, vivaciously -engaged in duelling, dancing, drawing water -from wells, and so on. Watching them with beaming -rapture was a distinguished audience, including the -Czar of Russia, the Emperor William, Li Hung Chang, -the Shah of Persia, and Mr. Roosevelt.</p> - -<p>I was turning away when a big, ugly individual appeared<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span> -in the doorway. He was a heavy-breathing -man with a mouth like a codfish, and bloodshot eyes -that peered through pouchy slits. He had a blotched, -greasy face that hung down in dewlaps. From under -a Stetson hat his stringy, brindled hair streamed over -the collar of his fur-lined coat. On his grubby hand -an off-colour diamond, big as a pea, tried to outsparkle -another in the dirty bosom of his shirt. He -reeked of pomatum, and his teeth looked as if they -had been cleaned with a towel. No mistaking the born -showman of the Bowery breed. Moved by a sudden -idea, I gracefully addressed him:</p> - -<p>“Professor O’Flather, I presume?”</p> - -<p>The impresario looked at me with lack-lustre eye. -He transferred a chew of tobacco from one cheek to -the other; then he spat with marvellous precision on a -passing dog. Finally he admitted reluctantly:</p> - -<p>“Yep! That’s me.”</p> - -<p>“Pardon me, Professor, but I’m a newspaper man. -I represent the <i>Daily Dredger</i>, with which, of course, -you are familiar. I have been specially commissioned -by my journal to write up your exhibition. Can you -favour me with a brief interview?”</p> - -<p>At the magic word “newspaper” his manner changed. -He extended a hand like a small ham.</p> - -<p>“Right you are, mister. Always glad to see the -noospaper boys.”</p> - -<p>He ushered me into the shop, and, switching on a -light, bellowed in a voice of brass, “Jinny!” From -behind a crimson curtain appeared a little Jap girl -in a green kimono.</p> - -<p>“Faithful little devil!” said the Professor. “Met -’er in a Yokerhammer joint, and fetched ’er along for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> -the sake of the show. Jinny, uncover the stock. This -gen’lman’s a hintervooer.”</p> - -<p>With eager pride the girl obeyed. From a glass -case in the centre of the room she removed a covering. -The case was divided into sections, in which were a -number of suggestive shapes, supinely quiescent.</p> - -<p>“We turn ’em over,” O’Flather explained, “when -they ain’t working, so’s they won’t use up all their force. -We need it in the business.”</p> - -<p>Then Jinny, with the delicacy of a lover, proceeded -to put each through its performance.</p> - -<p>“That there’s Barthsheeber at the well,” said the Professor, -pointing with a fat forefinger to a black speck -that was frantically raising and lowering a string of -buckets on an endless chain.</p> - -<p>“Them’s the dooelists,” he went on, indicating two -who, rearing on their hind legs, clashed tiny swords -with all the fire and fury of Macbeth and Macduff.</p> - -<p>“Here we have the original Tango Team,” he continued, -showing a pair who went through the motions -of the dance in time to a tiny musical box.</p> - -<p>Then, with pardonable pride, he drew my attention -to a separate case containing a well-made model of a -little farm. “There!” he said, extending his grubby -hand, “all run by the little critters.” And, sure -enough, there were active little insects drawing ploughs -up and down green furrows; others were hoeing with -tremendous energy; others mowing with equal enthusiasm. -Here, too, was a miniature threshing machine, -turned by four black specks lying on their backs, -with other frantic black specks feeding it, and an extra -strenuous one forking away the straw.</p> - -<p>As I expressed my admiration of their industry, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span> -Professor, with growing gusto, dilated on the cleverness -of his pets, and put them through their paces. -There was a funeral, a chariot race, a merry-go-round, -and some other contrivances no less ingenious. Lastly -he showed me a glass case containing many black -specks.</p> - -<p>“Raw material. Them’s the wild ones I keep to -take the place of the tame ones that dies. At first I -have to put ’em in a bit of a glass box like a pill box, -and turning on an axis same’s a little treadmill. That’s -to break ’em of the jumping habit. Every time they -jump—bing! they hit the glass hard, so by and by -they quit. But they have to keep a-moving, because -the box keeps going round. In a few days they’re -broke into walk all right.”</p> - -<p>“Most ingenious!”</p> - -<p>“All my own notion. Since I started in the business, -many’s the hundred I’ve broke in. I guess I know -more about the little critters than any man living.”</p> - -<p>It was with a view to tap a little of this knowledge -that I invited the Professor to a near-by pub, and -there, under the influence of sympathetic admiration -and hot gin, he expanded confidentially.</p> - -<p>“All of them insects you saw,” he informed me, -“comes from Japan. They grow bigger over there, -and more intelligent. I’ve experimented with nigh -every kind, but them Jap ones is the best. And here -I want to say that it’s only the females is any good. -The males is mulish. Besides they’re smaller and -weaker, and not so intelligent. Funny that, ain’t it. -That’s an argyment for Woman’s Suffrage. No, the -males is no good.”</p> - -<p>“And how do you train them, Professor?” I queried.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>“Well, first of all you’ve got to hitch ’em up, got -to get a silk thread round their waists. That’s a -mighty ticklish oppyration, but Jinny’s good at it. -You see, they’re so slick cement won’t stick to ’em, -and if you was to use wax it kills ’em in a day or two. -So we’ve got to get a silk loop round their middle, -and cement a fine bristle to it. Once we have ’em -harnessed up we begin to train ’em. That’s just a -matter of patience. Some’s apter than others. Barthsheeber -there was very quick. In a few days she was -on to her job.”</p> - -<p>“And how long do they live?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, about a year, but I’ve had ’em for nigh two. -They got mighty weak towards the last though. You -know, a female in prime condition can draw twelve -hundred times her own weight.”</p> - -<p>“Wonderful! And what do they eat?”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said O’Flather, thoughtfully, “a performer -can go about four days without eating, but we feed ’em -every day. Jinny used to do it. She loves ’em. But -it’s hard on a person. I’ve got a young woman engaged -just now.”</p> - -<p>“A young woman!”</p> - -<p>“Yep, but she’s a poor weak bit of a thing. I don’t -think as she’ll stick it much longer. You see, there’s -lots of folks the little devils won’t take to—me, for -instance. Blood’s too bitter, I guess. They seem to -prefer the women, too. Then again, they feed better -if the body’s hot, specially if the skin’s perspiring.”</p> - -<p>“How very interesting!” I said absently. Then -suddenly the reason of it came to me. The insects had -no intelligence, no consciously directed power. The -motive that inspired them was—Fear. Their extraordinary<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span> -demonstrations were caused by their desperate -efforts to escape. It was fear that drew the -coaches and the gun-carriages: fear that made those -kicking on their backs turn the threshing mills; fear in -the fight to free themselves from the stakes to which -they were chained that made the duellists clash their -sabres, and the Bathshebas work at their wells. It was -even fear that made those two lashed side by side, and -head to tail, run round in opposite directions to get -away from each other, till they gave the illusion of a -waltz. Fear as a motive power! This exhibition, outwardly -so amusing, was really all suffering and despair, -struggle born of fear, pleasure gained at the cost of -pain. Exquisitely ludicrous; yet how like life, how -like life!</p> - -<p>“Professor O’Flather,” I said gravely, “you have -taught me a lesson I will never forget.”</p> - -<p>“Naw,” said the Professor modestly, “it ain’t -nuthin’. Hope you get a few dollars out of it. Mind -you give the show a boost.”</p> - -<p>We were standing by the doorway of the exhibition -when a slim figure in grey brushed past us and entered. -I started, I could not be mistaken—it was the heroine -of my story <i>The Girl Who Looked Interesting</i>.</p> - -<p>“Who’s that, Professor—the girl who’s just gone -in?”</p> - -<p>“That,” said O’Flather, with a shrug, “why, that’s -the young woman wot feeds the fleas.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX<br /> - -THE CHEWING GUM OF DESTINY</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Allured</span> by a sign: “A Cut off the Joint for Sixpence,” -I lunched in a little eating-house off Tottenham -Court Road. I was at the tapioca pudding stage -of the repast, and in a mood of singular complacency.</p> - -<p>“Six weeks have gone,” I pondered. “I have spent -nearly a third of the sum I realised from the sale of -Guinivere’s engagement ring. In my ambition to fail -in the world, already I have accomplished much. Behold! -my boots are cracked across the uppers. Regard! -the suggestive glossiness of my coat-sleeves. -Observe! the bluey brilliancy of my celluloid collar. Oh, -mighty Mammon, chain me to thine oar! Grind me, -Oppression, ’neath thy ruthless heel! Minions of Monopoly, -hound me to despair!—not all your powers -combined in fell intent can so inspire me with the spirit -of Democracy as can the sticky feel of this celluloid collar -around my neck!”</p> - -<p>With which sentiment I lit a cigarette, and took from -my pocket a copy of the <i>Gotham Gazette</i>. I had seen -it looking very foreign and forlorn in a news-agents, -and had bought it out of pity for its loneliness. I was -glancing through it when a name seemed to leap at -me, and I felt my heart stand still. I read:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Yesterday afternoon patrician Fifth Avenue was the -scene of a saddening incident. It was almost opposite -Tiffany’s, and the autos were passing in a continuous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> -stream. At this time and this place it is almost as difficult -to cross the Rubicon as to cross the Avenue; yet, taking -advantage of a lull in the traffic, a well-dressed man—who -has since been identified as Charles Fitzbarrington, -an ex-army officer resident in Harlem—was observed -to make the daring attempt. Half way over he was seen -to stumble, and come to the ground. Those who saw the -rash act held their breaths, and when the nearest spectators -could reach him to rescue him from his perilous position, -they found to their surprise that the man was -dead....”</p> -</div> - -<p>I dropped the paper with a groan. Captain Fitzbarrington -dead! Mrs. Fitz free! My promise to -marry her! The terrible twins! Oh, God....</p> - -<p>“Alas!” I cried, “I am undone!—betrayed by an -incurably romantic disposition; asphyxiated in the effervescence -of my own folly; ignominiously undone!”</p> - -<p>As if it were yesterday, I remembered the faded -apartment in Harlem, my protests of undying devotion, -the words that now seemed written in remorseless flame:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“<i>If anything should happen to him, if by any chance -we should find ourselves free, send for me, and I’ll come -to you, even though the world lie between us. By my -life, by my honour, I swear it.</i>”</p> -</div> - -<p>Had I really uttered that awful rot? Oh, what a -fool I’d been! But it was too late now. I must make -the best of it. Never yet have I gone back on my -word (though I have put some very poetic constructions -on it). But here there was no chance of evasion. -She would certainly expect me to marry her. Farewell, -ambitious dreams of struggle and privation!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span> -Farewell, O glorious independent poverty! Farewell, -my schemes and dreams! Bohemia, adventure, all!—and -for what? For an elderly woman for whom I did -not care a rap, a faded woman with a ready-made family -to boot. Truly life is one confounded scrape after -another.</p> - -<p>That night I dreamed of the terrible twins. I was a -pirate ship, Ronnie, the captain, stood on my chest, -while Lonnie, a naval lieutenant, tried to board me. -Then they invented a new game, based on the Midnight -Ride of Paul Revere. It was tremendously exciting. -They both got quite worked up over it. So -did I—only more so. I was the horse. I awoke, -bathed in perspiration, and hissing through my clenched -teeth: “Never! Never!”</p> - -<p>But really it seemed as if I must do something; -so next day I began three different letters to Mrs. -Fitz. I was sorely distracted. My work was suffering. -There was the unfinished manuscript of <i>The Microbe</i> -staring reproachfully at me. Then to crown all, just -as I was sitting down in the early evening with grim -determination to finish the letter, suddenly I was assailed -by a Craving.</p> - -<p>Indulgent Reader, up till now I have concealed it, -but I must confess at last. I have one besetting weakness, -a weakness that amounts to a vice. I am ashamed -of it. Often I have tried to wean myself of it; often -cursed the heredity that imposed it on me. Opium? -Morphine? Cocaine? Nothing so fashionable. Absinthe? -Brandy? Gin? Nothing so normal. Alas! -let me whisper it in your ear: I am a Chewing Gum -Fiend!</p> - -<p>So feeling in my pocket for the stuff, and finding<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span> -none, I straightway began to crave it as never before. -Then, knowing there would be no peace for me, I left -my letter and started desperately forth into that fog -stifled city.</p> - -<p>And that fog was now a FOG. It irked the lungs, -and made the eye-balls tingle. Each street lamp was -a sulphurous blur, each radiant shop-window a furtive -blotch of light. It seemed something solid, something -you could cut into slices, and serve between bread—a -very Camembert cheese of a fog.</p> - -<p>So into this woolly obscurity I plunged, and like a -Mackinaw blanket it entangled me about. Bleary -boxes of light the tramways crawled along. There were -tootings of taxis, curses of cabbies, clanging of bells. -The streets were lanes of mystery, the passers weird -shadows; the shop-windows seemed to be made of horn -instead of glass. Then the green and red lights of a -chemist’s semaphored me, seemingly from a great distance, -but really from just a few feet away. So there -I bought six packets of chewing gum, and started home.</p> - -<p>But at this point I found the fog fuzzier than ever. -I stumbled and fumbled, and wondered and blundered, -till presently I found myself standing before the great -doors of a theatre. For the moment I was too discouraged -to go further, and the performance was about -to begin. Ha! that <i>was</i> an idea! I would enter. -Then I groaned in spirit, for I saw that the theatre -was Drury Lane. Sensational melodrama! Ah, no! -Better the cold and cruel street. But the fog was inexorable. -Three times did I try to break through it; -three times did it hurl me back on the melodramatic -mercies of Drury Lane.</p> - -<p>Hanging over the front of the gallery, I asked myself:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span> -“Who are these hundreds of well-dressed people -who fill this great playhouse? To all appearance they -are intelligent beings, yet I cannot imagine intelligent -beings taking this kind of thing seriously. As burlesque -it’s funny, and the more thrilling it gets the funnier -it is. Yet, except myself, no one seems to laugh. -How the author must have chuckled over his fabrication! -However, let me credit him with one haunting -line, one memorable sentiment, delivered by the heroine -to a roar of applause:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“A woman’s most precious jewel is her good name,</div> -<div class="verse">And her brightest crown the love of her husband!”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Then suddenly a light flashed on me. It was these -people who bought my books; it was this sort of -thing I had been peddling to them so long. And they -liked it. How they howled for more! “O ye gods -of High Endeavour!” I groaned, “heap not my sins -of melodrama on my head.”</p> - -<p>Conscience-stricken I did not wait for the climax -where two airships grapple in the sky, under the guns -of a “Dreadnought,” while at a crossing an auto -dashes into a night express. I sneaked out between -the acts, and sought the solitude of the Thames Embankment.</p> - -<p>The fog had cleared now, and the clock of St. -Stephen’s pealed till I counted the stroke of midnight. -The wall of the Embankment was a barrier of grime, -the river a thing of mystery and mud. It was a gruesome -night. Even the huge electrically-limned Highlandman -on the opposite shore, who drinks whiskey -with such enviable capacity, had ceased for the nonce -his luminous libations.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>A few human waifs shuffled past me, middle-aged -men with faces pale as dough, and discouraged moustaches -drooping over negligible chins. Their clothes, -green with age and corroded with mud, seemed to flap -emptily on their meagre frames. A woman separated -herself from a mass of shadow, a miry-skirted scarecrow -crowned with a broken bonnet. With one red -claw she clutched a precious box of matches.</p> - -<p>“For Gord’s syke buy it orf me, mister. I ain’t -myde tupp’nce oipney orl dye.”</p> - -<p>I left her staring at a silver coin and testing it with -her teeth.</p> - -<p>Yes, it was a bad night to be out in, a bad night to -cower on these bitter benches waiting for the dawn. -Yet I myself was conscious of the <i>chauffage central</i> of -peripatetic philanthropy. Greedily I panted for other -opportunities to enjoy the glow of giving. Then, as I -was passing Cleopatra’s Needle, I heard the sound of a -woman’s sob.</p> - -<p>It came from the gloomy gruesomeness between the -Needle and the Thames. I peered and listened. Below -me the hideous river chuckled, and the lamplight fell -lividly on the whiteness of a lifebuoy bound to the wall. -Again I was sure I heard that sound of piteous sobbing.</p> - -<p>Bravery is often a lack of imagination: I have imagination -plus, so I hesitated. I had heard of men being -lured into traps. Vividly enough I saw myself a cadaver -drifting on the tide, and I liked not the picture. -Yet after all it takes tremendous courage to be a coward, -so I drew nearer. Strange! the sobbing, so low, -so pitiful, had ceased. It was followed by a silence far -more sinister. There was a vibrating agony in that -silence, a horrible, heart-clutching suspense. What if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span> -I were to go down there and find—no one? Yet -some one had been, I would swear; some one had sobbed, -and now—silence.</p> - -<p>Slowly, slowly I descended the steps. There in the -black shadow of the Needle I made little noise, yet—suddenly -I began to wonder if all the world could not -hear the beating of my heart....</p> - -<p>Heart be still! hand be steady! foot be swift! -There, crouching on the top of the wall, gazing downward, -ready for the leap, I see the figure of a woman. -Will she jump before I can reach her? I hold my -breath. Nearer I steal, nearer, nearer. Then—one -swift rush—ah! I have her.</p> - -<p>Even as I clutched I felt her weight sag towards the -river. Another moment and I had dragged her back -into safety. Tense and panting, I stared at her; then, -as the lamplight fell on her ghastly face I uttered a -cry of amazement. Heavens above! it was the girl of -the entomological meal-ticket, the persistent pedestrian -of Tavistock Square.</p> - -<p>There she cowered, looking at me with great, terror -dilated eyes. There I glowered, regarding her grimly -enough. At last I broke the silence.</p> - -<p>“Child! Child! why did you do it? You’ve gone -and spoilt my story. I should never have met you like -this. It’s coincidence. Coincidence, you know, can’t -happen in fiction, only in real life. You can’t be fiction -now. You’ll have to be real life.”</p> - -<p>She gazed at me blankly. Against the green of the -wall her face was a vague splash of white.</p> - -<p>“But that is a matter with which I can scarcely -reproach you. What I would like to know is why were -you on the top of that wall? Having severely strained<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span> -my right arm, I conceive I am entitled to an explanation.”</p> - -<p>She did not make an effort to supply one, so after -a pause I continued:</p> - -<p>“No doubt you will say it was because you were -tired, hungry, homeless. Because you thought the -river kinder than the cruel world. Because you said: -‘Death is better than dishonour!’”</p> - -<p>The girl nodded vaguely.</p> - -<p>“Ah no!” I said sadly; “you must not say these -things, for if you do you will be quoting word for word -the heroine of my novel <i>A Shirtmaker’s Romance</i>. You -will be guilty of plagiarism, my child; and what’s -worse, a thousand times worse, you will be guilty of -melodrama.”</p> - -<p>She looked at me as if she thought me mad, then a -shudder convulsed her, and breaking away, she dashed -down the steps to that black water. Just in time I -caught her and dragged her back. She shrank against -the wall, hiding her face, sobbing violently.</p> - -<p>“Please don’t,” I entreated. “If you want to give -me a chance of doing the rescuing hero business choose -a less repellent evening, and water not so like an animated -cesspool. Now, listen to me.”</p> - -<p>Her sobbing ceased. She was a silent huddle of black -against the wall.</p> - -<p>“I am,” I said, “a waif like yourself, homeless, -hungry, desperate. I came to this city to win fame -and fortune. Poor dreaming fool! Little did I know -that where one wins a thousand fail. Well, I’ve -struggled, starved even as you’ve done; but I’ve made -up my mind to suffer no more. And so to-night I’ve -come down here, even as you’ve done, to end it all.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>I had her listening now. From the white mask of -her face her big eyes devoured me.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my poor girl,” I went on wearily, “you’re -right. Life for such as us is better ended. Defeated, -desperate, what is there left for us but death? Let -us then die together; but not your way—no, that’s -too primitive. I have another, more fascinating, more -original. Ah! even in self-destruction, behold in me -the artist. And I am going to allow you to share my -doom. Nay! do not trouble to express your gratitude. -I understand; it’s too deep for words. And now, just -excuse me one moment: I will prepare.”</p> - -<p>With that I went over to the base of the Needle -and taking from my pocket the five remaining packets -of chewing gum, I tore the paper from them. Then -with the large piece I had been masticating, I welded -them into a solid stick about six inches long. Eagerly -I returned to her.</p> - -<p>“There!” I cried triumphantly. “Do you know -what this grey stick is? But why should you? Well, -let me tell you. This dull, sugary-looking stuff is <i>dynamite</i>, -dynamite in its most concentrated form. This is -a stick of the terrific <span class="smcap">Pepsinite</span>. It has moved more -than any explosive known. Now do you understand?”</p> - -<p>Her eyes were rivetted on the little grey stick.</p> - -<p>“Ah, well may you shudder, girl! There’s enough -in this tiny piece to blow a score of us to atoms, to -bring this mighty monument careening down, to make -the embankment look like an excavation for the underground -railway. Oh, is it not glorious? Pepsinite!”</p> - -<p>Still looking at it as if fascinated, she made a movement -of utter alarm.</p> - -<p>“Just think of it,” I whispered gloatingly; “in two<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> -more minutes we shall be launched into eternity. Does -that not thrill you with rapture? And think of our -revenge! Here with our death we will destroy their -monument, hard as their hearts, black as their selfishness, -sharp as their scorn. It, too, will be blown to -pieces.”</p> - -<p>She looked up at the black column almost as if she -were sorry for it. I laughed harshly.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know. You do not hate the Needle, but -just think of the people who are so proud of it, the -devils who have goaded us to this. At first I thought -that with my death I would destroy their Albert Memorial, -and so break their philistine hearts. But that -would have taken so much pepsinite, and I have only -this pitiful piece. So it had to be the Needle.”</p> - -<p>Again she seemed almost to regret its impending -doom.</p> - -<p>“And now,” I cried, “the time has come. Oh, curse -you, curse you, vast vain-glorious city! Under the -Upas window of your smoke what dreams have withered, -what idols turned to clay! How many hearts of splendid -pride have failed and fallen! How many poets -cursed thy publishers and died! Oh heedless, heartless -London!”</p> - -<p>With a gesture full of noble scorn I shook my fist in -the direction of the Savoy Hotel. Then I changed to -another key.</p> - -<p>“But no, let me not curse you, great city! Here at -the gateway of death let me envisage you again, and -from the depths of the heart you have broken say to -you sadly: ‘London, ruthless, splendid London, I forgive!’”</p> - -<p>My hand quivered as I laid the grey stick at the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span> -base of the monument; my hand trembled as I planted -a large wax match in it; my hand positively shook -as I struck another match and applied a light to the -upright one. With eyes dilated I stared at the tiny -flickering flame, and at that moment, so worked up -was I, I will swear I thought I was looking at the very -flame of death.</p> - -<p>“Come closer, closer girl,” I gasped. “See it burning -down, down. Soon it will reach the end and we -will know nothing. Oh is it not glorious—nothing! -Good-bye world, good-bye life ... see! it is nearly -half way. Oh gracious flame, burn faster, faster yet! -And now, girl, standing here in the shadow of death -do not refuse my last request; let me kiss you once, -just once upon your brow.”</p> - -<p>For answer she stooped swiftly and blew out the -match.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER X<br /> - -THE YOUNG MAN WHO MAKES GOOD</h3> -</div> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Why</span> did you do it?” I demanded angrily. “Why -couldn’t we have gone through with it?”</p> - -<p>Then for the first time the girl seemed to find her -voice, and it was a very faint voice indeed.</p> - -<p>“No, no, I could not. For myself it does not mattaire; -but you, monsieur—that’s different.”</p> - -<p>Again I was struck with her foreign intonation, her -pretty precision with which Frenchwomen speak English, -the deliberate utterance due to an effort, not -wholly successful, to avoid zeeing and zizzing.</p> - -<p>“Why is it so different?” I asked sulkily.</p> - -<p>“Because—because me, I am nossing. If I die no -persons will care; but you, monsieur, you are artist, -you are poet. You have many beautiful sings to do -in the life. Ah, monsieur! have courage, courage. -Promise me you nevaire do it some more.”</p> - -<p>“All right,” I said gloomily; “I promise.”</p> - -<p>She seemed reassured. Her child’s face as she looked -at me was full of pity and sympathy.</p> - -<p>“And now,” I said, “what’s to be done?”</p> - -<p>“I do not know.”</p> - -<p>She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. All at once -a look of terror came into her face. Fearfully she -peered over my shoulder, then she cowered back in the -shadow of the wall.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m ’fraid, I’m ’fraid.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>Involuntarily I turned in the direction of her stare, -but saw no one.</p> - -<p>“What are you afraid of?” I asked. “What’s the -trouble?”</p> - -<p>“It’s Monsieur O’Flazzaire! Oh, I am bad, bad -girls! Why you not let me die? I have keel, I have -keel.”</p> - -<p>“Good Heavens! you haven’t killed Professor -O’Flather?”</p> - -<p>“No, no, but I have keel ze troupe; Batsheba, all, -all; dead, keel by my hand, keel in revenge. Oh I -am so wicked! I hate myself.”</p> - -<p>I stared at her. “In the name of Heaven, what have -you done?”</p> - -<p>For answer she pulled from the pocket of her mantle -a tin canister of fair size and handed it to me. By -the lamplight I could just make out the label:</p> - -<p class="center">SKEETER’S INSECT POWDER.</p> - -<p>A light dawned on me. “You don’t mean to say -you’ve fed ’em on this?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, all of eet. I have spare nossing. I was -mad. Oh I ’ate heem so! And now I’m ’fraid. If he -finds me he will keel me, certainly. He’s bad man. -Oh don’t let heem find me!”</p> - -<p>She clutched my arm in her terror.</p> - -<p>“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “But first, let’s destroy -the evidence of your crime.”</p> - -<p>I flung the canister into the river, where we heard -a faint splash.</p> - -<p>“Now,” I went on, “you’re no doubt cold and -hungry. Let me take you to the coffee-stall on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> -Embankment and give you some supper. Then, according -to the custom of the situation, you may tell me -the sad story of your life. In the meantime, as we -walk there, let’s hear how you fixed O’Flather.”</p> - -<p>“It is true, what I tell you, Monsieur; he’s very, -very bad man. He ’ave said the things disgusting to -me, and he try to make me have dinner wiz heem many -hevenings, but I say: No! No! Because, truly, I have -’orror for such mans. Den last night he tell me if I -don’ come wiz heem, he don’ want me some more. He -refuse pay me my money, and the lady where I rest -tell me: ‘You don’t come back some more wiz no money.’ -So what I must do? I have no ’ome, and just one sheeling -of money. Ah, no! It was not interesting for -me, truly.”</p> - -<p>She shook her head with all the painful resignation -of the poor.</p> - -<p>“Well, I am desperate. I sink it is all finish for me, -I must drink of the gran’ cup at last. That make me -sad, because I have fight so long. But there! it is -the life, is it not? Then I sink I have one gran’ revenge. -I buy wiz my sheeling dat powdaire, and I go to the -exposition. There was only the Japonaise girl, and -she leave me wiz the troupe. They lie on their backs -and they wait for dejeuner. Well, I geeve them such -as I don’ sink they want eat ever again. Oh, I ’ate -them so, and I ’ate heem so, and so I keel them every -one wiz that powdaire, till zere legs don’ wave some -more. Even ze wild ones, they don’ jump some more -now.”</p> - -<p>“Poor Bathsheba!”</p> - -<p>“Then when I finish keel the last one the Japonaise -girl come and scream for the patron, and I run like<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span> -wind. But I know he fetch everywhere for me, and -when he find me he keel me too. Anyway, I was tire, -and I dispair, so I sink I throw myself in the water. -There!”</p> - -<p>“Well, you must swear you won’t do it again.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I swear on the head of my fazzaire, I won’t -do it again.”</p> - -<p>“And now for that coffee, coffee and sandwiches—ham -sandwiches.”</p> - -<p>She ate and drank eagerly, yet always with that -furtive, hunted look, as if she expected to see the huge -bull-dog face of O’Flather with its mane of brindled -hair come snarling out of the gloom. I saw, too, that -she was regarding me with great interest and curiosity, -indeed with a certain maternal and protecting air, odd -in one so childish and clinging herself. Once, seeing -that I shivered a little, she turned up the collar of my -coat and buttoned it. In spite of the mothering gentleness -of the act I might have thought it a little “forward,” -had I not remembered that in her eyes we were -comrades in misfortune.</p> - -<p>Her eyes! How blue and bright they were now, as -they regarded me over her coffee! And how long, I -wondered, had that wistful mouth been a stranger to -smiles?</p> - -<p>“Let me see you smile,” I begged.</p> - -<p>I thought so. A flash of teeth that made me think -of an advertising poster for a popular dentifrice. -Again I noted the darkness of her hair, setting off the -porcelain whiteness of her skin. Again I approved of -the full forehead, and the frank eyebrows. Again the -girl stirred me strangely. And to think that she might -have been at the bottom of that hideous river by now!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span> -I felt a sudden pity for her, and a wish to shield her -from further ill.</p> - -<p>“And now for the story,” I said, as she finished. -“I have told you mine, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, mine! It is not so interesting. There is not -much to tell. My fazzaire die when I was leetle girl, -and I go to the convent. There I learn to do the <i>hem-broderie</i>, -and when I leave the Sisters I work in atalier -in Paris. It was so hard. We work from eight by the -morning till seven at night. There was t’irty girl all -in one leetle room, and some girls was <i>poitrinaire</i>.”</p> - -<p>“What’s that?”</p> - -<p>“Ah ... what you call it—yes, consumption. -Well, I begin to become that no more can I stand it, -so I come to Londres and try to get work. Every day -I try so ’ard for one month, for I can speak English not -much. Then just as I have no money left I get work -in atalier at the <i>hem-broderie</i>. It was not so ’ard as in -Paris, and I was very ’appy. But pretty soon I am -seek, and it is necessaire I go to the hospital. It was -the appendicite. When I get out I try to get back -to the atalier, but my place have been fill. No work, -no money—truly, I have no chance.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what happened then?”</p> - -<p>“Ah! then it was not interesting. I often go very -hungry. I live for many days on bread, just bread. -But by and by I get more work. Then again I am -very ’appy. But I have no chance. I become seek -once more. I have headache very much; my hair tumble -out, and every night I cry. But I try very ’ard. -I must keep my work, I must, I must. Then the doctor -tell me I must have more air. I must <i>respire</i>. I -tell him it is not for the poor to <i>respire</i>, and he say<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> -you must do something outside, or you will die. Well, -I leave the atalier and for two months I fetch somesing -outside. But I have no chance. Once more my money -is finish, then one day I get work with Monsieur O’Flazzaire. -I would not have taken it, but that I am starve, -and I am ’fraid. It was so ’ard, and every day I get -more weak. Then, yesterday, he tell me: ‘Go! -I don’ pay you,’—and I don’ care for myself any -more.”</p> - -<p>“Why,” I said gravely, looking her in the face, -“did you not do as others would have done?”</p> - -<p>She stared at me in a startled way:</p> - -<p>“You do not mean dishonour, monsieur. Ah no! -You cannot mean that.”</p> - -<p>“Is it not better to do that than starve?”</p> - -<p>“It is better to die than to do that, I sink. I am -good Catholic, Monsieur.”</p> - -<p>“Do not call me Monsieur! Are we not fellow waifs? -So you think it is less sin to take your own life than to -sell your honour?”</p> - -<p>“It is that that I think, Monsieur.”</p> - -<p>As I looked into the steady, blue eyes I saw a look -of faith that almost amounted to fanaticism, a sort of -Joan of Arc look. “How curious!” I thought. “I -was under the impression such sentiments were confined -to books.” However, I determined to fall back on -cynicism, and to seem the more cynical I lit a cigarette. -She watched me with a curious intensity; and as she -stood there quietly, a naphtha lamp lit up her pale, -earnest face.</p> - -<p>“Ah! young lady,” I remarked mockingly, “you -speak like a penny novelette. In fact, you say the same -thing as did my heroine Monica Klein in <i>A Shirtmaker’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> -Romance</i>. It only remains for you to die to -slow music in the snow outside the door of a fashionable -church. That’s what happened to Monica. I shed a -bucket of tears as I wrote that scene. But I thought -we had decided you were to be Fact not Fiction?”</p> - -<p>“I do not understand, Monsieur.”</p> - -<p>“Then let me explain. Idealism is a luxury we poor -people can’t afford. If you should be forced into dishonour -for bread, lives there a man that would dare -blame you? To me you would be as good as the -purest woman, even though you walk the streets. -Nay! I’m not sure that you wouldn’t be better, because -you would be a victim, a sacrifice, a martyr. -No, you’re wrong, mademoiselle. I think you’re -wrong.”</p> - -<p>“It is easy to die; it must be ’ard to live like zat.”</p> - -<p>“How lucky you find it so easy to die. Me, I’d -rather be a live lackey than a dead demi-god. But -let me tell you you won’t get much credit in this world -for dying in the cause of virtue, and I have my doubts -about the next. And it doesn’t seem to me to make -much odds whether you die quickly, as you intended -doing a little while ago, or whether you die slowly by -hard work and poor living. Society’s going to do for -you anyway. You’re Waste, that’s what you are. In -every process there must be waste, even in the civilising -one. You’re going to be swept into the rubbish heap -pretty soon. Poor pitiful Waste! What do you mean -to do now?”</p> - -<p>Her face fell sullenly. She would not look at me any -more, but she answered bravely enough.</p> - -<p>“Me! Oh, I suppose I try again. Perhaps I starve. -Perhaps I find work. Anyway, I fight.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>“What chance have you got—a poor physique, -hard toil, bad air, cheap food. You’ll go on fighting -till you fall, then no one will care. If it’s fighting -you’re after, why don’t you fight Society, fight with -your women’s weapons, your allure, your appeal to -the worst in man. You can do it. Any woman can -if she’s determined and forgets certain scruples. Do -as I would in your case, as many men would if they -had the cursed ill-luck to be women. Then, when -you’re sixty you can turn round and have a pew -in church, instead of rotting at thirty in Potter’s -Field.”</p> - -<p>“You advice me like zat?” I could feel that she -shrank from me.</p> - -<p>“Doesn’t it seem good, practical advice?”</p> - -<p>“Suppose no one want me?”</p> - -<p>“True. There’s many a woman guarding ever so -jealously a jewel no man wants to steal. That’s almost -more bitter than having it stolen. However, don’t you -worry about that, there’s no need to.”</p> - -<p>She raised her head which had been down-hung. Intently, -oddly she looked at me.</p> - -<p>“Will you take me?” she said suddenly.</p> - -<p>“Me!” I laughed. “Why no! I’m speaking as -one wastrel to another. How could I?”</p> - -<p>“Would you if you could?”</p> - -<p>“Well, er—I don’t think so. You see—I’m not -that sort.”</p> - -<p>“No, I knew you were not,” she said slowly; “you’re -good man.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not,” I protested indignantly. How one hates -to be called “good”—especially if one is a woman.</p> - -<p>“Yes, you are,” she insisted. Then she threw back<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span> -her head with a certain fine pride, and the dark sea-blue -eyes were unfathomable.</p> - -<p>“You have saved my life. It is yours now. Will -you not take me? I am good girl. I have always -been serious, I have always been virtuous. I will work -hard for you. I will help you while you are so poor; -zen if one day you are become rich, famous, and you -are tire of me, I will go away.”</p> - -<p>I was taken aback. If there’s one thing worse than -to be convicted of vice it’s to be convicted of virtue. -I squirmed, stammered, shuffled.</p> - -<p>“Well, you see I— Hang it all! somewhere in my -make-up there’s that uncomfortable possession, a Puritan -conscience. I’m sorry—let me consider.... Perhaps -there’s another way.”</p> - -<p>How terrible to a woman to have the best she has -to offer refused; but the girl bore up bravely.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” she asked, without any particular -interest.</p> - -<p>I was doing some rapid thinking. An idea had come -into my head which startled me. It was an inspiration, -a solution of a pressing problem. Swiftly I decided.</p> - -<p>“To do as you suggest,” I said, “would be very -wrong, and what’s worse, it would be crudely conventional. -It is commonplace now in some society to live -with a person without marrying them; the original -thing’s to marry them. Well, will you marry me?”</p> - -<p>She looked at me incredulously. I went on calmly.</p> - -<p>“But for me, as you say, your troubles would by -now have been over. In a way I’m responsible for your -life. What’s to be done? I’m not old enough to adopt -you, and to constitute myself your guardian would lay<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span> -me open to uncharitable suspicion. From now on I -know I shall be infernally worried about you. Well, -the easiest way out of the difficulty seems to be to marry -you, doesn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t know me,” she gasped.</p> - -<p>“You’ve got ‘nothing on me’ there,” I said airily; -“you don’t know me. That’s precisely what makes -it so interesting. Any man can marry a woman he -knows; it takes an original to marry one he doesn’t. -But after all, has not the method some merit? We -start with no illusions. There will be no eye-opening -process, no finding our swans geese. The beauty of -such a marriage is that we don’t entirely ring down the -curtain on romance.”</p> - -<p>“But—I have no money.”</p> - -<p>“Neither have I. What does that matter? Any -fool can marry if he’s got money; it takes a brave man -to do it if he’s broke.”</p> - -<p>“But—”</p> - -<p>“Not another word. It’s all settled. I think it’s a -splendid idea. We’ll be married to-morrow if possible. -I’ll get a licence at once. By the way, what’s your -name? It’s of no consequence, you know, but I fancy -it’s necessary for the licence.”</p> - -<p>“Anastasia Guinoval.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you. Now I’ll take you to where you live, -and you must accept a little money to satisfy your -landlady. To-morrow I’ll call for you. Hold on a -minute—as we’re affianced, seems to me we ought to -kiss?”</p> - -<p>“I—don’t know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I believe it’s customary.” I pecked at her -lightly in the dark. “Now, you understand we’re making<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> -a real sensible marriage, without any sentimental -nonsense about it. You understand I’m not a sentimental -man. I hate sentiment.”</p> - -<p>“I understand,” she said doubtfully.</p> - -<p>As we moved away, up there in the dark that great -sonorous bell boomed the stroke of one. Only an -hour, yet how busy had the fates been on my particular -account! In what ludicrous ways had they worked out -their design! On what trivial things does destiny seem -to hinge! Ah! who shall say what is trivial?</p> - -<p>On reaching my room my first act was to take up -my half-finished letter to Mrs. Fitz. I read the words: -“If ever we should find ourselves free to marry, you -promised you would send for me.”</p> - -<p>“Good!” I cried exultantly. “She will find herself -free to marry all right, but I won’t; that is, I hope I -won’t after to-morrow. Whoever could have guessed -the motive behind my apparently rash proposal. To -avoid one marriage I stake my chances on another. -Well, that settles things as far as Mrs. Fitz is concerned. -Ronnie and Lonnie, I defy you.”</p> - -<p>So I tore my letter into small pieces with a vast -satisfaction, and I was proceeding to tear also the -luckless copy of the <i>Gotham Gazette</i> when I paused. -I had not noticed that the fateful paragraph, begun -near the bottom of a page, was continued on the next. -Again I read:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“... when the nearest spectators could reach him to -rescue him from his perilous position they found to their -surprise that the man was dead....”</p> -</div> - -<p>Quickly I turned over the page; then I gave a gasp, -for this was the continuation:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>“... to the world. The gallant captain had been imbibing -not wisely but too well, and when aroused after some -difficulty, claimed that he had a right to sleep there if he -chose. It was only after much argument and resistance -that he was finally persuaded to accompany an officer to -the police station.”</p> -</div> - -<p>“Of all the—”</p> - -<p>Words failed me at this point. I plumped down on -my chair and sat as if paralysed. And after all the -captain was not dead—only dead drunk, and my -brilliant effort to avoid marrying his widow had been -entirely unnecessary. Then after all I was a fool.</p> - -<p>Well, it was too late to find it out. At least I never -went back on my word. I must go through with the -other business.</p> - -<p>“Anastasia Guinoval! Hum! maybe it’ll turn out -all right. Time will show. Anyway—it will be a -good chance to learn French.”</p> - -<p>And with this comforting reflection I went to bed.</p> - -<p class="center">END OF BOOK I</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">BOOK II—THE STRUGGLE</h2> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I<br /> - -THE NEWLY-WEDS</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was nearly a week before I recovered from the surprise -of my sudden marriage.</p> - -<p>As far as the actual ceremony went it seemed as if -I were the person least concerned. One, James Horace -Madden, was tying himself in the most awkward manner -to a member of the opposite sex, a slight, pale, -neatly-dressed girl whose lucent blue eyes were already -beginning to regard him with positive adoration. The -said James Horace Madden, a tall, absent-minded young -man, stared about him continually. He was, indeed, -more like a curious and amused spectator than a principal -in the affair, and it was nearly over before he decided -to become interested in it.</p> - -<p>Well, I was married, so they told me, as they shook -my hand; and I had a wife, so she assured me as she -clung lightly to my arm. She seemed extravagantly -happy. When I saw she was so happy I was glad I -had married her. To tell the truth, I had almost -backed out. The inconsiderateness of Captain Fitzbarrington -in not dying had hurt my feelings and -aroused in me a resentment against Fate. In the -end, however, good nature prevailed. I believe I am -good-natured enough to marry a dozen women should -occasion demand.</p> - -<p>We had not been wed five minutes before Anastasia<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span> -developed an extraordinary capacity, for unreserved -affection. I have never been capable of unreserved -affection, not even for myself; but I can appreciate -it in others, particularly if I am the object of it. She -also developed such a morbid fear of the infuriate -O’Flather that on my suggesting we spend our honeymoon -in Paris her enthusiasm was almost grotesque. -When we arrived at the Gare du Nord I believe she -could have knelt down and kissed the very stones.</p> - -<p>And to tell the truth my own delight was hardly -less restrained. There’s only one mood in which to -approach Paris—Rhapsody. So for ten marvellous -days I rhapsodised. The fact that I was on a honeymoon -seemed trivial compared with my presence in -the most adorable of cities. Truly my bride had reason -to be jealous of this Paris, and, as she was given -that way, doubtless she would have been had not she -herself loved so well.</p> - -<p>But there was another matter to distract me: had -I not a new part to play? As a young married man it -behooved me, in the first place, to acquire a certain -seriousness and weight. After due reflexion I decided -to give up the flippant cigarette and take to the more -dignified pipe. So I made myself a present of a splendid -meerschaum, and getting Anastasia to encase the -bowl in a flannel jacket I began to colour it.</p> - -<p>Imagine me, then, on a certain snappy morning of -late December, nursing my flannel-clad meerschaum as -I swing jauntily along the Quai des Tournelles. Seasonable -weather! the brilliant sunshine playing on the -Seine with all the glitter of cutlery: beyond the splendid -stride of steel between the two Iles, the Hôtel de -Ville: to the left the hideous Morgue; beyond that,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span> -again, the grey glory of Notre Dame, its bone-blanched -buttresses like the ribs of some uncouth monster, its -two blunt towers like timeworn horns, its gargoyles -etched in ebon black against the sky.</p> - -<p>“After all,” I am reflecting, “the advantages of -marrying a person one does not know are sufficiently -obvious. Then there is no bitterness of disillusionment, -no chagrin of being found out. What woman -can continue to idealise an unshaven man in pyjamas? -What man can persist in adoring a female in a peignoir -with her hair concentrated into knots? In good truth -we never marry the person with whom we go through -the wedding ceremony: it’s always some one else.”</p> - -<p>Here I pause to stare appreciatively at the Fontaine -St. Michel, amid whose icicles the sunbeams play at -hide-and-seek. Then I watch the steam of a tug which -the sunshine tangles in fleeces of gold amid the bare -branches of a marronnier; after which in the same -zestful way I regard a hearty man on a sand-barge -toasting some beef on a sharpened stick over a fire. -Suddenly these humble things seem to become alive with -interest for me.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I continue, “love is an intoxicant, marriage -the most effective of soberers. It is a part of life’s -discipline, a bachelor’s punishment for his sins, a life-long -argument in which one is wise to choose an opponent -one can out-voice. How the fictitious values of -courtship are discounted in the mart of matrimony! -It makes philosophers of us all. Having been a benedict -three weeks, of course I know everything about it.”</p> - -<p>The long slate-grey façade of the Louvre is sun-radiant, -and like a point of admiration rears the Tower -St. Jacques. Looking down the shining river the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span> -arches of the many bridges interlock like lacework, -and like needles the little steamers dart gleaming -through. The graceful river and the gleaming quays -laugh in the sunshine, and as I look at them my heart -laughs too.</p> - -<p>“But,” I go on musingly, “to marry some one you -don’t know, some one who has never inspired you with -mad dreams, never lived for you in the glamour of -romance: surely that is ideal. You have no illusions; -her virtues as well as her faults are all to discover. -Take my own case. So far, I haven’t discovered a -single fault. My wife adores me. She can scarcely -bear me out of her sight. Even now I know she’s -anxiously awaiting my return; imagines I may have -been run over by a taxi, and then arrested by a policeman -for getting in its way. Or else I have a <i>maîtresse</i>. -Frequently she shows signs of jealousy, and I’ve been -away over an hour. Really I must hurry home to -reassure her.”</p> - -<p>With that I pass under the arch of the Institute, and -turn up the rue de Seine. I glance with eager interest -at the gorgelike rue Visconti; I itch to turn over the -folios before the doors of the art dealers, but on I go -stubbornly till I come to a doorway bearing the sign:</p> - -<p class="center">HÔTEL DU MONDE ET DU MOZAMBIQUE.</p> - -<p>A certain tenebrous suggestion in the vestibule -seems to account for the latter part of the title. It -is a tall, decrepit building that at some time had been -sandwiched between two others of more stalwart bearing -who now support it. It consists chiefly of a winding -stairway lit by lamps of oil. At every stage two<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> -rooms seem to happen; but they are so small as to appear -accidental.</p> - -<p>So up this precipitous stairway lightly I leap till I -come to the third storey. There before a yellow door -I knock three times.</p> - -<p>“Come in!” cries a joyful voice, and I enter to find -two soft arms around my neck, and two soft lips upheld -expectantly.</p> - -<p>“Hullo, Little Thing,” I shout cheerily.</p> - -<p>“Oh, darleen, why you not come before? You -affright me. I sink you have haxident, and I am -anxieuse.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, I’ve only been gone an hour. I’ve had -several narrow escapes, though. Nearly got blown into -the Seine, was attacked by an Apache in the Avenue de -l’Opera, and, stepping off the pavement to avoid going -under a ladder, was knocked down by a taxi. But -no bones broken; got home at last.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! you laugh; but me, I wait here and I sink -all the time you was keel. Oh, darleen! if you was keel -I die too.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense! You’d make rather a jolly little widow. -Well, what else have you been doing, besides worrying -about me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I make blouse. I sink it will be very pretty. -You will see.”</p> - -<p>“All right, we’ll put it on and go to the opera to-night.”</p> - -<p>The “opera” is a cinema house near the Place St. -Michel, where we go on rainy evenings, usually in our -oldest clothes, and joking merrily about opera cloaks -and evening dress.</p> - -<p>“See! Isn’t it nice?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>She holds up a shimmering sketch in silk and pins. -“It’s the chiffon you geeve me. But you must not -spend your money like that. You spoil me.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. But talking about money reminds me: -I got my English gold changed to-day. Now, let’s -form a committee of ways and means. Here is all that -lies between you and me and the wolf.”</p> - -<p>I throw a wad of flimsy French bills on the table.</p> - -<p>“A thousand francs! Now that’s got to last us till -some Editor realises that certain gems of literature -signed ‘Silenus Starset’ are worth real money.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, they are loovely, darleen, your writings. No -one will refuse articles so beautiful.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, you can’t conceive the intensity of editorial -obfustication. I fear we’ve got to retrench. -You must make the ‘economies.’”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, that is easy for me. I know nussing but -make the economies. You see it is the chance often if -I have anysing to make the economies on.”</p> - -<p>“Good! Well, the first thing is to get out of this -hotel. We can’t afford palatial luxury at five francs -a day.”</p> - -<p>And here I look with some distaste at the best bedroom -the Hôtel du Monde et du Mozambique affords. -I see a fat, high bed of varnished pine, on which reposes -a bloated crimson quilt. On the mantelpiece a glass -bell enshrines a clock of gilt and chocolate-coloured -marble. There is a paunchy, inhospitable chair of -green plush, and two of apologetic cane. An oval table -is covered by a fringed cloth of crimson velour, and -there is a mirror in two sections, which, by an ingenious -system of distortion immediately makes one hate oneself—one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span> -either looks mentally abnormal, or about as -intelligent as a caveman.</p> - -<p>“In truth,” I observe, “the decorative scheme of -our apartment puzzles me. Whether it is Empire or -Louis Quinze I cannot decide. Really, we must seek -something less complex.”</p> - -<p>She looks at the money thoughtfully. “We might -take a <i>logement</i>. Already have I think of it. To-day -I have ask Madame who keep the hotel, and she tell -me zere is one very near—rue Mazarin. The rent is -five hundred by year. Perhaps it is too much,” she -adds timidly.</p> - -<p>“No, I think we might allow that. We pay three -months in advance, I suppose. Allow other three hundred -francs for furnishing—do you think we could -manage on that?”</p> - -<p>She looks doubtful. “Not very nice; but we will -do for the best. I will be so careful.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, we’ll arrange somehow. We’ll then have five -hundred francs for food and other things. We must -make that last for three months. By that time I’m sure -to be making something out of my writings. Five hundred -francs for two people for three months isn’t much, -is it?”</p> - -<p>“No, but we will take very much care, darleen. I -do not care for myself; it is only for you.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t lose any sleep over me. I’ll be all right if -you will. It will be real fun scheming and dreaming, -and making the best of everything. We’ll see how -much happiness we can squeeze out of every little sou; -we’ll get to know the joys and sorrows of the poor. -They say that Bohemia is vanished; but we’ll prove<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> -that wherever there is striving and the happy heart in -spite of need, wherever there is devotion to art in the -face of poverty, there eternally is Bohemia. Hurrah! -how splendid to be young and poor and to have our -dreams!”</p> - -<p>I laugh exultantly, and the girl enters into my joyous -mood.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she says, “we shall be gay. As for me, I -will buy a <i>métier</i>. I will work at my <i>hem-broderie</i>. I -will make leetle money like that. Oh, not much, but -it will assist. So we will be all right.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I cry, enamoured of the vision. “And -when success does come, how we will glory in it! How -good will seem the feast after the fast! Ah! but sometimes, -when we have our house near the Bois, will we not -look back with regret to the days when we struggled and -rejoiced there in our tiny Mansard of Dreams?”</p> - -<p>I pause for a moment, while my kinematographic -imagination begins to work. I go on dramatically:</p> - -<p>“Then some day of December twilight, when the -snow is falling, I will steal away from the flunkies and -the marble halls, and go down to look at the old windows -now so blind and dead. And as I stand wrapped in -mournful reverie and a five hundred franc overcoat, -suddenly I hear a soft step. There in the dusk I am -aware of a shadowy form also gazing up at the poor -old windows. Lo! it is you, and there are tears in -your eyes. You too have slipped away from the marble -halls to sentimentalise over the old home. Then we -embrace, and, calling the limousine, whirl off to dinner -at the Café de la Paix.... But that reminds -me—let’s go to <i>déjeûner</i>. Where shall it be—<i>chez</i> -Voisin, Foyet, or Laperouse?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>It turns out to be at the sign of the Golden Snail in -the neighbourhood of the Markets, where for one franc -seventy-five we have an elaborate choice of <i>hors-de-œuvres</i>, -some meat that we strongly suspect to be horse, -big white beans, a bludgeon of highly-glazed bread, a -wedge of mould-sheathed Camembert (which she eats -with joy, but which I cannot be induced to touch), -and some purple wine that puts my teeth on edge. Yet, -as I sit there with a large damp napkin on my knee and -my feet in the saw-dust of the floor, I am superlatively -happy.</p> - -<p>“It is very extravagant,” I say, as I recklessly order -coffee. “You know there are places where we can -have <i>déjeûner</i> for one franc fifty, or even for one franc -twenty-five. Just think of it! We might have saved -a whole franc on this meal.”</p> - -<p>“We save much more than that, when we have -<i>ménage</i>. It will cost so little then. You will see.”</p> - -<p>“Will it really? Come on, then, and let’s have a -look at your apartment. It may be taken just ten -minutes before we get there. They always are.”</p> - -<p>Off we go as eager as children, and with rising excitement -we reach the mouldering rue Mazarin. We -reconnoitre a gloomy-looking building entered by a -massive, iron-studded door. Through a tunnel-like -porch-way we see a tiny court in the centre of which -is a railed space about six feet square. Within it stand -a few pots of dead geraniums and a weather-stained -plaster-cast of Bellona, thus achieving an atmosphere -of both nature and art.</p> - -<p>The corpulent concierge emerges from her cubby-hole.— Yes, -she will show us the apartment. There -has been a Monsieur to see it that very morning. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span> -has been undecided whether to take it or not, but will -let her know in the morning.</p> - -<p>This makes us keen to secure it, and it is almost with -a determination to be pleased that we mount five flights -of dingy stairs. A faded carpet accompanies us as far -as the fourth flight, then deserts us in disgust.</p> - -<p>Nothing damps our ardour, however. We decide -that the smallness of the two rooms is a decided advantage, -the view into the mildewed court quaint and -charming, the fact that water is obtained from a common -tap on the landing no particular detriment. The -girl, pleased that I am pleased, becomes enthusiastic. -It will be her first home. Her heart warms to it. -Scant as it is, no other will ever be quite so dear. With -the eye of fancy she sees its bareness clad and comforted. -Poor lonely house! Seeing the light ashine -in the wistful blue eyes, I too become enthusiastic, and -thus we inspire each other.</p> - -<p>“It’s a dear little apartment,” I say. “How lucky -we are to have stumbled on it. I’m going to take it -at once. We’ll pay the first quarter’s rent right now.”</p> - -<p>“You must geeve somesing to the concierge,” she -whispers as I pay.</p> - -<p>“Ah, I see! a sop to Cerebus. All right.”</p> - -<p>“How much you geeve?”</p> - -<p>“Twenty francs.”</p> - -<p>“Mon Dieu! Twenty francs! Ten was enough. -She sink now we are made of money.”</p> - -<p>Anastasia is always ready to remind me that we have -entered on a <i>régime</i> of economy. She seems to have -made up her mind that, like all Americans, I have no -idea of the value of money, and that as a thrifty and -prudent woman of the most thrifty and prudent race<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> -in the world, it behooves her to keep a close hand on -the purse strings. I am just like a child, she decides, -and she must look after me like a mother.</p> - -<p>What a busy week it is! She takes into her own -hands the furnishing of our home, calculating every -sou, pondering every detail. Time after time we prowl -past the furnishing shops on the Avenue du Maine, -trying to decide what we had best take. There is a -novel pleasure in this. Thus I am absurdly pleased -when, on our deciding to take a table at twenty-two -francs, I find a place where I can buy exactly the same -for twenty-one.</p> - -<p>We save money on the cleaning of the house by doing -it ourselves. There is the floor to wax and polish. For -the latter operation I sit down on a pad of several -thicknesses of flannel, then she, catching my feet, pulls -me around on the slippery surface till it shines like -a mirror. We are very proud of that glossy floor, and -regard our work almost with reverence, stepping on it -as one might the sacred carpet of Mecca.</p> - -<p>Then comes the furnishing. First, there is the bedroom. -We buy two little beds of the fold-up variety, -and set them side by side. Our bedding, though only -of cotton, is, we decide, softer and nicer than linen -and wool; and the pink quilt that covers both beds, -could, we declare, scarce be told from silk. Our wardrobe—what -is easier than to make a broad shelf about -six feet high, and hang from it chintz curtains behind -which a dozen hooks are screwed into the wall.</p> - -<p>Equally simple are our other arrangements. A -cosy corner can be deftly made of boards and cushions. -She insists on me buying a superannuated armchair, -and she re-covers it, so that it looks like new. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> -selects cheap but dainty curtains, a pretty table-cloth -to hide the rough table, so that you’d never know; a -little buffet, a mirror for the bedroom, pictures for the -walls, kitchen things, table things—really, it’s awful -how much you require for a <i>ménage</i>, and how quickly -in spite of yourself your precious money melts.</p> - -<p>These are the merry days, but at last all is finished—the -first home. What if we have exceeded the margin -a little? Everything is really cosy and comforting.</p> - -<p>“This is an occasion,” I say. “Let us celebrate it.”</p> - -<p>In our little stove, heated to a cherry glow, we -roast our maiden chicken. The first time we put it -on the table it is not quite enough done. We peer at -it anxiously, we probe at it cautiously, finally we decide -to put it back for another quarter of an hour. -But then—ye gods! What a bird! How plump and -brown and savoury! How it sizzles in the amber -gravy! Never, think we, have we tasted fowl so delicious. -We eat it with reverence.</p> - -<p>After that she makes one of the seven-and-thirty -salads of that land of salads; then we have a dish of -<i>petits pois</i>, and we finish off with a great golden <i>brioche</i> -and red currant jam.</p> - -<p>“Now,” I say, “we’ll drink to ourselves, and to our -’appy ’ome; and, by the gods, we’ll drink in champagne!”</p> - -<p>With that I triumphantly produce a half-bottle of -<i>Mousseux</i> that I have been hiding, a graceful bottle -with a cap of gold. Appalling extravagance! <i>Veuve -Amiot!</i> Who could tell it from <i>Veuve Clicquot</i>?—and -it costs only a franc and a half.</p> - -<p>Cut the wire! Watch the cork start up, slowly, -slowly ... then— Pop! away it springs, and smacks<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> -the ceiling. Quickly I fill her a foaming glass, and -we drink to “La France.” After that, sitting over -the fire, we plunge long spongy biscuits into the bubbling -wine that seems to seethe in fierce protest at being -thus tormented. And if you do not think we are as -happy as the joyous liquor we sip, you do not know -Youth and Paris. To conclude the evening, we scurry -off to the Cinema theatre as merry as children.</p> - -<p>Most of the films are American, and what is my -amazement to find that one of them, all cowboys, -breeze, and virtue rewarded, is a cinematisation of -my own book, <i>Rattlesnake Ranch</i>. Yes, there are my -characters—the sheriff’s daughter, Mike the Mule-skinner, -and the rest. A thrill runs down my back, -almost a shiver.</p> - -<p>“How do you like it?” I ask the girl.</p> - -<p>“I love it. I love all sings Americaine now.”</p> - -<p>“Really, it’s awful rubbish. You mustn’t judge -America by things like that.”</p> - -<p>“I love it,” she protests stoutly.</p> - -<p>We get home quite tired; but after she has gone to -bed, I get out my pen and plunge into a new article. -It is called, <i>How to be a Successful Wife</i>.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II<br /> - -THAT MUDDLE-HEADED SANTA CLAUS</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the morning Anastasia always has her <i>ménage</i> to -do. She sweeps till the parquet is like a mirror, and -dusts till not a speck can you find from floor to ceiling. -No priest could take his ministrations more seriously -than Anastasia her daily routine as a <i>femme d’intérieur</i>, -and on these occasions she makes me feel negligible to -the point of humility. So I kiss her, and after being -duly inspected and adjured to take precious care of -myself, I am permitted to depart.</p> - -<p>Oh, these morning walks! How this Paris inspires -and exalts me! The year is closing with a seasonable -brilliancy of starry nights and diamond-bright mornings. -How radiant the sunshine seems as I emerge -from our gloomy porch-way, with its prison-like gate! -The gaunt rue Mazarin is a lane of light, and the -ancient houses, with their inscriptions of honourable -service seem to smile in every wrinkle. Each has a -character of its own. There are some that step disdainfully -back from their fellows, and there are quaint -roofs and unexpected, pokey little windows, and a -dilapidated irregularity that takes one back to the -days of swashbuckling romance.</p> - -<p>At the end of the street I stop to give a penny to the -blind man who stamps his cold feet and holds out his -red hand. On this particular morning he stamps a -little more vigorously than usual, and the red hand is -so numb that it seems insensible to the touch of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> -copper coin. The Seine flashes with light. Upholstered -with its long, slim quays, it looks more than -ever gilt and gracious. Yes, it is cold. The darting -<i>bâteaux-mouche</i> are icicle-fringed, and the guardians -of the few book-bins that are open are muffled to the -ears. I wear no coat, because, except for my old -mackintosh, I do not possess one. I have, however, -bought a long muffler which I wind around my throat, -and allow to flutter behind. People look oddly at me; -because, where the world wears a coat, the coatless -man becomes a mark.</p> - -<p>From the Pont des Arts the river is yellow in colour, -and seethes with slush ice. The sun is poised above -the Institute, whose dome is black against the sky. -The Ile de la Cite is a wedge of high grey houses that -seem to pierce the Pont-Neuf bridge, and protrude in -a green point, dominated by an enormous tree, through -whose branches I can dimly discern the statue of -Henri Quatre. Afar, the sweeping rampart of houses -that overhang the river melts in pearly haze, and the -dim ranges of roofs uprise like an arena amid which I -can see the time-defying towers of Notre Dame and the -piercing delicacy of the spire, as it claims the sun in a -lance of light.</p> - -<p>Here I pause to fill (with reverence) the meerschaum -pipe, which is colouring as coyly as a sunkissed peach. -“What a privilege to live in this adorable Paris!” -I think: “How exasperatingly beautiful!”</p> - -<p>Under the statue of Voltaire I stop for a moment to -regard that enigmatic smile: then I turn to the rue -Bonaparte. The École des Beaux-Arts is disgorging -its students, fantastic little fellows with broad-brimmed -hats and dark, downy faces. Here they come, these<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> -vivacious <i>rapins</i> drawn from all the world by that -mighty magnet, Paris. Art is in the very air. In that -old quadrangle it quivers from each venerable stone. -It challenges at every turn. The shops that line the -street exude it. Since I have come here it is odd how -I have felt its inspiration, so confident and serene, making -me disgusted with everything I have done.</p> - -<p>Striking up the rue de Rennes I come to a doorway -bearing the sign in large letters:</p> - -<p class="center">MONT DE PIETE</p> - -<p>Trust the French to do things gracefully. Now, -if this was a sordid Anglo-Saxon pawnshop I would be -reconnoitring up and down, imagining every one -knew my errand. Then I would sneak upstairs like -a thief trying to dispose of stolen property. But a -Mont de Piété—“here goes!”</p> - -<p>In spite, however, of its benevolent designation I -find this French pawnshop in no way disposed to generosity. -Even the most hardened London pawnbroker -could hardly be more niggard in appraisal of -my silver cigarette case than this polite Mont de Pietist -who offers me twenty francs on it. Twenty! -it is worth eighty; but my French is too rudimentary -for argument, and as twenty francs is not enough for -my purpose I draw forth with a sigh my precious meerschaum -and realise another five francs on that.</p> - -<p>“What does it matter?” I think dolefully. “’Til -the tide turns no more smoking. After all, oh mighty -Nicotine, am I thy slave? Never! Here do I defy -thee! Oh, little pipe, farewell! We’ll meet again, I -trust, in the shade of the mazuma tree.”</p> - -<p>It is now nearly half-past eleven, and already the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> -Parisian mind is turning joyfully to thoughts of <i>déjeûner</i>. -Portly men, to whom eating is a religion are -spurring appetite with <i>apéritif</i>. Within the restaurants -many have already lunched on a sea of Graves and -gravy. “Be it ever so humble,” I decide. “There’s -no cooking like ‘Home.’”</p> - -<p>With which sentiment I pause before a little shop -devoted to the sale of ladies’ furs, and joyfully regard -the object of my journey. It is a large, sleek, glossy -muff of the material known as electric rabbit, and its -price is twenty-five francs. It just matches a long -wrap of Anastasia’s, rather worn out but still nice -looking.</p> - -<p>“How lucky I ran across it yesterday!” I think, as -I hurry joyfully home with the muff under my arm. -“And to-morrow’s Christmas Day too. I don’t mind -giving up tobacco one bit.”</p> - -<p>So many others are hastening home with parcels -under their arms! Such a happy Santa Claus spirit -fills the air! Every one seems so glad-eyed and rosy. -I almost feel sorry for the naked cherubs in the centre -of the basin in the Luxembourg. Icicles encase them -to the toes. Poor little Amours! so pretty in the spring -sunshine, now so forlorn.</p> - -<p>How quietly I let myself into the apartment, I am -afraid she will hear my key scroop in the lock and -run as usual to greet me. Softly I slip into the bedroom -and pushing the parcel into the suitcase I lock -it quickly. Safe!</p> - -<p>“Little Thing!” I shout, but there is no reply.</p> - -<p>I look into the kitchen, into the dining-room, into -the cupboard—no sign of her. Yet often she will -hide in order to jump out on me.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span>“Come out! I know you’re there,” I cry in several -corners. No Little Thing.</p> - -<p>Then I must confess I begin to feel just a wee bit -anxious; when cautiously I hear another key scroop -in the lock. It is Anastasia, and she has evidently been -walking briskly for her eyes are radiant, and a roseleaf -colour flutters in her cheeks. I watch her steal in -just as I have done, holding behind her a largish -parcel.</p> - -<p>“Hullo! What have you got there?”</p> - -<p>She jumps, then tries to conceal the package. Seeing -that it is useless she turns on me imperiously.</p> - -<p>“Go away one moment! Oh go, please!”</p> - -<p>“Tell me what’s in your parcel, then.”</p> - -<p>“It’s nossing. It’s not your affair. Please give it -to me. Now you are not nice. Oh thanks! Now you -are nice. To-morrow I show you what it is.”</p> - -<p>So I leave off teasing her and make no further reference -to the mysterious packet.</p> - -<p>There is no doubt the Christmas spirit is getting into -me, for I find it more and more difficult to keep my -mind on my work. This is distressing, because lately -I have been making but slow progress. Often I find -myself halting ten minutes or more to empale some -elusive word. Greatly am I concerned over rhythm -and structure. Of ideas I have no lack; it is form, -form that holds me in travail. And the more I perspire -over my periods the more self-exacting I seem to -become. There will arrive a time, I fear, when my -ideal of expression will be so high I will not be able to -express myself at all. I wonder if it is something in -the air of this Paris that calls to all that is fine and high -in the soul?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>After supper Anastasia remarks in some surprise: -“Why! you do not smoke zis hevening?”</p> - -<p>“No, I’m taking a rest. It’s good to leave off -sometimes.”</p> - -<p>She seems about to say something further, but -checks herself. Oh, how I do miss that after-dinner -pipe! Life suddenly seems hollow and empty. I had -always sworn that the best part of a meal was the smoke -after; I had always vowed that tobacco added twenty -per cent. to my enjoyment of life, and now—</p> - -<p>“Little Thing,” I say presently, “let’s go out on -the boulevard. I can’t work to-night. It’s Christmas -eve.”</p> - -<p>She responds happily. It is always a joy to her to -go out with me.</p> - -<p>“You’d better put on your fur. It’s awfully cold.”</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t sink so this hevening, if you don’t mind. -I have not cold, not one bit.”</p> - -<p>As we emerge from the gloom of the rue Mazarin the -river leaps at us in a blaze of glory. Under a sky of -rosy cloud it is a triumph of jewelled vivacity. Exultantly -it seems to mirror all the radiance of the city, -and the better to display its jewels it undulates in -infinite unrest. Here the play of light is like the fluttering -of a thousand argent-winged moths, there a -weaving of silver foliage, traversed by wriggling -emerald snakes. Yonder it is a wimpling of purest -platinum; afar, a billowing of beaten bronze. Bridge -beyond bridge is jewel-hung, and coruscates with shifting -fires. The little steamers drag their chains of -trembling gold, their trains of rippling ruby; even the -black quays seem to be supported on undulant pillars -of amber.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>Over yonder on the right bank the great Magasins -overspill their radiance. They are like huge honey-combs -of light, nearly all window, and each window -a square of molten gold. The roaring streets flame in -fiery dust, and flakes of gold seem to quiver skyward. -Oh, how it stirs me, this Paris! It moves me to delight -and despair. To think that I can feel so intensely its -wonder and beauty yet to be powerless to express it. -I can imagine how too much beauty drives to madness; -how the Chinese poet was drowned trying to -clasp the silver reflexion of the moon.</p> - -<p>And so we walk along, I fathoms deep in dream, and -the little grey figure by my side trying to keep pace -with me. She, too, has that appreciation of beauty and -art that seems innate in every Parisienne, yet she -cannot understand how I can stare at a scene ten, -fifteen, twenty minutes. However, she is very patient, -and effaces herself most happily.</p> - -<p>Never have I seen the Boul’ Mich’ so gay, and nearly -all are carrying parcels. A million messengers of -Santa Claus are hastening to fill with delight the eyes -of innocence. The <i>Petit Jésus</i> they call him here, these -charming Parisian children. Their precious letters to -him, placed so carefully in the chimney, are often wept -over by mothers in estranging after years. What joy -when there comes an answer to their tiny petitions! -When there is none: “Ah! it is because you have -not been wise, Clairette. The Little Jesus is not -pleased with you.” But the Gift-bringer always relents, -and the little shoes, brushed by each tot till not -a speck of dulness remains, are found in the morning -overspilling with glorious things.</p> - -<p>All along the outer edge of the pavement stalls have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span> -been set up, tenanted by portly, red-faced women, who -are padded against the cold till their black-braided -jackets fit tight as a drum. There are booths of -brilliant confectionery, of marvellous mechanical toys, -of perfumery and patent medicines, of appliances for -the kitchen and knick-knacks for the boudoir, of music, -of magnifying glasses, of hair restorer, of boot -polish.</p> - -<p>And the street hawkers haranguing the crowd! -There are vendors of holly and mistletoe; men carrying -umbrellas all stuck over with imitation snails to ‘bring -the good luck’; others with switches to spank one’s -mother-in-law; others with grotesque spiders on wire -to make the girls scream.</p> - -<p>It is nearly midnight when we reach our apartment. -The cafés are a glitter of light and a storm of revelry. -The supper that is the prelude to further merriment is -just beginning, and thousands of happy, careless people -are drinking champagne, shouting, singing, laughing. -But the rue Mazarin is very dark and quiet, and -the girl is very tired.</p> - -<p>Then when I am sure that she is asleep I steal to my -suitcase and taking out the precious muff lay it at the -foot of her bed. Bending over her, as she sleeps like a -child, I kiss her. So I too fall asleep.</p> - -<p>I am awakened by her scream of delight. She is -sitting up, fondling the new muff.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am so please. You don’t know how I am -please, darleen.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s nothing. Only I thought it would go nicely -with your other fur.”</p> - -<p>Her face changes oddly. Then she rises and brings -me the mysterious parcel.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span>“It’s your Christmas. I’m sorry I could not geeve -you anysing bettaire. Oh, how I love my muff.”</p> - -<p>If it had been plucked beaver she could not have -been more pleased. I open my parcel eagerly, and a -fragrant odour greets me. It is a silver-mounted -tobacco jar, full of my favourite amber flake.</p> - -<p>Over our <i>petit déjeûner</i> of coffee and <i>croissants</i> we -are both very gay. I decide not to work that day; we -will go for a walk.</p> - -<p>“Geeve me your pipe, darleen. I feel it for you.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t seem to be able to find it,” I answer, searching -my pockets elaborately.</p> - -<p>“You have not lost it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, just mislaid it. Never mind, it will turn up -all right. Are you ready?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, all ready.” She holds the precious muff up to -her chin, peering at me over it.</p> - -<p>“But your wrap! Aren’t you going to put that on -too?”</p> - -<p>Then in fear and trembling she confesses. She has -taken her fur to the Mont de Piété that she might have -ten francs to buy the tobacco jar.</p> - -<p>“Why!” I cry, “I sold my pipe so that I might -have enough to buy your muff.”</p> - -<p>Then I laugh loudly, and after a little she joins me; -and there we are both laughing till we are tired; which -is not the worst way of beginning Christmas Day, is -it?</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III<br /> - -THE CITY OF LIGHT</h3> -</div> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Little Thing</span>,” I say severely, “you must never -say ‘Damn.’”</p> - -<p>“But you say it, darleen.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but men may do and say things women must -not even think of. Say ‘Dash’ if you want to say -anything.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you are funny. You tell me I must not say -certeen words in English, yet in France everybody say -‘Mon Dieu.’”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it’s not good form to say those words in -English; just as you tell me in France in polite -society one never refers to a thousand sacred pigs. -Profanity is to some extent a matter of geography.”</p> - -<p>But if I succeed in prohibiting the profanity of my -country, I cannot prevent her picking up its slang. -For instance, “Sure Mike” is often on her lips. She -has heard me use it, and it resembles so much her own -“Surement” that she naturally and innocently adopts -it. I tremble now when she speaks English before -any punctilious stranger, in case, to some polite inquiry, -she answers with an enthusiastic: “Sure -Mike.”</p> - -<p>I have insisted on her recovering her fur from the -Mont de Piété, and she in her turn has made me buy a -long, black brigandish cape that has previously been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span> -worn by some budding Baudelaire or some embryo -Verlaine.</p> - -<p>“Seems to me,” I grumble, “now I have this thing -I might as well get one of those bat-winged ties, and -a hat with a six-inch brim.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you will be lovely like that,” she assures me -with enthusiasm. “And you must let your hair grow -long like hartist. Oh, how <i>chic</i> you will be!”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you’d also like me to cultivate an Assyrian -beard and curl my hair into ringlets like that man we -sat next to at the café du Dome last night.”</p> - -<p>“No, no; I do not want that you hide your so nice -mouth, darleen. I am prefair American way now.”</p> - -<p>“You prefer Americans to Frenchmen, then.”</p> - -<p>“All French girls prefer American and English to -Frenchmans. They are so frank, so honest. One can -trust them.”</p> - -<p>“So you would rather be married to an Englishman -than a Frenchman?”</p> - -<p>“Mon Dieu! yes, The Frenchmans deceive the -womans very much, but the Englishman is always -<i>comme-il-faut</i>. If ever I have leetle girl I want she -shall marry Englishmans. Ah! she shall be like her -fazzer, that leetle girl, wiz blue eyes, and colour so -fresh; and I want she have the lovely blond hair like -all English children.”</p> - -<p>“What if you have a boy?”</p> - -<p>“Ah no! I no want boy. I know I am selfeesh. -The boys have the best sings in the life, and it is often -hard for the womans. But if I have girl, I keep her -love always. If I have boy soon I lose heem. He get -marry, and zen it is feenish. But leetle girl, in trooble -she always come back to her mosser.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>“And suppose you don’t have either?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I sink zat would be very, very sad.”</p> - -<p>Often have I marvelled at the passion for maternity -that burns in Anastasia. Her eyes shine so tenderly on -children, and she will stop to caress some little one so -yearningly.</p> - -<p>“By the way, have you ever noticed the child on the -ground floor apartment?—a little one with hair the -colour of honey.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; she’s good friend of me. She is adorable. -Oh how I love have childs like zat. She’s call Solonge. -She’s belong Frosine.”</p> - -<p>“Who’s Frosine?”</p> - -<p>“She’s girl what sew all day. She work for the Bon -Marché. It’s awfool how she have to work hard.”</p> - -<p>“Poor woman!”</p> - -<p>“Oh no; she’s very ’appy like that. She’s free, and -she have Solonge. She sing all day when she sew. -Oh, she have much of courage, much of merit, that -girl.”</p> - -<p>“But,” I say, “would you like to have a child like -that?”</p> - -<p>“Why not, if I can care well for it and it make me -’appy?”</p> - -<p>“But—it wouldn’t be moral.”</p> - -<p>“No, but it would be natural.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but sometimes isn’t it wicked to be natural?”</p> - -<p>“I do not understand. I do not sink Frosine is -wicked. She’s so kind and gently. She adore Solonge. -She’s brave. All day she work and sing. You do not -sink she is all bad because she have childs?”</p> - -<p>I did not immediately reply. I am wondering....</p> - -<p>Have social conditions reached a very lofty status<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span> -even yet when the finest, truest instincts implanted -in humankind are often denied? Does not life mean -effort, progress, human triumph? Can we not look -forward to a better time when present manifestly imperfect -conditions will be perfected?</p> - -<p>“Yes, Anastasia,” I conclude; “the greatest man -that ever lived should take off his hat to the humblest -mother, for she has accomplished something he never -could if he lived to be a thousand. But come! Let’s -go out on the Grand Boulevard. I’ve been working -too hard; I’m fagged, I’m stale, there’s a fog about my -brain.”</p> - -<p>Very proudly she dons her furs of electric rabbit, and -rather ruefully I wreathe myself in my conspiratorial -cloak; then together we go down into the city.</p> - -<p>The City of Light! Is there another, I wonder, that -flaunts so superbly the triumph of man over darkness? -From the Mount of Parnassus to the Mount of the -Martyrs all is a valley of light. The starry sky is -mocked by the starry city, its milky way, a river -gleaming with gold, shimmering with silver, spangled -with green and garnet. The Place de la Concorde is a -very lily garden of light; up the jewelled sweep of the -Champs Elysee the lights are like sheeny pearls with -here and there the exquisite intrusion of a ruby; beneath -a tremulous radiance of opals the trees are bathed -in milky light, while amid the twinkling groves the -night restaurants are sketched in fairy gold. The -Grand Boulevards are fiery-walled canyons down which -roar tumultuous rivers of light; the Place de l’Opera -is a great eddy, flashing and myriad-gemmed; the -<i>magasins</i> are blazing furnaces erupting light at every<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span> -point: They are festooned with flame; they are -crammed with golden lustre; they blaze their victorious -refulgence in signs of light against the sky. And so -night after night this city of sovereign splendour -hurls in flashing light its gauntlet of defiance to the -Dark.</p> - -<p>The pavements are packed with people, moving -slowly in opposing streams. Most are garbed in ceremonial -best; and many carry flowers, for this is the -sacred day of family gathering. The pavement edge -is lined with tiny booths and shrill with importunate -clamour.</p> - -<p>We stop to gaze at some of the mechanical toys. -Here are aeroplanes that whirl around, peacocks that -strut and scream, rabbits that hop and squeak, shoe-blacks, -barbers, acrobats, jugglers, all engaged in their -various ways. But what amuses us most is a little -servant maid who walks forward in a great hurry carrying -a pile of plates, trips, sends them scattering, then -herself falls sprawling. How I laugh! Yet I am at -the same time laughing at myself for laughing. Am I -going back to my second childhood? No! for see; all -those bearded Frenchmen are laughing too, just like -so many grown-up children.</p> - -<p>“Come,” I suggest, after we have ranged along a -mile or so of these tiny booths, “let’s sit down in -front of one of the cafés.”</p> - -<p>With difficulty we find a place, and ordering two -<i>cafés créme</i> watch the dense procession. The honest -bourgeois are going to New Year’s Dinner, and their -smiles are very happy. Soon they will frankly abandon -themselves to the pleasures of the table, discussing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span> -each dish with rapture and eating till they can eat no -more.</p> - -<p>“What a race of gluttons are the French,” I remark -severely to Anastasia. “Food and dress is about all -they seem to think of. The other day I read in the -paper that a celebrated <i>costumier</i> had received the -cross of the Legion of Honour, and this morning I see -that a well-known <i>restaurateur</i> has also been deemed -worthy of the decoration. There you are! Reward -your tailors and your cooks while your poets and your -painters go buttonless. Oh, if there’s a people I despise, -it’s one that makes a god of its stomach! By the -way, what have we got for dinner?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I got chickens.”</p> - -<p>“A good fat one, I hope.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, nice fat chickens. I pay five franc for it. -You are not sorry?”</p> - -<p>“No, that’s all right. We can make it do two -evenings, and we allow ourselves five francs a day for -grub. I fancy we don’t spend even that, on an average?”</p> - -<p>“No, about four and half franc.”</p> - -<p>Every week she brought her expense book to me, -and very solemnly I wrote beneath it: Examined and -found correct. Another habit was to present for my -approval a menu of all our meals for the coming week -beneath which I would, in the same serious spirit, -write: Approved. To these impressive occasions she -contributed a proper dignity; yet at a hint of praise -for her house-keeping nothing could exceed her delight.</p> - -<p>Presently we rise and continue our walk. Everywhere -is the same holiday spirit, the same easily amused -crowd. There are song writers hawking their ditties,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span> -poor artists peddling their paintings, a “canvas for a -crust.” Every needy art is gleaning on the streets.</p> - -<p>“Stop!” she cries suddenly. Drawing me in the -direction of a small crowd; “let’s watch the silhouette -man.”</p> - -<p>He is young, glib, good-looking. He has audacious -eyes and a rapscallion smile. This smile is sometimes -positively impish in its mockery; yet otherwise he is -rather like a cherub. His complexion is pinkish, his -manner mercurial, his figure shapely and slim. He -is dressed in the cloak, broad-brimmed hat, and voluminous -velveteen trousers of the <i>rapin</i>. I stare at -him. Something vaguely familiar in him startles me.</p> - -<p>In one hand he holds a double sheet of black paper, -in the other a pair of scissors. For a moment he looks -keenly at his subject, then getting the best angle for -the profile, proceeds without any more ado to cut the -silhouette. It is a very deft, delicate performance and -all over in a minute.</p> - -<p>“Just watch him, Anastasia,” I say after a pause; -“I think there’s something interesting going to happen.” -Then in a drawling voice I remark:</p> - -<p>“Well, if that’s not a dead ringer for Livewire Lorrimer!”</p> - -<p>He hears me, looks up like a flash, scrutinises me in -a puzzled way.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t heard that name for fifteen years. Of -all the—why, if it isn’t Jimmy Madden, Mad Madden, -Blackbeard the pirate, Red Hand the scout, friend -of my boyhood! I say! there’s a dozen people waiting -and this is my busy day. Ask your friend to stand -up to the light and I’ll make a silhouette of her while -we talk.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>“My wife.”</p> - -<p>“Bless us! Married too! Well, congratulations. -Charmed to meet Madame. There! Just stand so.”</p> - -<p>With great dexterity he proceeds to cut Anastasia’s -delicate features on the black paper.</p> - -<p>“Great Scott! I haven’t heard a word about you -since I left home. But then I’ve lost track of all the -crowd. Well, what in the world are you doing -here?”</p> - -<p>“I’m trying to break into the writing game. And -you?”</p> - -<p>“For ten years I’ve been trying to become an artist. -Occasionally I get enough to eat. I have to work for a -living, as you see at present; but when I get a little -ahead I go back to my art. Where do you live?”</p> - -<p>I tell him.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know, garden and statuary in the court. I -lived in that street myself for a time, but my landlord -and I did not agree. He had ridiculous ideas on the -subject of rent. My idea of rent is money you owe. -He was so prejudiced that one night I lowered all my -effects to a waiting friend with a <i>voiture à bras</i>, and -since then rue Mazarin has seen little of me. But I’d -like to come and see you. We’ll talk over old days.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I do wish you would come.”</p> - -<p>“I will. Ah, Madame, here is your charming profile. -I only regret that my clumsy scissors fail to do -you justice. Yes, Madden, I’ll come. And now, if -you’ll excuse me, there’s a dozen people waiting. I -must make my harvest while the sun shines. Good-bye, -just now. Expect me soon.”</p> - -<p>He waves us an airy farewell, and a moment after, -with the same intent gaze, he is following the features<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> -of a fat Frenchwoman, who laughs immoderately at his -pleasantries.</p> - -<p>We walk home almost without speaking. Anastasia -has got into the way of respecting my thoughts. To -her I am Balzac, Hugo and Zola rolled into one, and -labelled James Horace Madden. Who is she that -should break in on the dreams of this great author? -Rather let her foster them by sympathetic silence. Yet -on this occasion she looks up in my face and sighs -wistfully:</p> - -<p>“What are you sinking of, darleen?”</p> - -<p><i>Now, here’s what I think she thinks I am thinking</i>:</p> - -<p>“Oh, this fiery, fervid Paris, how can my pen proclaim -its sovereignty over cities, its call to high endeavour, -its immemorial grace? How can I paint its -folly and its faith, its laughter and its tears, its streets -where tragedy and farce walk arm in arm, where -parody hobnobs with pride, and beauty bends to ridicule! -Oh, exquisite Paris! so old and yet so eternally -young, so peerless, yet ever prinking and preening -to make more exorbitant demands on our admiration....” -And so on.</p> - -<p><i>Here’s what I am really thinking</i>:</p> - -<p>“Funny I should run into Livewire like that. To -think of it! We swapped the same dime novels, robbed -the same cherry-trees. Together we competed for the -bottom place in the class. (I think I generally won.) -By pedagogic standards we were certainly impossible. -And yet at some studies how precocious! How I remember -that novel I wrote, <i>The Corsair’s Crime, or the -Hound of the Hellispont</i>, illustrated by Livewire on -every page. Oh, I’d give a hundred dollars to have -that manuscript to-day!” and so on.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span><i>Here’s what I say I am thinking</i>:</p> - -<p>“I was wondering, Anastasia, if when you bought -that chicken, you let them clean it in the shop. Because -if you do they just take it away and bring you back -an inferior one. You can’t trust them. You should -clean it yourself. Be sure you roast it gently, so as to -have it nicely browned all over....” And so on.</p> - -<p>It is night now and I am working on my articles while -she sews steadily. It has been a long silent evening, -a fire of <i>boulets</i> throws out a gentle heat, and she sits on -one side, I on the other. About ten o’clock she complains -of feeling tired, and decides to go to bed. After -our habit I lie down on my own bed, to wait with her -till she goes to sleep; for she is just like a child in some -ways. I am reading, and the better to see, I lie with -my head where my feet should be.</p> - -<p>As she is dropping off to sleep, suddenly she says:</p> - -<p>“Will you let me hold your foot, darleen?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it’s there. But if you want to look for holes -in the sock, you won’t find any.”</p> - -<p>“No, it’s not zat. I just want to pretend it’s leetle -<i>bébé</i>.”</p> - -<p>“So she holds it close to her breast, and ever since -then she will not sleep unless she is holding what she -calls ‘her <i>poupée</i>.’”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV<br /> - -THE CITY OF LAUGHTER</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> last few weeks have passed so swiftly I scarce can -credit it. In the mornings my vitalising walks; in -the afternoons my lapidary work in prose. I have -begun a series of articles on Paris, and have just -finished the first two, bestowing on them a world of -loving care. Never have I known such a steady glow -of inspiration. A pure delight in form and colour -thrills in me. I begin to see beauty in the commonest -things, to find a joy in the simplest moments of living.</p> - -<p>It is rather curious, this. For instance, I gaze in -rapture at a shop where vegetables are for sale, charmed -with its oasis of fresh colouring in the grey street, -the globular gold of turnips, the rich ruby of radishes, -the ivory white of parsnips. Then a fish shop charms -me, and I turn from the burning orange of the dories -to the olive and pearl of the merlin; from the jewelled -mail of the mackerel, to the silver cuirass of the herring. -And every day seems fresh to me. I hail it with -a newborn joy. I seem to have regained all the wonder -and vital interest of the child point of view. In my -work, especially, do I find such a delight that I shall -be sorry to die chiefly because it will end my labour. -“So much to do,” I sigh, “and only one little lifetime -to do it in.”</p> - -<p>Then there are long, serene evenings by the fire, -where I ponder over my prose, while Anastasia sits -absorbed in her work. What a passion she has for her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span> -needle! She plies it as an artist, delighting in difficulties, -in intricate lacework, in elaborate embroidery. -In little squares of fine net she works scenes from -Fontaine; or else over a great frame on which a sheet -of satin is tightly stretched, she makes wonderful designs -in silks of delicate colouring. At such times she -will forget everything else, and sit for hours tranquilly -happy. So I write and dream; while she plies that -exquisite needle, and perhaps dreams too.</p> - -<p>“Oh, how good it is to be poor!” I said last night. -“What a new interest life takes on when one has to -fight for one’s bread! How much better to have nothing -and want everything, than to have everything and -want nothing! Just think, Little Thing, how pleased -we are at the end of the week if we’ve spent five francs -less than we thought! Here’s a month gone now and -I’ve done four articles and a story, and we still have -three hundred francs left.”</p> - -<p>“When it will be that you will send them to the -journals?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no hurry, I want to stack up a dozen, and then -I’ll start shooting them in.”</p> - -<p>“We have saved four francs and half last week.”</p> - -<p>“The deuce we have! Then let’s go to Bullier to-night. -We both want a touch of gay life. Come! -we’ll watch Paris laugh.”</p> - -<p>So we climbed the Boul’ Mich’, till at its head in -a crescent of light we saw the name of the famous old -dance-hall. Threading our way amid the little green -tables, past the bowling alley and the bar, we found -a place in the side-gallery.</p> - -<p>We were looking down on a scene of the maddest -gaiety. The great floor was dense with dancers and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span> -kaleidoscopic in colouring. In the wildest of spirits -five hundred men and girls were capering, shuffling, jigging -and contorting their bodies in time to tumultuous -music. Some danced limb to limb, others were bent -out like a bow; some sidled like a crab, others wriggled -like an eel; some walked, some leaped, some slid, some -merely kicked sideways: it was dancing in delirium, -Bedlam in the ball-room.</p> - -<p>And what conflicting colours! Here a girl in lobster -pink galloped with another whose costume was like -mayonnaise. There a negress in brilliant scarlet with -a corsage of silver darted through the crowd like a -flame. A hideous negro was dancing with a pretty -grisette who with fluffy hair and flushed cheeks looked -at him adoringly as he pawed her with his rubber-blue -palms. An American girl in shirt waist and bicycle -skirt zig-zagged in and out with a dashing Spaniard. -A tall, bashful Englishman pranced awkwardly around -with a <i>midinette</i> in citron and cerise, while a gentleman -from China solemnly gyrated with a <i>mannequin</i> in pistachio -and chocolate. Pretty girls nearly all; and -where they lacked in looks, full of that sparkling Parisian -charm.</p> - -<p>“There’s your friend, Monsieur Livwir,” said Anastasia -suddenly. Sure enough, there in that maelstrom -of merriment I saw Lorrimer dancing with a girl of -dazzling prettiness. Presently I caught his eye and -after the dance he joined us.</p> - -<p>“You haven’t been to see me yet,” I remarked.</p> - -<p>“No, been too busy,—working every moment of my -time.” Then realising that the present moment rather -belied him he shrugged his shoulders.</p> - -<p>To tell the truth I have been feeling a little hurt.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> -We sentimentalists are so prone to measure others by -our own standards. Our meeting, so interesting to -me, had probably never given him another thought. -Now I saw that while I was an egoist, Lorrimer was an -egotist; but with one of his boyish smiles he banished -my resentment.</p> - -<p>“Let me introduce you to Rougette,” he said airily; -“she’s my model.”</p> - -<p>He beckoned to the tall blonde. Rarely have I seen -a girl of more distracting prettiness. Her hair was -of ashen gold; Parma violets might have borrowed their -colour from her eyes; Nice roses might have copied -their tint from her cheeks, and her tall figure was of -a willowy grace. Her manner had all the winning -charm of frank simplicity. She was indeed over pretty, -one of those girls who draw eyes like a magnet, so that -the poor devil who adores them has little peace.</p> - -<p>“The belle of all Brittany,” said Lorrimer proudly. -“I discovered her when I was sketching at Pont Aven -last summer. I’m going to win the Prix de Rome with -a picture of that girl. I’m the envy of the Quarter. -Several Academicians have tried to get her away from -me; but she’s loyal,—as good as she looks.”</p> - -<p>I did not find it easy to talk to Rougette. Her -French was the <i>argot</i> of the Quarter, grafted on to -the <i>patois</i> of the Breton peasant; mine, of the school -primer. Our conversation consisted chiefly of smiles, -and circumspect ones at that, as Anastasia had her eye -on me.</p> - -<p>“After another dance,” suggested Lorrimer, “let’s -go over to the Lilas. We’ll probably see Helstern -there. I’d like you to meet him. Besides it’s the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span> -night the Parnassian crowd get together. Perhaps -you’ll be amused.”</p> - -<p>“Delighted.”</p> - -<p>“All right.”</p> - -<p>Off they went with their arms around each other’s -necks, and I watched them swiftly mingle with the -dancers. What a pretty couple they made!—Lorrimer -so dashing and debonair, with his face of a sophisticated -cherub, and his auburn hair that looked as if it might -have been enamelled on his head, so smooth was it; -Rougette with the mien of a goddess and the simple -soul of a Breton fishwife.</p> - -<p>But it was hard to follow them now, for the throng -on the floor had doubled. In ranks that reached to -the side galleries the spectators hemmed them in. The -variety of costume grew more and more bewildering. -Men were dressed as women, women as men. Four -monks entered arm in arm with four devils; Death -danced with Spring, an Incroyable with a stone-age -man, an Apache with a Salomé. More and more -<i>négligé</i> grew the costumes as models, mannequins, milliners, -threw aside encumbering garments. Every one -was getting wound up. Yells and shrieks punctuated -the hilarity; then the great orchestra burst into a popular -melody and every one took up the chorus:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“Down in Mozambique, Mozambique, Mozambique,</div> -<div class="verse">It’s so <i>chic</i>, oh so <i>chic</i>;</div> -<div class="verse">No need to bother over furs and frills.</div> -<div class="verse">No need to worry over tailor’s bills;</div> -<div class="verse">Down in Mozambique, Mozambique, Mozambique,</div> -<div class="verse">You may wear fig-leaves there</div> -<div class="verse">When you go a-mashing in the open air</div> -<div class="indent4">In Mo-zam-bique.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>As they finished men tossed their partners in the air -and carried them off the floor. Every one was hot and -dishevelled; the air reeked of pachouli and perspiration, -and seeing Lorrimer signalling to us we made our -escape.</p> - -<p>I remember how deliciously pure seemed the outside -air. The long tree-clad Avenue de l’Observatoire was -blanched with hoar frost and gleamed whitely. The -face of the sky was pitted with stars, and the crescent -moon seemed to scratch it like the manicured nail-tip -of a lovely woman. Across the street amid the trees -beaconed the lights of a large corner café, and to this -we made our way.</p> - -<p>A long room, lined with tables, dim with tobacco -smoke, clamorous with conversation. We found a vacant -table, and Lorrimer, after consulting us, ordered -“ham sandveeches et grog American.” In the meantime -I was busy gazing at the human oddities around -me. It seemed as if all the freaks of the Quarter had -gathered here. Nearly all wore their hair of eccentric -length. Some had it thrown back from the brow and -falling over the collar in a cascade. Others parted -it in the middle and let it stream down on either side, -hiding their ears. Some had it cut square to the neck, -and coming round in two flaps; with others again it was -fuzzy and stood up like a nimbus. Many of the women, -on the other hand, had it cut squarely in the Egyptian -manner; so that it was difficult to tell them at a distance -from their male companions.</p> - -<p>“It’s really a fact,” said Lorrimer, “that long hair -is an aid to inspiration. Every time I cut mine it’s -good-bye work till it grows again. And as I really -hate it long my work suffers horribly.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>The centre of attraction seemed to be a tall man -whose sallow face was framed in inky hair that detached -itself in snaky locks. As if to accentuate the -ravenish effect he wore an immense black silk stock, and -his pince-nez dangled by a black riband. This was -Paul Ford, the Prince of the Poets, the heritor of the -mantle of Verlaine.</p> - -<p>“There’s a futurist poet,” said Lorrimer, pointing -to a man in a corner who had evidently let his comb -fall behind the bureau and been too lazy to go after -it. He had a peaked face overwhelmed by stringy -hair, with which his beard and whiskers made such -an intimate connection that all you could see was a -wedge of nose and two pale-blue eyes gleaming through -the tangle.</p> - -<p>“See that man to the right,” went on my informer; -“that’s the cubist sculptor, a Russian Jew.”</p> - -<p>The sculptor looked indeed like a mujic, with coarse, -spiky hair growing down over his forehead, eyebrows -that made one arch over his fierce little eyes, up-turned -nose, a beard and moustache, which, divided by his -mouth, looked exactly like a scrubbing-brush the centre -of which has been rubbed away by long usage.</p> - -<p>“Look! There’s an Imagist releasing some of his -inspirations.”</p> - -<p>This was a meagre little man in evening dress, with -a bony skull concealed by the usual mop of hair. He -had a curiously elongated face, something like a horse, -the eyes of a seraph, the shell-like colour of a consumptive, -large, vividly-red lips, and an ineffable smile -which exposed a small cemetery of decayed teeth.</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Lorrimer suddenly; “see that chap sitting -lonely in the corner with his arms folded and a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span> -sort of Strindberg-Nietzsche-Ibsen expression? Well, -that’s Helstern.”</p> - -<p>I saw a tall, youngish-oldish sort of man with a face -of distinguished taciturnity. His mouth was grimly -clinched; two vertical lines were written between his -eyebrows, and a very high forehead was further heightened -by upstanding iron-grey hair. On the other hand -his brown eyes were soft, velvety and shy. He was -dressed in dead black, with a contrast of very white -linen. Close to his elbow stood a great stein of beer, -while he puffed slowly from a big wooden pipe carved -into a fantastic Turk’s head.</p> - -<p>“Poor old Helstern!” said Lorrimer; “he takes -life so seriously. Take life seriously and you’re going -to get it in the neck: laugh at it and it can never hurt -you.”</p> - -<p>This was his gay philosophy, as indeed it was of the -careless and merry Quarter he seemed to epitomise. -Treat everything in a cynical and mocking spirit, and -you yourself are beyond the reach of irony. It is so -much easier to destroy than to build up. Yet there was -something tart and stimulating in his scorn of things -as they are.</p> - -<p>“Too bad to drag him from sublime heights of -abstraction down to our common level. Doesn’t he -look like a seer trying to discern through the anarchy -of the present some hope for the future? Well, I’ll -go over and see if he’ll join us. He’s shy with women.”</p> - -<p>So the Cynic descended on the Seer, and the Seer -listened, drank, smoked thoughtfully, looked covertly -at the two girls, then rose and approached us. With -a shock of pity I saw that one of his legs was shorter -than the other, and terminated in a club foot. Otherwise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span> -he was splendidly developed, and had one of the -deepest bass voices I have ever heard.</p> - -<p>“Well, old man, alone as usual.”</p> - -<p>Somewhat self-conscious and embarrassed, Helstern -spoke rather stiffly.</p> - -<p>“My dear Lorrimer, much as I appreciate your -charming society there are moments when I prefer to be -alone.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I understand. Great thoughts incubated in -silence. Own up now, weren’t you thinking in nations?”</p> - -<p>“As it happens,” answered the Seer in his grave, -penetrating tones, “I was thinking in nations. As a -matter of fact I was listening to the conversation of -two Englishmen near me.”</p> - -<p>He paused to light his pipe carefully, then went on -in that deep, deliberate voice.</p> - -<p>“They were talking of International Peace—fools!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, come now! You believe in International -Peace?”</p> - -<p>He stared gloomily into the bowl of his pipe.</p> - -<p>“Bah! a chimera! futile babble! No, no; there are -too many old scores to settle, too many wrongs to right, -too many blood feuds to be fought to a finish. But -there will be International War such as the world has -never seen. And why not? We are becoming a race -of egotists, civilisation’s mollycoddles; we set far too -high a value on our lives. Oh, I will hate to see the -day when grand old war will cease, when we will have -the hearts of women, and the splendid spirit of revenge -will have passed away!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t listen to him,” said Lorrimer; “he isn’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span> -so bloodthirsty as he sounds. He wouldn’t harm a fly. -He’s actually a vegetarian. What work are you doing -now, you old fraud?”</p> - -<p>Helstern looked round in that shy self-conscious way -of his:</p> - -<p>“I’m working on an allegorical group for the Salon.”</p> - -<p>“What’s the subject?”</p> - -<p>“Well, if I must confess it, it’s International Peace. -Of course, it’s absurd; but the only consolation for -living in this execrable world is that one can dream of a -better one. To dream of beauty and to create according -to his dream, that is the divine privilege of the -artist.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, what dreamers are we artists!” said Lorrimer -thoughtfully. “You, Helstern, dream of leaving the -world a little better than you find it; I dream of Fame, -of doing work that will win me applause; and you, -Madden—what do you dream of?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t take myself quite so grandiosely,” I -said with a laugh. “I dream of making enough money -to take me back to the States, to show them I’m not a -failure.”</p> - -<p>“Failure!” said Lorrimer with some feeling; “it’s -those who stay at home that are the failures. Look at -them—small country ministers, provincial lawyers, -flourishing shopkeepers; such are the shining lights of -our school-boy days. Tax-payers, pillars of respectability, -good honest souls, but—failures all.”</p> - -<p>“A few are drummers,” I said. “The rest are humdrummers.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Lorrimer. “By way of example, let -me relate the true history of James and John.”</p> - -<p>“James was the model boy. He studied his lessons,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span> -was conscientious and persevering. He held the top -of the class so often that he came to consider he had -an option on it. He nearly wore his books out with -study, and on prize-giving days he was the star actor on -the programme. Brilliant future prophesied for James.</p> - -<p>“Twin brother John, on the other hand, as consistently -held down the bottom of the class. He was lazy, -unambitious, irreverent. He preferred play to study, -and was the idol of the unregenerate. Direst failure -prophesied for John.</p> - -<p>“James went into the hardware store and commenced -to save his earnings. Soon he was promoted -to be salesman. He began to teach in the Sunday -School. He was eager to work overtime, and spent his -evenings studying the problems of the business.</p> - -<p>“John began to take the downward path right away. -He attended race-courses, boldly entered saloons, -haunted low music-halls. The prophets looked wiser -than ever. He lost his job and took to singing at -smoking concerts. He spent his time trying to give -comic imitations of his decent neighbours, and practising -buck-and-wing dances till his legs seemed double-jointed.</p> - -<p>“James at this period wore glossy clothes, and refused -to recognise John on the street. John merely -grinned.</p> - -<p>“James stayed with the home town, married respectably, -and had six children in rapid succession as every -respectable married man should. He owned the house -he lived in and at last became head of the hardware -store.</p> - -<p>“John one day disappeared; said the village was -too small for him; wanted to get to a City where he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> -could have scope for his talents. Said the prophets: -‘I told you so.’</p> - -<p>“And to-day James, my friends, is a school trustee, -an alderman, a deacon of the church. He is pointed -out to the rising generation as a model of industry and -success. But John—where is John?</p> - -<p>“Alas! John is, I regret to say, at present touring -in the Frobert & Schumann Vaudeville Circuit. He is -a headliner, and makes five hundred dollars a week. -All he does for it is to sing some half a dozen songs -every night, in which he takes off his native townsmen, -and to dance some eccentric steps of his own invention. -He has a limousine, a house on Riverside Drive, and a -box of securities in the Safety Deposit Vault that makes -the clerk stagger every time he takes it out. He talks -of buying up his native village some day and the -prophets have gone out of business.</p> - -<p>“And now, friends, let’s pry out the unmoral moral. -Honest merit may cinch the boss job in the hardware -store, but idle ignorance often cops the electric sign on -Broadway. The lazy man spends his time scheming -how to get the easy money—and often gets it. The -ignorant man, unwarped by tradition, develops on -original lines that make for fortune. Even laziness -and ignorance can be factors of success. All of which -isn’t according to the Sunday School story book, but -it’s the world we live in. And now as I see Madam is -tired, let’s bring the session to a close.”</p> - -<p>That night, as I was going home, with Anastasia -clinging on my arm, I said:</p> - -<p>“And what is it you dream of, Little Thing?”</p> - -<p>“Me! Oh, I dream all time I make good wife for -the Beautiful One I have.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V<br /> - -THE CITY OF LOVE</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">This</span> morning in the course of my walk I was passing -Cook’s corner in the Place de l’Opera, when I was -accosted from behind by an alcoholic voice:</p> - -<p>“Want to see the Crystal Palace to-day, sir?”</p> - -<p>Now the Crystal Palace is one of these traps for the -stranger with which Paris is baited. Your Parisian -knows these places as part of the city’s life which is -not there for the Frenchman but for the tourist and -stranger. These people look for these things as a -part of the life of Paris, your Parisian says, and in -consequence they are there.</p> - -<p>I was going on, then, when something familiar in -the voice made me turn sharply. Lo and behold!—O’Flather.</p> - -<p>“Hullo, Professor!” I said, with a grin. “Gone -out of the flea-taming business?”</p> - -<p>For a moment he stared at me.</p> - -<p>“Hullo! young man. Yep. Met with a dirty deal. -One of my helpers doped the troupe. Them as wasn’t -stiff and cold was no more good for work. Busted me -up.”</p> - -<p>“Too bad. What are you doing now?”</p> - -<p>“Working as a guide.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t know Paris!”</p> - -<p>“’Tain’t necessary. Mighty few Paris guides know -Paris. Don’t have to.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>“Well, I wish you luck,” I said, and left him. He -looked after me curiously. His eyes were bloodshot -from excessive drinking, and his dewlaps were blotched -and sagging. “Vindictive brute!” I thought. “If -he only knew wouldn’t he be mad! What a ripping -villain he’d make if this was only fiction instead of real -life!”</p> - -<p>It was this morning, too, I made the acquaintance -of Frosine. Passing through the mildewed court I -saw peering through the window of a basement room -the wistful face of little Solonge. Against the dark -interior her head of silky gold was like that of a cherub -painted on a panel. Struck with a sudden idea, I -knocked at their door.</p> - -<p>Solonge opened it, turning the handle, after several -attempts, with both hands, and very proud of the -feat. She welcomed me shyly, and a clear voice invited -me to enter. If the appearance of the child had -formerly surprised me, I was still more astonished when -I saw the mother. She was almost as dark as the little -one was fair. The contrast was so extreme that one -almost doubted their relationship.</p> - -<p>Scarcely did she pause in her work as I entered. -She seemed, indeed, a human sewing machine. With -lightning quickness she fed the material to the point of -her needle, and every time she drew it through a -score of stitches would be made. Already the -bed was heaped with work she had finished, and a -small table was also piled with stuff. A wardrobe, -a stove, and two chairs completed the furniture of the -room.</p> - -<p>But if I felt inclined to pity Frosine the feeling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span> -vanished on looking into her face. It was so brave, -so frank, so cheerful. There was no beauty, but a -piquant quality that almost made up for its lack. -Character, variety, appeal she had, and a peculiar -fascinating quality of redemption. Thus the beautiful -teeth redeemed the rather large mouth; the wide-set -hazel eyes redeemed the short, irregular nose; the broad -well-shaped brow redeemed the somewhat soft chin. -Her skin was of a fine delicacy, one of those skins that -seem to be too tightly stretched; and constant smiling -had made fine wrinkles round her mouth and -eyes.</p> - -<p>“A female with an active sense of humour,” I thought. -Anastasia’s sense of humour was passive, Rougette’s -somewhat atrophied. So Mademoiselle Frosine smiled, -and her smile was irresistible. It brought into play -all these fine wrinkles; it was so whole-hearted, so free -from reservations. That tonic smile would have made -a pessimist burn his Schopenhauer, and take to reading -Elbert Hubbard.</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle,” I began in my fumbling French, -“I have come to beg a favour of you. You would be -a thousand times amiable if you could spare Solonge -for an hour or two in the afternoon, to go with us to -the Luxembourg Gardens. There she may play in the -sunshine, and it will give my wife infinite gladness to -watch her.”</p> - -<p>Frosine almost dropped her needle with pleasure. -“Oh, you are so good. It will be such a joy for my -little one, and will make me so happy. Madame loves -children, does she not?”</p> - -<p>“It is truly foolish how she loves them. She will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span> -be ravished if you will permit us to have your treasure -for a little while.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, monsieur, you are entirely too amiable.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. It is well heard, then?”</p> - -<p>“But, yes, certainly. You make me too happy.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, well! this afternoon at three o’clock?”</p> - -<p>“At three o’clock.”</p> - -<p>So I broke the news to Anastasia. “Little Thing, -I’ve borrowed a baby for you this afternoon. Solonge -is coming with us to the gardens.”</p> - -<p>(Really, if I had given her a new hat she could not -have been more enchanted.)</p> - -<p>“Oh, that will be lovely! Then will I have my two -childrens with me. You don’t know how I am glad.”</p> - -<p>So we gaily descended the timeworn stairs, and found -the youngster eagerly awaiting us. In her navy blue -coat and hat her wealth of long hair looked fairer and -silkier than ever. For a child of four and a half she -was very tall and graceful. Then we bade the mother -<i>au revoir</i>, and with the youngster chattering excitedly -as she held the hand of Anastasia, and me puffing at the -cheap briar I had bought in the place of the ill-fated -meerschaum, we started out.</p> - -<p>“I suppose if it hadn’t been for Solonge,” I observed, -“Frosine would have thrown up the sponge long ago. -How awful to be alone day after day, sewing against -time, so to speak; and that for all one’s life!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. There is many girl like that in Paris. -They work till they die. They are brought up in the -<i>couvent</i>. That make them very serious.”</p> - -<p>Anastasia had certainly the deepest faith in her religion.</p> - -<p>After its long winter <i>relâche</i> the glorious old garden<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> -was awakening to the symphony of Spring. The soft -breeze that stirred the opening buds came to us laden -with fragrance, arousing that so exquisite feeling of -sweet confused memory that only the Spring-birth can -evoke. The basin of the Fontaine de Médicis was -stained a delicate green by peeping leaves, and a flock -of fat sparrows with fluttering feathers and joyous -cries were making much ado. We sat down on one of -the stone benches, because the pennies for the chairs -might buy many needful things.</p> - -<p>That dear, dear garden of the Luxembourg, what, -I wonder, is the secret of its charm? Is it that it is -haunted by the sentiment and romance of ages dead -and forgotten? Beautiful it is, yet other gardens are -also beautiful, and—oh, how different! Surely it -should be sacred, sacred to children, artists and lovers. -There, under the green and laughing leaf, where -statues glimmer in marble or gloom in bronze, and the -fountain throws to the tender sky its exquisite aigrette -of gold—there the children play, the artists dream, -and the lovers exchange sweet kisses. Oh, Mimi and -Musette, where the bust of Murger lies buried in the -verdure, listening to the protestations of your Eugene -and Marcel!—do you not dream that in this self-same -spot your mothers in their hours listened to the voice -of love, nay, even <i>their</i> mothers in their hours. So -over succeeding generations will the old garden cast -its spell, and under the branches of the old trees lovers -in days to come will whisper their vows. Yea, I think -it is haunted, that dear, dear garden of the Luxembourg.</p> - -<p>Solonge, whom I had decided to call “The Môme,” -had a top which she kept going with a little whip.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> -To start it she would wind the lash of the whip around -its point, then standing it upright in the soft ground, -give it a sharp jerk. But after a little she tired -of this, and began to ask questions about fairies. -Never have I seen a child so imaginative. Her world -is peopled with fairies, with whom she holds constant -communion. There are tree fairies, water fairies, -fairies that live in the ground, fairies that lurk in the -flowers—she can tell you all about them. Her faith -in them is touching, and brutal would he be who tried -to shatter it.</p> - -<p>“You that make so many stories,” said Anastasia, -as she listened to the prattle of the Môme, “have you -no stories for children? Can you not make one for little -Solonge?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, of course, I might; but you will have to put -it in French for her.”</p> - -<p>“All right. I try.”</p> - -<p>So I thought a little, then I began:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>Once upon a time there was a little boy who was very -much alone and who dreamed greatly. In his father’s garden -he had a tiny corner of his own, and in this corner -grew a large pumpkin. The boy, who had never seen a -pumpkin so big, thought that it might take a prize at the -yearly show in the village, and so every day he fed it with -milk, and always with the milk of the brindled cow, which -was richest of all.</p> - -<p>So the pumpkin grew and grew, and the little boy became -so wrapt up in it he thought of little else. At last -it grew to such a size that other people began to look at it, -and say it would surely take a prize. The little boy became -more proud of it than ever, and fed it more and more -of the milk of the brindled cow, and took to rubbing it -till it shone—with his big brother’s silk handkerchief.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>Then one night as he lay in bed he heard a great to-do -in the garden, and ran out in his night-dress. There was -a patch of ground where grew the pumpkins, and another -where grew the squashes, and both seemed greatly disturbed. -Fearing for his favourite he hurried forward. -No, there it was, great and glossy in the moonlight. He -kissed it, and even as he did so it seemed as if he heard -from within it a tiny, tinny voice calling his name. In -surprise he stepped back, and the next moment a door -opened in the side of the pumpkin and a fairy stepped -forth.</p> - -<p>“I am the Pumpkin King,” said the fairy, “and in the -name of the Pumpkin People I bid you welcome.”</p> - -<p>Then the boy saw that the inside of the great gourd was -hollow, and was lit with a wondrous chandelier of glow-worms. -It was furnished like a little chamber, with a bed, -table, chairs—such a room as you may see in a house for -dolls. The boy wished greatly that he might enter, and -even as he wished he found that he had grown very small, -as small, indeed, as his own finger.</p> - -<p>“Will you not enter?” asked the King with a smile of -welcome.</p> - -<p>So the boy and the King became great friends, and each -night when every one else was a-bed he would steal forth -and sit in the chamber of the Pumpkin King. The King -thanked him for his care of the royal residence, and told -him many things of the vegetable world. But chiefly he -talked of the endless feud between the pumpkins and their -hereditary enemies, the squashes. Whenever the two came -together there was warfare, and when the squashes were -more numerous the pumpkins were often defeated. Yonder -by the gate dwelt the Squash King, a terrible fellow, -of whom the Pumpkin King lived in fear.</p> - -<p>“Can I not kill him for you?” said the little boy.</p> - -<p>“No, no,” answered the King. “No mortal can destroy -a fairy. Things must take their course.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span>At this the little boy was very sad, and began to dread -all kinds of dangers for his friend the King. Then one -day he was taken ill with a cold, and the window was -closed at night so that he could not steal out as usual. And -as he lay tossing in his bed he heard a great noise in the -garden. At once he knew that a terrible battle was raging -between the squash and the pumpkin tribes. Alas! he could -do nothing to help his friends, so he cried bitterly.</p> - -<p>And next morning his father came to his bedside and told -him that all the pumpkins had been destroyed, including -his big one.</p> - -<p>“It was that breechy brindled cow,” said the father. -“It must have broken into the garden in the night.”</p> - -<p>But the little boy knew better.</p> -</div> - -<p>As I finished a deep, strongly vibrating voice greeted -us.</p> - -<p>“What a pretty domestic scene. Didn’t know you -had a youngster, Madden. Must congratulate you.”</p> - -<p>Looking up I saw Helstern. He was leaning on a -stout stick, carved like a gargoyle. All in black, with -that mane of iron-grey hair and his keen, stern face -he made quite a striking figure. There is something -unconsciously dramatic about Helstern; I, on the other -hand, am consciously dramatic; while Lorrimer is absolutely -natural.</p> - -<p>“Sorry,” I said, “she doesn’t belong to us. We’ve -just borrowed her for the afternoon.”</p> - -<p>“I see. What a beautiful type! English, I should -imagine?”</p> - -<p>“No, that’s what makes her so different—French.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her as if fascinated.</p> - -<p>“I’d like awfully to make a sketch of her, if you -can get her to stand still.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>At that moment there was no difficulty, for the -Môme was gazing in round-eyed awe at the ferocious -Turk’s head pipe in the sculptor’s mouth. So Helstern -took a chair, whipped out his sketch-book, and before -the fascinated child could recover he had completed a -graceful little sketch.</p> - -<p>“Splendid!” I said.</p> - -<p>Anastasia, too, was enthusiastic; but when the Môme, -who was now nestling in her arms, saw it she uttered -a scream of delight.</p> - -<p>“If you just sit still a little,” said Helstern eagerly, -“while I do another one for myself, I’ll give you this -one to take home to your mother.”</p> - -<p>The Môme was very timid; but we posed her sitting -on the end of the stone seat, with one slim leg bent -under her and the other dangling down, while she -scattered some crumbs for the fat sparrows at her -feet. Against the background of a lilac bush she made -a charming picture, and Helstern worked with an enthusiasm -that made his eyes gleam, and his stern face -relax. This time he used a fine pencil of sepia tint, -working with the broad of it so as to get soft effects -of shadow. True, he idealised almost beyond resemblance; -but what a delicate, graceful picture he made!</p> - -<p>“It isn’t such a good likeness as the first one,” I -remarked, after I had murmured my admiration.</p> - -<p>“Ah!” he said, with the pitying superiority of the -artist. “But you don’t see her as I see her.”</p> - -<p>There, I thought, is Art in a nutshell; the individual -vision, the divination of the soul of things, hidden -inexorably from the common eye. To see differently; -a greener colour in the grass, a deeper blue in the sky, -a madonna in a woman of the street, an angel in a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span> -child, God in all things—oh, enchanted Vision! they -who have thee should be happier than kings.</p> - -<p>“There, little one!” said the sculptor, giving her -the first sketch; “take that to your mother and say -I said she should be very proud of you. Heavens, I -wish I could do a clay figure of her. I wish—”</p> - -<p>He looked at her in a sort of ecstasy, sighed deeply, -then stumped away looking very thoughtful.</p> - -<p>“Is he not distinguished,” I said, “in spite of that -foot of his?”</p> - -<p>“Ah! that is so sad, I sink. But perhaps it is for -the best he have foot like that. It make him more -serious; it make him great artist.”</p> - -<p>Trust Anastasia to find some compensation in all -misfortune!</p> - -<p>Frosine was plying that lightning needle when we -returned. She looked up joyfully as the little one -rushed to her with the sketch.</p> - -<p>“Who did this? It is my little pigeon—truly, it is -her very self.”</p> - -<p>“It was a friend of ours,” said Anastasia, “who is -a great sculptor, or, at least, who is going to be. He -has fallen in love with your daughter, as indeed we all -have.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is so good of you to take her out. Already -I see a difference in her. I would not have her grow -up like the children of the streets, and it is so hard -when one is poor and has to work every moment of -one’s time. As for this picture, thank the Monsieur. -Say I will treasure it.”</p> - -<p>We promised to do so, and left her singing gaily by -the open window as she resumed her everlasting toil.</p> - -<p>So it has come about that nearly every afternoon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span> -we sit in the Luxembourg enjoying the mellow sunshine, -with the little girl playing around us. We know -many people by sight, for the same ones come day -after day. There by the terrace of the Queens we -watch the toy yachts careening in the basin, the boys -playing diabolo, the sauntering students with their -sweethearts. Anastasia works industriously on some -Spanish embroidery, I read for the twentieth time one -of my manuscripts, while the Môme leaps and laughs -as she keeps a shuttlecock bounding in the air. Her -eyes are very bright now, and her delicate cheeks have -a rosy stain. Then, when over the great trees the -Western sky is aglow, when the fountain turns to flame, -and a charmed light lingers in the groves, slowly we -go home. Days of grateful memory, for in them do I -come to divine the deepest soul of Paris, that which -is Youth and Love.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI<br /> - -GETTING DOWN TO CASES</h3> -</div> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Anastasia</span>,” I said with a sigh, “did I ever tell you -of Gwendolin?”</p> - -<p>“No; what is it?” she asked, and her face had rather -an anxious expression.</p> - -<p>“Gwendolin was a girl, a very nice girl, a trained -nurse; and we were engaged.”</p> - -<p>“What you mean? She was your <i>fiancée</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, she was one of my <i>fiancées</i>.”</p> - -<p>“What! You have more than one?” The poor -girl was really horrified.</p> - -<p>“Oh, several. I don’t just remember how many. I -quarrelled with one because we couldn’t agree over the -name we would give the first baby. I broke it off with -another because her stomach made such funny noises -every time I tried to squeeze her. It made me nervous. -But Gwendolin—I must tell you about her. I was -very ill with diphtheria in a lonely house by the sea, -and she had come to nurse me. She would let no one -else come near me, and she waited on me night and -day.”</p> - -<p>(Anastasia suspended operations on the heel of my -sock she was darning.)</p> - -<p>“She was a nervous, high-strung girl, and she -watched over me with an agony of care. There was a -doctor, too, who came twice a day, yet, in spite of all, -I hourly grew more weak. My dreary moans seemed -to be echoed by the hollow moans of the sea.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>(Anastasia seemed divided between resentment of -Gwendolin and pity for me.)</p> - -<p>“Well, the poor girl was almost worn to a shadow, -and one night, as she sat by me, pale and hollow-eyed, -I saw a sudden change come over her.</p> - -<p>“‘I can stand it no longer,’ she cried. ‘His every -moan pierces me to the heart. I must do something, -something.’</p> - -<p>“Then she rose, and I was conscious of her great, -pitiful eyes. Suddenly I thrilled with horror, for I -realised that they were the eyes of a mad woman. -The strain of nursing had unhinged her mind.</p> - -<p>“‘The doctor tells me there is no hope,’ she went -on. ‘Oh, I cannot bear to hear him suffer so; I -must give him peace;—but how?’</p> - -<p>“On a table near by there was a small pair of scissors. -She took them up thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“‘Dearest,’ she said to me, ‘your sufferings will -soon be over. I am going to cut your poor throat, -that gives you such pain.’</p> - -<p>“I struggled, twisting my head this way and that, -but she held me like a vice, and over my throat I felt -two edges of cold steel.”</p> - -<p>(Anastasia was gazing in horror.)</p> - -<p>“Steadily they closed, tighter, tighter. Now I -could feel them bite the flesh and the blood spout. -Then I, who for days had been unable to utter a word, -suddenly found my voice.</p> - -<p>“‘Don’t butcher me,’ I whispered hoarsely. ‘Cut -my accursed throat by all means, but do it neatly. -Your scissors are far too blunt.’</p> - -<p>“‘But how may I sharpen them, darling?’ she cried -piteously.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>“I remembered how I had seen other women do it.</p> - -<p>“‘Try to cut on the neck of a bottle.’</p> - -<p>“‘Will that do?’</p> - -<p>“‘Yes, yes. Keep cutting on the smooth round -glass. It’s astonishing the difference it makes.’</p> - -<p>“‘What kind of a bottle, sweetheart?’</p> - -<p>“‘An ink-bottle’s best. You’ll find one downstairs -on the dining-room mantelpiece. Hurry.’</p> - -<p>“‘All right, I’ll get it.’</p> - -<p>“She flew downstairs. Now was my chance. With -my remaining strength I crawled to the door and -locked it. When I recovered from a faint her struggles -to force it had ceased, and at the same moment I heard -the honk of the doctor’s auto. Going to the window, -I bellowed like a bull. Then I was conscious of a -strange thing: by the pressure on my throat, by my -struggles, the malignant growth had broken. I was -saved.”</p> - -<p>Anastasia shuddered. “And that Gwendolin?” she -queried.</p> - -<p>“Was taken to an asylum, where she died,” I said -sadly.</p> - -<p>“Poor sing,” said Anastasia.</p> - -<p>To tell the truth, the whole thing had happened to -me the night before in a very vivid dream. Often, -indeed, I get ideas in this way, so I promptly made a -story of Nurse Gwendolin.</p> - -<p>I was putting the finishing touches to it when a -knock came to the door. It was Helstern, panting, -perspiring.</p> - -<p>“Heavens! but it’s hard climbing that stairway of -yours with a game leg. Sorry to disturb you, Madden, -but where does the mother of your little girl live?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span> -You don’t know how that youngster inspires me. I -feel that if I could do a full-length of her it would get -me into the Salon. See! here’s a sketch. <i>Spring</i>, it’s -called. Of course, I mean to follow up with the other -seasons, but I want a child for my Spring.”</p> - -<p>He showed me a tender <i>fillette</i> in a state of nature, -trying to avoid tripping over a tame lamb as she -scattered abroad an armful of flowers.</p> - -<p>“Stunning!” I said. “So original! Let’s go -down and interview the mother.”</p> - -<p>Into his brown eyes came a look of distress. “I’m -a bit awkward with women, you know. Would you -mind doing the talking?”</p> - -<p>“Right O! Follow me.”</p> - -<p>So we descended the narrow, crumbling stairs, from -each stage of which came a smell of cookery. Thus -we passed through a stratum of ham and eggs, another -of corned beef and cabbage, a third of beefsteak and -onions, down to the fried fish stratum of the <i>entresol</i>.</p> - -<p>Frosine was in the midst of dinner. The Môme regarded -us over a spoonful of milk soup, and as he -wiped the perspiration from his brow, Helstern looked -at her almost devouringly. But in the presence of -Frosine he seemed almost tongue-tied. To me, who -have never known what shyness was, it seemed pitiable. -However I explained our mission, and even showed the -sketch at a flattering angle. Frosine listened politely, -seemed to want to laugh, then turned to the sculptor -with that frank, kindly smile that seemed to radiate -good fellowship.</p> - -<p>“You do me too great honour, Monsieur. I am sure -your work would be very beautiful. But alas! Solonge -is very shy and very modest. One could never get her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span> -to pose for the figure. I am sorry, but believe me, the -thing is impossible.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Madam. I am sorry too,” he said -humbly. He stumped away crestfallen, and with a -final, sorrowful look at the Môme.</p> - -<p>Anastasia was keeping supper hot for me. “Poor -Helstern,” I remarked over my second chop, “I’m -afraid he’ll have to look out for another vernal infant. -But talking of Spring reminds me, time is passing, and -we’re not getting any richer. How’s the family -treasury?”</p> - -<p>An examination of the tea-canister that contained -our capital revealed the sum of twenty-seven francs. -I looked at it ruefully.</p> - -<p>“I never dreamed we were so low as that. With -care we can live for a week on twenty-seven francs—but -what then?”</p> - -<p>“You must try and sell some of your work, darleen; -and I—I can sell some <i>hem-broderie</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Never! I can’t let you sell those things. They’re -lovely. I want to keep them.”</p> - -<p>“But I easily do some more. It is pleasure for me.”</p> - -<p>“No, no; at least, hold on a bit. I’ll make some -money from my work. I’m going to send it off to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>Yes, we were surely “getting down to cases.” But -what matter! Of course my work will be accepted at -once, and paid for on the spot. True, I have no experience -in this kind of peddling. My stuff has always -appeared virgin in a book. Not that I think I am -prostituting it by sending it to a magazine, but that -no sooner do I see it in print than my interest in it -dies. It belongs to the public then.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>Next day I bought a box of big envelopes, a quantity -of French and English stamps, and a manuscript -book in which I entered the titles of the different items. -I also ruled columns: Where Sent: When Sent; even -When Returned, though I thought the latter superfluous. -Here then was my list:</p> -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>The Psychology of Sea-sickness.<br /> -An Amateur Lazzarone.<br /> -A Detail of Two Cities.<br /> -The Microbe.<br /> -How to be a Successful Wife.<br /> -Nurse Gwendolin.<br /> -The City of Light.<br /> -The City of Laughter.<br /> -The City of Love.<br /> -<span class="indent2">and</span><br /> -Three Fairy Stories.</p> -</div> - -<p>Twelve items in all. So I prepared them for despatch; -but where? That was the question. However, -after examining the windows of several English -book-shops, I took a chance shot, posted them to -twelve different destinations, and sat down to await -results.</p> - -<p>Since then, with a fine sense of freedom, I have been -indulging in my mania for old houses. I do not mean -houses of historic interest, but ramshackle ruins tucked -away in seductive slums. To gaze at an old home and -imagine its romance is to me more fascinating than trying -to realise romance you know occurred there. I -examine doors studded with iron, search mouldering -walls for inscriptions, peer into curious courtyards. -I commune with the spirit of Old Paris, I step in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span> -footprints of Voltaire and Verlaine, of Rousseau and -Racine, of Mirabeau and Molière.</p> - -<p>One day I visit the room where an English Lord of -Letters died more deaths than one. A gloomy, gruesome -hotel, with an electric night-sign that goes in and -out like some semaphore of sin. A cadaverous, miserable-looking -man tells me that the room is at present -occupied. I return. A cadaverous, miserable-looking -woman whines to a dejected looking valet-de-chambre -that I may go up.</p> - -<p>It is on the first floor and overlooks a court. There -is the bed of varnished pine in which he died; the usual -French hotel wardrobe, the usual plush armchair, but -not, I note, the usual clock of chocolate marble. Everything -so commonplace, so sordid; yet for a moment I -could see that fallen demi-god, as with eyes despairful -as death in their tear-corroded sockets, he stared and -stared into that drab, rain-sodden court.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">For who can tell to what red Hell</div> -<div class="verse">His sightless soul may stray.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>And so in sweet, haphazard wanderings amid the -Paris of the Past time sped ever so swiftly. I forgot -my manuscripts, my position, everything in my sheer -delight of freedom; and how long my dream would -have continued I know not if I had not had a sudden -awakening. It was on my return from one of my -rambles when I drew up with a start in front of a shop -that showed all kinds of woman’s work for sale.</p> - -<p>“Heavens! Surely that isn’t Anastasia’s cushion?”</p> - -<p>I was staring at a piece of exquisite silk embroidery, -an imitation of ancient tapestry. No, I could not be -mistaken. Too well I remembered every detail of it;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span> -how I had watched it take on beauty under her patient -fingers; how hour after hour I could hear the crisp -snap as the needle broke through the taut silk. Over -a week had she toiled on it, rising with the first dawn, -so that she might have more daylight in which to blend -her colours. And there it was, imbedded in that mass -of cheap stuff, and marked with a smudgy paper, -“Forty-five francs.” Yes, I felt sick.</p> - -<p>How careless I had been! I had never given the -financial situation another thought, yet we had wanted -for nothing. There was that excellent dinner we had -had the night before; why, she must have sold this to -buy it! Even now I was living on the proceeds of her -work.</p> - -<p>“What a silly girl! She wouldn’t say a word, in -case I should be worried. Just like women; they take a -fiendish delight in humiliating a man by sacrificing -themselves for him. But I can’t let her support me. -Let’s see.... There’s my watch and chain. What’s -a chain but a useless gaud, a handhold for a pick-pocket. -Maybe this very afternoon I’ll have the whole -thing snatched. I’ll take no chances; it’s a fine, heavy -chain, and cost over a hundred dollars; maybe the -Mont de Pietists will give me fifty for it.”</p> - -<p>They wouldn’t. Twenty-five was their limit, so I -took it meekly. Then, returning hastily to the embroidery -shop, I bought the cushion cover, carried it -home under my coat, and locked it safely away in the -alligator-skin suitcase.</p> - -<p>Though her greeting was bravely bright, it seemed -to me that Anastasia had been crying, and of the nice -omelette she had provided for my lunch she would -scarcely taste.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>“What’s the trouble, Little Thing; out with it.”</p> - -<p>She hesitated; looked anxious, miserable, apologetic.</p> - -<p>“I don’t like trouble you, darleen, but the <i>concierge</i> -have come for the rent tree time, and I don’t know -what I must say.”</p> - -<p>“The rent! I quite forgot that. Why, yes, we pay -rent, don’t we? How much is it?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you remember? One ’undred twenty-five -franc.”</p> - -<p>“Well, there’s only one thing to do—pay it. But -to do so I must put my ticker up the spout.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my poor darleen, I’m so sorry. I sink it is -me bring you so much trouble. If it was not for me -you have plenty of money, I sink.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say that. If it wasn’t for your economies -I’d be rustling for crusts in the gutter. And anyway, -what’s the good of a watch when I can see the time in -every shop I pass? Besides, I might lose it; so here -goes.”</p> - -<p>It is quite in tune with the cheerful philosophy of -the French to find a virtue in misfortune. Whether -they break a glass, spill red wine, or step in dirt, it’s -all the same: “Ah! but it will carry the good luck.”</p> - -<p>For my gold watch I received two hundred francs, -though it had cost over a thousand; and with this I -returned. Much the shape and colour of a bloated -spider, the <i>concierge</i> emerged from her den, and to her -I paid the rent. Then, leaping upstairs, I poured the -balance remaining from both transactions into Anastasia’s -lap.</p> - -<p>“There! That ought to keep away the wolf for -a month. A hundred and fifty francs and the rent -paid for another quarter. Aren’t we the lucky things?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span> -The roof’s overhead; the soup’s in the pot; let’s sing. -Now do I know why the very wastrels in the street -are not so much to be pitied after all; a warm corner -and a full belly, that’s happiness to them. Wealth’s -only a matter of wants. Well, we’re wealthy, let’s go -to the cinema.”</p> - -<p>“No, darleen, that would not be serious. I must -guard your money now. When you sink you begeen -work once more?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. I’m having one of my bad spells. -Funny how it takes one. Times ideas come in a perfect -spate, and I miss half grabbing for the others. At -present the divine afflatus is on a vacation. I’m trying -to start a novel and I haven’t got the Idea. You see -this short story and article stuff is all very well to boil -the <i>marmite</i>, but a novel’s my real chance. A successful -novel would put me on my feet. Pray, Little -Thing, I get the idea for a novel.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I will, I will indeed,” she answered me quite -seriously.</p> - -<p>And indeed she did: for one day I strolled into Notre -Dame, and there by one of those hard, high-backed -chairs before the mighty altar I discovered her imploring -(I have no doubt) the “bon Dieu” that the idea -might come.</p> - -<p>For simple, shining faith I’m willing to bet my last -dollar on Anastasia.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII<br /> - -THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY</h3> -</div> - -<p class="right"><i>May 1st.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">This</span> morning in the course of my walk I saw a hungry -child trying to sell violets, a girl gazing fearfully at -the Maternity Hospital, an old woman picking, as if -they were gold, coals from the gutter. At times what -a world of poignant drama these common sights reveal! -It is like getting one’s eye to a telescope that is focussed -on a world of interesting misery. I want to write of -these things, but I must not. First of all I must write -for money; that gained, I may write for art.</p> - -<p>So far I haven’t hit on my novel <i>motif</i>, though I’ve -lain awake at nights racking my poor brains. What -makes me fret so is that never have I felt such confidence, -such power, such hunger to create. I think -it must be Paris and the Springtime. The combination -makes me dithyrambic with delight. I thrill, I burn, -I see life with eyes anointed. Yesterday in the Luxembourg -I wrote some verses that weren’t half bad; but -writing verses does not make the thorns crackle under -the pot, far less supply the savoury soup. Oh, the -Idea, the Idea!</p> - -<p>To my little band of manuscripts I have never given -another thought. But that is my way. I am like a -mother cat—when my kittens are young I love them; -when they grow to be cats I spit at them. My work -finished, I never want to see it again.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span>One day as I fumed and fussed abominably Lorrimer -called.</p> - -<p>“Look here, Madden, I don’t know what kind of -writing you do, but I suppose you’re not any too -beastly rich; you’re not above making an honest dollar. -Now, I’m one of the future gold medallists of the -Spring Salon, <i>cela va sans dire</i>, but in the meantime -I’m not above doing this.”</p> - -<p>“This” was a paper covered booklet of a flaming -type. I took it with some disfavour. The paper was -muddy, the type disreputable, the illustrations lurid. -Turning it over I read:</p> - -<p class="center">THE MARVELLOUS PENNYWORTH LIBRARY<br /> -OF WORLD ADVENTURE.</p> - -<p>“Pretty rotten, isn’t it?” said Lorrimer. “Well, -you wouldn’t believe it, some of these things sell to -nearly quarter of a million. They give the best value -for the money in their line. Fifty pages of straight -adventure and a dozen spirited illustrations for a humble -copper; could you beat it?”</p> - -<p>“Well, what’s it got to do with me?”</p> - -<p>“It’s like this: I’ve been guilty of the illustrations -of two of these masterpieces. They were Wild West -stories. Being an American, though I’ve never lived -out of Connecticut, I’m supposed to know all about -Colorado. Well, it’s the firm of Shortcake & Hammer -that publish them, and I happened to meet young -Percy Shortcake when he was on a jamboree in Paris. -Over the wassail we got free, so he promised to put -some work my way. Soon after I got a commission to -illustrate <i>Sureshot, or the Scout’s Revenge</i>; then some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span> -months after I adorned the pages of <i>Redhand the -Nightrider, or the Prowler of the Prairies</i>.”</p> - -<p>“I see. What’s the idea now?”</p> - -<p>“The idea is that you write one of these things and -I illustrate it.”</p> - -<p>“My dear fellow, you have too high an opinion of -my powers.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, come now, Madden, try. You won’t throw -me down, old man. I need the money. Supposing -we place it we’ll get a ten pound note for it; that will -be seven for you and three for me. Three pounds, -man, that will keep me for a month, give me time to -finish my prize picture for the Salon. Just think what -it means to me, what a crisis in my fortunes. Fame -there ready to crown me, and for the want of a measly -three quid, biff! there she chucks her crown back in -the laurel bin for another year. Oh, Madden, try. -I’m sure you could rise to the occasion.”</p> - -<p>Thus approached, how could a kind-hearted Irishman -refuse? Already I saw Lorrimer gold-medalled, -glorified; then the reverse of the picture, Lorrimer -writhing in the clutches of dissipation and despair. -Could I desert him? I yielded.</p> - -<p>“Good!” whooped Lorrimer; “we’ll make a best-seller -in Penny-dreadfuldom. Take <i>Sureshot</i> here as -a model. Here, too, are your illustrations.”</p> - -<p>“My what?”</p> - -<p>“The pictures. Oh, yes, I did them first. It -doesn’t make any difference, you can make them fit -in. It’s often done that way. Half the books published -for Christmas sale are written up to illustrations -that the publishers have on hand.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span>“All right. The illustrations may suggest the -story.”</p> - -<p>Lorrimer went away exultant. After all, I thought, -seven pounds won’t be bad for a week’s work. So I -read <i>Sureshot</i> with some care. It was divided into -twenty chapters of about a thousand words each, and -every chapter finished on a situation of suspense. -The sentences were jerkily short; each was full of pith -and punch, and often had a paragraph all to itself. -For example:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>By one hand Sureshot clung to that creaking bough. -Below him was empty space. Above him leered his foe, -Poisoned Pup, black hate in his face.</p> - -<p>The branch cracked ominously.</p> - -<p>With a shudder the Lone Scout looked down to the -bottom of the abyss. No way of escape there. He looked -up once more, and even as he looked Poisoned Pup raised -his tomahawk to sever the frail branch.</p> - -<p>“Perish! Paleface,” he hissed; “go down to the Gulf -of the Lost Ones, and let the wolves pick clean your bones.”</p> - -<p>Sureshot felt that his last hour had come.</p> - -<p>“Accursed Redskin,” he cried, “do your worst. But -beware, for I will be avenged. And now, O son of a dog, -strike, strike!”</p> - -<p>And there with gleaming eyes the intrepid scout waited -for that glittering axe to fall.</p> -</div> - -<p>End of chapter; the next of which artfully switches, -and takes up another thread of the story.</p> - -<p>The result of my effort was that in six days I produced -<i>Daredeath Dick, or the Scourge of the Sierras</i>. -Lorrimer was enthusiastic.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t think you had it in you, old man. I’ll get<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> -it off to Shortcake & Hammer at once. It will likely -be some weeks before we can hear from them.”</p> - -<p>Since then I have been seeing quite a lot of Lorrimer. -After all, our little apartment is cosiness itself, and -beer at four sous a litre is ambrosia within reach of -the most modest purse. He talks vastly of his work -(with a capital W). He arrives with the announcement -that he has just dropped in for a quiet pipe; in -an hour he must be back at his Work. Then: “Well, -old man, just another short pipe, and I must really be -off.” But in the end he takes his departure about two -in the morning, sometimes talking me asleep.</p> - -<p>How he lives is a mystery. Any evening you can -see him in the Café d’Harcourt, or the Soufflet, and -generally accompanied by Rougette. When he is in -funds he spends recklessly. Once he gained a prize -for a Moulin Rouge poster, and celebrated his success -in a supper that cost him three times the value of his -prize. Sometimes he contributes a very naughty -drawing to <i>Pages Folles</i>, and I know that he does -<i>aquarelles</i> for the long-haired genius who sells them on -the boulevards, and who, though he can draw little else -than a cork from a bottle, in appearance out-rapins the -<i>rapins</i>.</p> - -<p>One afternoon I heard Helstern painfully toiling upstairs.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got an idea,” he began. “You know as soon -as I set eyes on the mother of your little Solonge I -saw she was just the type I’ve been looking for for my -group, Maternity. That woman’s a born mother, a -mother by destiny. See, here’s a sketch of my group.”</p> - -<p>Helstern’s statues, I notice, seldom get beyond the -sketch stage. This one showed a mother suckling an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span> -infant and gazing fondly at another little girl, who in -her turn was looking maternally at the baby.</p> - -<p>“That’s all very well,” I objected banally; “but -Frosine hasn’t got a baby.”</p> - -<p>“Pooh! a mere trifle. I’ll soon supply the baby. -Already I see my group crowned in the Salon. The -thing’s as good as done. It only remains for you to -go down and get the consent of Madam.”</p> - -<p>“Me!”</p> - -<p>“Why, yes. You know I’m no good at talking to -women. It takes an Irishman to be persuasive. Go -on, there’s a good fellow.”</p> - -<p>Was I ever able to resist an appeal to my vanity? -But pretty soon I returned rather crestfallen.</p> - -<p>“It’s no use, old man. Can’t make anything of the -lady. I showed her your sketch; I offered to provide -the infant; I pointed out the sensation it would make -in the Salon; no use. She positively refuses to pose; -prefers to sew lingerie. If she would be serious I -might be able to wheedle her; but she only laughs, and -when a woman laughs I’ve got to laugh with her. But -I can’t help thinking there’s something at the back of -her refusal.”</p> - -<p>“Well, well,” sighed the big sculptor, “I give her -up. And already I could see the crowds admiring my -group as it stood under the dome of the Grand Palace; -already I could hear their plaudits ringing in my ears; -already....”</p> - -<p>Once more he sighed deeply, and went away.</p> - -<p class="right"><i>May 15th.</i></p> - -<p>It is so hot to-day that I think Summer must have -taken the wrong cue. On the Boul’ Mich’ the marronniers<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span> -sicken in the stale air composed equally of asphalt, -petrol and escaping gas. Assyrian bearded students -and Aubrey Beardsley <i>cocottes</i> are sitting over opaline -glasses in front of the stifling cafés, and the dolphins -in the fountains of the Observatory spout enthusiastically. -Now is the time to loll on a shaded bench in -the Luxembourg Gardens, and refrain from doing anything -strenuous.</p> - -<p>So I sit there dreaming, and note in a careless way -that I am becoming conspicuously shabby. Because -the necessary franc for the barber cannot well be -spared, I have allowed my hair to accumulate æsthetically. -Anastasia loves it like that—says it makes -me look like the great man of letters I am; and with -a piece of silk she has made me a Lavallière tie. -More than ever I feel like a character in a French -farce.</p> - -<p>My boots, I particularly note, need heeling. Every -morning I conscientiously brush them before I go out, -but invariably I am called back.</p> - -<p>“Show me your feet.”</p> - -<p>I bow before this domestic tyrant.</p> - -<p>“Oh, what a dirty boy it is. What shame for me to -have husbands go out like that.”</p> - -<p>“But look!” I protest; “they’re clean. They shine -like a mirror. Why, you can see your face in them—if -you look hard enough.”</p> - -<p>“But the heels! Look at the heels. Why you -have not brush them. Oh, I nevaire see child like that. -You just brush in front.”</p> - -<p>“Well, how can I see the heels? I’m no contortionist.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>mon Dieu</i>! He brush his boots after he puts<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> -them on. Oh, what a cabbage head I have for husband!”</p> - -<p>“Well, isn’t that the right way?”</p> - -<p>“<i>Nom d’un chien!</i> Give me your <i>patte</i>.”</p> - -<p>Then what a storm if I try to go out with a hole in -my socks!</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear! I nevaire see man like that. Suppose -you get keel in the street, and some one take off your -boots, sink how you are shamed. What shame for me, -too, if I have husbands keel wiz hole in his sock!”</p> - -<p>In addition to her other duties I have made her my -Secretary. Alas! I must confess some of my valiant -manuscripts have come sneaking back with unflattering -promptitude. It is a new experience and a bitter one. -Yet I think my chief concern is that Anastasia’s faith -in me should be shattered. After the first unbelieving -moment I threw the things aside in disgust.</p> - -<p>“They’re no good. I’ll never send them out again.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t say that, darleen. You geeve to me -and I send away some more.”</p> - -<p>“Do what you like,” I answered savagely. “But -don’t let me see the beastly things again. And don’t,” -I added thoughtfully, “send them twice to the same -place.”</p> - -<p>So what is happening I know not, though the expense -for stamps is a grievous one. She has a list of -periodicals and is posting the things somewhere. Perhaps -she may blunder luckily. Anyway, I don’t care. -I’m sick of them.</p> - -<p class="right"><i>May 30th.</i></p> - -<p>Some days ago I was sitting by the gate of the -Luxembourg that fronts the bust of St. Beuve. That<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span> -fine, shrewd face seemed to smile at me with pawky -kindliness, as if to say: “Don’t despair, young men; -seek, seek, for the luminous idea will come.”</p> - -<p>But just then it was more pleasant to dream than -to seek. A slim pine threw on the sun-flooded lawn -its purple pool of shadow; in the warm breeze a thickset -yew heaved gently; a lively acacia twinkled and -fluttered; a silver-stemmed birch tossed enthusiastic -plumes. Over a bank of golden lilies bright-winged -butterflies were hovering, and in a glade beyond there -was a patch of creamy hyacinths. Against the ivy -that mantled an old oak, the white dress of a girl out-gleamed, -and her hat, scarlet as a geranium, made a -sparkling note of colour.</p> - -<p>Then, as she drew near I saw it was Anastasia, and -she was much excited. I wondered why. Is there -anything in this world, I asked myself, worth while -getting excited about? Just then I was inclined to -think not; so I smoked on imperturbably. The -vacuum in my life made by the lack of tobacco had -been more than I could bear, and I had taken to those -cheap packets of Caporal, <i>cigarettes bleues</i>, whose -luxuriant whiskers I surreptitiously trimmed with -Anastasia’s embroidery scissors. Never shall I be one -of those kill-joys who recommend young men not to -smoke—in the meantime filling up their own pipes -with particular gusto.</p> - -<p>“Hullo, Little Thing! Why this unexpected pleasure?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I search you everywhere. See! There’s letter -from editor.”</p> - -<p>“So it is; and judging by your excitement it must -contain at least twenty pounds. Already I wallow in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span> -the sands of Pactolus.... Yes, you’re right: A -cheque. How long it seems since I’ve seen a cheque! -Let’s see—why! it’s for a whole guinea.”</p> - -<p>Her eyes gleamed with pleasure, and she clapped -her hands.</p> - -<p>“In payment,” I went on, “of the article <i>How to -be a Successful Wife</i>, from the editor of <i>Baby’s Own</i> -a weekly Magazine specially devoted to the Nursery.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes. I send heem zere. I sink it’s so <i>chic</i>, -that magazine.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I congratulate you on your first success as -a literary agent. You deserve your ten per cent. commission. -It isn’t the Eldorado of our dreams, but it will -enable us to carry out some needed sartorial reforms. -For example, I may now get my boots persuaded to a -new lease of life, while you can buy some stuff for a -blouse. How much can we do on twenty-six francs?”</p> - -<p>Between Necessary Expenditure and Cash in Hand -the difference was appalling, but after elaborate debate -the money was duly appropriated. From this time on -Anastasia became more energetic than ever in her consumption -of postage. It was about this time, too, I -noticed she ate very sparingly. On my taxing her, -she declared she was dieting. She was afraid, she said, -of getting fat. On which I decided I also was getting -fat: I, too, must diet. Every one, we agreed, ate -too much. I for one (I vowed) could do better work -on a mess of pottage than on all the fleshpots of -Egypt. So the expenses of our ménage began to take -a very low figure indeed.</p> - -<p>At the same time “Soup of the Onion” began to -make its appearance with a monotonous frequency. -It is made by frying the fragments of one of these<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> -vegetables till it is nearly black. You then add hot -water, boil a little, strain. The result is a warm, yellowish -liquor of onionish suggestion, which an ardent -imagination may transform into a delicate and nourishing -soup—and which costs about one sou.</p> - -<p>A sudden reversion, however, to a more generous -<i>cuisine</i> aroused my suspicion, and, on visiting the little -embroidery shop, again I saw some of her work. I -made a rapid calculation. Of my personal possessions -there only remained to me my gold signet ring, and -the seal that had hung at the end of my chain. For -the first I got fifty francs, for the second, twenty. So -for thirty francs I bought her work, and locked it -away with the cushion cover.</p> - -<p>I am really beginning to despair, to think I shall -have to give in. Oh, the bitterness of surrender! -All that is mulish in me revolts at the thought. For -myself rather would I starve than be beaten, but there -is the girl, she must not be allowed to suffer.</p> - -<p class="right"><i>May 31st.</i></p> - -<p>This has been a happy day, such a happy day as -never before have I known. This morning Lorrimer -burst into my apartment flourishing a cheque for <i>The -Scourge of the Sierras</i>. Shortcake & Hammer expressed -themselves as well pleased, and sent—not ten -pounds but twelve.</p> - -<p>“I tell you what!” cried the artist excitedly, -“we’ve got to celebrate your success as a popular -author. We’ll spend the extra two pounds on a dinner. -We’ll ask Rougette and Helstern, and we’ll have -it to-night in the Café d’Harcourt.”</p> - -<p>He is one of these human steam-rollers who crush<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span> -down all opposition; so that night we five met in the -merriest café in the Boul’ Mich’. Below its bizarre -frescoes of student life we had our table, and considering -that four of us did not know where the next month’s -rent was coming from we were a notably gay party.</p> - -<p>Oh, you unfortunates who dine well every day of -your lives, little do you guess the gastronomic bliss of -those whose lives are one long Lent! Never could -you have vanquished, as we, that host of insidious -<i>hors-d’œuvres</i>; never beset as we that bouillon with -the brown bread drowned in it. How the crisp fried -soles shrank in their shrimp sauce at the spectacle of -our devouring rage, and the <i>filet mignon</i> hid in fear -under its juicy mushrooms! The salad of chicken -and <i>haricots verts</i> seemed to turn still greener with -terror, and, as it vanished in total rout, after it we -hurled a bomb of Neapolitan ice cream. And the wine! -How splendid to have all the Beaune one wants after -a course of “Château La Pompe!” And those two -bottles of sunshine and laughter from the vaults of -Rheims—not more radiantly did they overflow than -did our spirits! And so sipping our <i>cafés filtre</i>, we -watched the crowd and all the world looked glorious.</p> - -<p>The place had filled with the usual mob of students, -models and <i>filles-de-joie</i>, and the scene was of more -than the usual gaiety. The country had just been -swept by a wave of military enthusiasm; patriotism -was rampant; the female orchestra perspired in its -efforts to be heard. Every one seemed to be thumping -on tables with bocks, and two hundred voices were -singing:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“Encore un petit verre de vin pour nous mettre en route;</div> -<div class="verse">Encore un petit verre de vin pour nous mettre en train.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>Some one started Fragson’s <i>En avant, mes petits -Gars</i>, and there was more stamping, shouting and -banging of bocks. Then the orchestra broke into the -melody for which all were longing:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“Allons, enfants de la Patrie,</div> -<div class="verse">Le jour de gloire est arrivé.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>All were up on their seats now, and the song finished -in a furore of enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>The generous wine had affected us three men differently. -Lorrimer was loquacious, Helstern gloomy, -while I was inclined to sleep.</p> - -<p>“Bah!” Helstern was saying: “This fire and fury, -what is it? A mask to hide a desperate uneasiness. -Poor France! There she is like some overfat ewe; -there is the Prussian Wolf waiting; but look! between -them the paw of the Lion.”<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a></p> - -<p>He represented the fat ewe with the sugar bowl, the -Wolf with the cream jug, and laid his big hand in -between.</p> - -<p>“Poor France!” broke in the girls; Rougette was -more brilliantly pretty than ever, and her eyes flashed -with indignation. Even the gentle Anastasia was -roused to mild resentment.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” went on Helstern, “you’re a great race, but -you’re too old. You’ve got to go as they all went, -Greece, Rome, Italy, Spain. England will follow, -then Germany, last of all Russia.”</p> - -<p>“For Heaven’s sake!” broke in Lorrimer noisily, -“don’t let him get on the subject of International -Destinies. What does it matter to us? To-day’s the -only time worth considering. Let’s think of our own<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span> -destinies: mine as the coming Gérôme, Helstern’s as -the coming Rodin, and Madden’s as the coming Sylvanus -Cobb.”</p> - -<p>But I did not heed him. Drowsy content had possession -of me. “Seven pounds,” I was thinking; -“that means the sinews of war for another month. -Oh, if I could only get some kind of an idea for that -novel! What is Lorrimer babbling about now?”</p> - -<p>“Marriage,” he was saying; “I don’t believe in -marriage. The first year people are married they are -happy, the second contented, the third resigned. -There should be a new deal every three years. Why, -if a general dispensation of divorce were to be granted, -half of the married couples would break away so quick -it would make your head swim.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Monsieur, you are shocking,” said Anastasia.</p> - -<p>“What shocks to-day is a commonplace to-morrow. -There will come a time when the custom that condemns -a couple to bore one another for life will be considered -a barbaric one. Why penalise people eternally for -the aberration of a season? Three year marriages -would give life back its colour, its passion, its romance. -People so soon grow physically indifferent to each -other. Flavoured with domesticity kisses lose their -rapture.”</p> - -<p>“You have the sentiments <i>épouventable</i>,” said Anastasia. -“Wait till you have marry.”</p> - -<p>“Me! You’ll never see me in the valley of the -shadow of matrimony. Would you spoil a good lover -by making an indifferent husband of him? No, we -never care for the things we have, and we always want -those we haven’t. If I were married to Helen of -Troy I’d be sneaking side glances at some little Mimi<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span> -Pinson across the way. And by the same token, -Madam, keep your eye on that husband of yours, for -even now he’s looking pretty hard at some one else.”</p> - -<p>And indeed I was, for there across the room was the -girl from Naples, Lucrezia Poppolini.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII<br /> - -“TOM, DICK AND HARRY”</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> partner who managed the forwarding department -of the firm of Madden & Company reported to the -partner who represented its manufacturing end that -the editor of the <i>Babbler</i> had accepted his story -<i>The Microbe</i>, for one of his weekly Tabloid Tales. -A cheque was enclosed for three guineas.</p> - -<p>The manufacturing partner looked up in a dazed -way from his manuscript, tapped his mighty brain -to quicken recollection of the story in question, signified -his approval, and bent again to his labours. Being -in the heart of a novel he dreaded distraction. These -necessary recognitions of every day existence made -it harder for him to lift himself back again into his -world of dream.</p> - -<p>However, in his sustained fits of abstraction he had a -worthy ally in the forwarding partner. Things came -to his hand in the most magical way, and his every -wish seemed anticipated. It was as if the whole -scheme of life conspired to favour the flow of inspiration. -Thus, when he was quietly told that lunch was -ready, and instead of eating would gaze vacantly at -the butter, there was no suggestion of his impending -insanity; neither, when he poured tea into the sugar -basin instead of into his cup, was there any demonstration -of alarm.</p> - -<p>On the other hand the forwarding partner might -often have been seen turning over the English magazines<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span> -displayed in front of the booksellers, and noting -their office addresses. She was wonderfully persistent, -but wofully unfortunate. Even the New York-London -article, which the manufacturing partner had told -her to send to the <i>Gotham Gleaner</i>, had been returned. -The editor was a personal friend of his, and had the -article been signed in his own name would probably -have taken it. As it was it did not get beyond a -sub-editor.</p> - -<p>“Throw the thing into the fire,” he said savagely -when she told him; but she promptly sent it to the -Sunday Magazine section of the <i>New York Monitor</i>. -After that she was silent on the subject of returned -manuscripts.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>I have forbidden Anastasia to sell any more embroidery, -so that she no longer spends long and late -hours over her needle. Instead she hovers about me -anxiously, doing her work with the least possible commotion.</p> - -<p>I have given her the forty francs remaining from -the sale of my seal and ring, and that, with the three -guineas from the <i>Babbler</i>, is enough to carry us on for -another month. It is extraordinary how we just -manage to scrape along.</p> - -<p>I wish to avoid all financial worry just now. My -story has taken hold of me and is writing itself at -the rate of three thousand words a day. No time now -to spend on meticulous considerations of style; as I -try to put down my teeming thoughts my pencil cannot -travel fast enough. It is the same frenzy of narration -with which I rattled off <i>The Haunted Taxicab</i> and its -fellow culprits. If at times that newborn conscience<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span> -of mine gives me qualms, I dull them with the thought -that it is just a tale told to amuse and—oh, how I -need the money!</p> - -<p>And now to come to my novel, <i>Tom, Dick and -Harry</i>.</p> - -<p>Three cockney clerks on a ten days’ vacation, are -tramping over a desolate moor in Wales. Tom is a -dreamer with a turn for literature; Dick an adventurer -who hates his desk; Harry an entertainer, with remote -designs on the stage.</p> - -<p>The scenery is wild and rugged. The road winds -between great boulders that suggest a prehistoric race. -The wind of the moor brings a glow to their cheeks, -and their pipes are in full blast. Suddenly outspeaks -Tom:</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t it be funny, you fellows, if a man clad in -skins were suddenly to dodge out from behind one of -these rocks, and we were to find that we were back in -the world of a thousand years ago—just as we -are now, you know, with all our knowledge of things?”</p> - -<p>“It wouldn’t be funny at all,” said Dick. “How -could we make use of our knowledge? What would -we do for a living?”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Tom thoughtfully, “I think I would -go in for the prophecy business. I could foretell -things that were going to happen, and—yes, I think -I’d try my hand at literary plagiarism. With all my -reading I could rehash enough modern yarns to put all -the tribal story-tellers out of business. I’d become -the greatest yarn-spinner in the world. What would -you do, Hal?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t think I’d have any trouble,” said Harry. -“I’d become the King’s harper. I think I could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span> -vamp on the harp all right. I’d revive all the popular -songs of the last ten years, all the minstrel songs, all -the sentimental ballads, all the national airs, and I’d -set them to topical words. I’d become the greatest -minstrel in the world. Now, Dick, it’s your turn.”</p> - -<p>Dick considered for so long that they fancied he was -at a loss. At last he drew a deep breath.</p> - -<p>“I know—I’d discover America.”</p> - -<p>They thought no more about it, and next day went -gaily a-climbing a local mountain. But Tom, who -was a poor climber, lagged behind his companions, and -began to slip. Clawing frantically at the rough rock -over the edge of the bluff he went, and fell to the -bottom with a crash.</p> - -<p>When he opened his eyes his head ached horribly. -Putting up his hand he found his scalp clotted with -blood. The heavy mist shut off everything but a -small circle all round him. As he lay wondering -what had become of his companions, suddenly he became -aware of strange people regarding him. Gradually -they came nearer and he saw that they were clad -in skins.</p> - -<p>Well, they take him prisoner and carry him off to -their village, where their head-man questions him in an -uncouth dialect. Then they send for a sage who also -questions him, and is much mystified at his replies. -“This wise greybeard,” thinks Tom, “seems to know -less than an average school-boy.”</p> - -<p>Then comes the news that two more of the strange -creatures have been captured. Once again the trio -are united.</p> - -<p>“It’s a rum go,” said Dick. “Seems we’ve slipped -back a thousand years.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span>“What particular period of history have we climbed -off at?” demanded Harry.</p> - -<p>“It looks to me,” said Tom, “as if we were in -Saxon England, just before the Norman Invasion. -From what the old gentleman tells me Harold is the -big chief.”</p> - -<p>“What will we do?”</p> - -<p>“Seems to me we’ll be all right. With a thousand -years or so of experience ahead of those fellows we -ought to become great men in this land. We were -mighty small fry in old London. I wish I was an -engineer, I’d invent gunpowder or something.”</p> - -<p>“We’d better carry out our original plans,” said -Dick.</p> - -<p>By and by came messengers from the king, who -wished to see these strange beings descended on his -earth from a star. And, indeed, it seemed to the three -friends as if they had really dropped on some planet a -thousand years less advanced than ours (for given -similar beginnings and conditions, will not history go -on repeating itself?). In any case, the king received -them with wonder and respect, and straightway they -were attached to the royal household.</p> - -<p>Gradually they adapted themselves to mediæval -ways, became accustomed to sleeping on straw, and to -eating like pigs; but even to the last they did not cease -to deplore the absence of small-tooth combs in the -toilet equipment of the royal family.</p> - -<p>The book goes on to trace the fortunes of each of its -three heroes. It tells how Harry captivated the court -with a buck-and-wing dance, set them turkey-trotting -to the strains of “Hitchy Koo,” and bunny-hugging to -the melody of “Down the Mississippi.” He even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span> -opened a private class for lessons in the Tango, and -initiated Tango Teas in which mead replaced the fragrant -orange pekoe. He invented the first banjo, demoralised -the court with the first ragtime. You should -have heard King Harold joining in the chorus of -“Waiting for the Robert E. Lee,” or singing as a -solo “You Made Me Love You.” Decidedly Harry -bid fair to be the most popular man in the kingdom.</p> - -<p>But Tom was running him a pretty close race. He -had become the Royal Story-teller, and nightly held -them breathless while he thrilled them with such marvels -as horseless chariots, men who fly with wings, and -lightning harnessed till it makes the night like day. -Yet when he hinted that such things may even come -to pass, what a howl of derision went up!</p> - -<p>“Ah, no!” cried King Harold, “these be not the -deeds of men but of the very gods.” And all the wise -men of the land wagged their grey beards in approval.</p> - -<p>So after that he gave Truth the cold shoulder, and -found fiction more grateful. He reconstructed all the -stock plots of to-day, giving them a Saxon setting; -and the characters that had taken the strongest hold -on the popular imagination he rehabilitated in Saxon -guise. The most childish tales would suffice. Night -after night would he rivet their attention with -“Aladdin” or “Bluebeard,” or “Jack and the Beanstalk.” -Just as Harry had made all the minstrels rend -their harp-strings, in despair, so Tom made all the -story-tellers blush with shame, and take to the Hinterlands.</p> - -<p>Poor Dick, however, was having a harder time of it. -Like a man inspired he was raving of a wonderful land -many days sail beyond the sea. But the stolid Saxons<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span> -refused to believe him. “Fancy believing one who -says the world is round! Surely the man is mad.”</p> - -<p>At last he fell in with some Danes who, seeing an -opportunity for piracy, agreed to let him be their pilot -to this golden land. They fitted out a vessel, and -sailed away to the West. But they were storm-driven -for many days, and finally their boat was wrecked on -the Arran Islands.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, William the Conqueror came on -the scene, and King Harold, refusing to listen to the -warning of Tom, gave fight to the Norman. Then -Tom and Harry beheld with their modern eyes that -epoch-making battle.</p> - -<p>“Oh, for a hundred men armed with modern rifles!” -said Tom. “Then we could conquer the whole world.”</p> - -<p>But with the subjugation of the Saxon, dark days -follow for the three friends. Harry, trying to get a -footing in the new court, and struggling with the new -language, is stabbed by a jealous court jester. Dick, -having escaped from the irate Danes, marries an Irish -princess and becomes one of the Irish kings. Tom, -continuing to indulge in his gift for prophecy, incurs -the dislike of the Church and is thrown into prison. -Then one bright morning he is led to be executed. He -lays his head on the block. The executioner raises -his axe. There is sudden blankness....</p> - -<p>“Yes, very interesting case,” he hears the doctor -saying. “Fell thirty feet. Came nasty whack on the -rocks. We’ve trepanned ... expect him to recover -consciousness quite soon....”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>One morning, about the beginning of July, I was -leading Dick through a whirl of adventure in the wilds<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span> -of darkest Ireland, when Anastasia entered. I looked -at her blankly.</p> - -<p>“Hullo! What’s wrong now?”</p> - -<p>“Oh! I am desolate. Please excuse me for trouble -you, darleen, but there is no help for it. We have -forget the rent, and once more it is necessary to be -paid.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, the rent, the awful, inevitable rent! What -a cursed institution it is! Well, Little Thing, I’ve -no money.”</p> - -<p>“What we do, darleen?”</p> - -<p>“It’s very unfortunate. I’m getting on so nicely -with my novel, and here I have to break off and worry -over matters of sordid finance.”</p> - -<p>“I’m so sorry. Let me sell some of my <i>hem-broderie</i>. -I sink I catch some money for that.”</p> - -<p>“No, I hate to let you do that. Stop! We’ll compromise. -Give me what you have and I’ll put it ‘up -the spout.’ It will be only for a little while.”</p> - -<p>So she gave me a cushion cover, two centre pieces, -and some little mats.</p> - -<p>“How much money is left?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Only about eleven franc.”</p> - -<p>“Hum! That won’t help us much. All right. -Leave it to me, and whatever you do, don’t worry. -I’ll raise the wind somehow.”</p> - -<p>So I took the suitcase, with the pieces of embroidery -I had previously bought, and carried the whole thing -to the Mont de Piété. I realised seventy francs for -the whole thing.</p> - -<p>“There you are,” I said on my return. “With the -eleven francs you have, that makes eighty-one. You’d<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> -better pay the rent for one month only. Then we -will have forty francs left. We can struggle along on -that for two weeks. By that time something else will -be sure to turn up.”</p> - -<p>Something did turn up—the very next day. The -editor of a cheap Weekly who had already begun to -make plans for his special Christmas number, wrote and -offered to take my diphtheria story if I would give it -a Christmas setting. I growled, and used shocking -language, but in the end I laid aside my novel and rechristening -the story <i>My Terrible Christmas</i>, I made -the necessary changes. Result: another cheque for a -guinea.</p> - -<p>How she managed to last out the balance of the -month on an average of two francs a day I never knew. -I discontinued my morning walks, giving all my time -to my novel, and thinking of nothing else. I was -dimly conscious that once more we were in the “Soup -of the Onion” zone, but as I sat down dazed to my -meals I scarce knew what I ate. I was all keyed up, -with my eyes on the goal. I would compose whole -chapters in my dreams, and sleeping or waking, my -mind was never off my work.</p> - -<p>Then came an evil week when the power of production -completely left me. How I cursed and fretted. -I was sick of the whole trade of writing. What a sorry -craft! And my work was rotten. I hated it. A fog -overhung my brain. I saw the whole world with distempered -eyes. I started out on long walks around -the fortifications, and as I walked everything seemed -to lose all sense of my identity. Yet the fresh air was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> -good to me, and the weaving of green leaves had a -strange sweetness. The river, too, soothed me; then -one day all my interest in the world came back.</p> - -<p>At six o’clock that evening I began to work, and all -night through I wrote like a madman. As I finished -covering a sheet I would throw it on the floor and grab -a fresh one. I was conscious that my wrist ached -infernally. The dawn came and found me still writing, -my face drawn, my eyes staring vaguely. Then at -eleven in the morning I had finished. I was islanded -in a sea of sheets, over twelve thousand words.</p> - -<p>“Please pick them up for me,” I asked her. “I’m -afraid it’s awful stuff, but I just had to go on. Everything -seemed so plain, and I just wanted to get it down -and out of my mind. Well, it’s done, my novel’s done. -See, I’ve written the sweetest of all words: Finis. -But I’m so tired. No, I don’t want any lunch. I’ll -just lie down a bit.”</p> - -<p>With a feeling of happiness that was like a flood of -sunshine I crept into bed, and there I slept till eight of -the following morning. Next day all I did was to loaf -around the Luxembourg in the joyance of leaf and -flower. I was still fagged, but so happy. As I -smoked a tranquil pipe I watched the children on the -merry-go-round. They were given little spears, with -which to tilt at rings hung round the course, and if -they bagged a certain number they were entitled to a -seat for the next round. To watch the rosy and -eager faces of these youthful knights on their fiery -steeds, as they rode with lances couched, was a gentle -specific for the soul.</p> - -<p>Yes, everything seemed so good, so bright, so beneficent. -I loved that picture full of freshness, gaiety<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span> -and youth. Anastasia and the Môme joined me, and -we listened to the band under the marronniers. Then -we lingered on the Terrace of the Queen’s to watch -the sky behind the <i>Tower Eiffel</i> kindle to a glow of -amber, and a wondrous golden tide o’erflooding the -groves till each leaf seemed radiant and the fountain -exulted in a spray of flame.</p> - -<p>Suddenly the Môme gave a cry of delight. Listen! -In the distance we could hear a noise like a hum of -bees. It is the little soldier, who every evening at -closing time, parades the garden with his drum, warning -every one it is time to go. This to the children is -the crown of all the happy day. Hasten Sylvere and -Yvonne—it is the little soldier. Fall in line, Francois -and Odette, we must march to the music. Gather round -Cyprille, Maurice, Victoire: follow to the rattle of the -drum. Here he comes, the little blue and red soldier. -How sturdily he beats! With what imperturbable -dignity he marches amid that scampering, jostling, -laughing, shouting mob of merry-hearted children!</p> - -<p>“After all,” I observe, “struggle, poverty and hard -work give us moments of joy such as the rich never -know. I want to put it on record, that though we -are nearly at the end of our resources, this has been -one of the happiest days of my life.”</p> - -<p>“I weesh you let me go to work, darleen. I make -some money for help. I sew for dressmaker if you -let me.”</p> - -<p>“Never. How near are we to the end?”</p> - -<p>“I have enough for to-morrow only.”</p> - -<p>“That’s bad.” I didn’t say any more. A gloom -fell on my spirits.</p> - -<p>“A letter for Monsieur,” said the concierge, as with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span> -heavy hearts and slow steps we mounted to our rooms. -I handed it to Anastasia.</p> - -<p>“Open it, Little Thing; it’s in your department.”</p> - -<p>She did so; she gave a little scream of delight.</p> - -<p>“Look! It’s for that article I send to <i>New York -Monitor</i>. He geeve you cheque. Let me see.... -Oh, <i>mon Dieu</i>! one hundred franc! good, good, now we -are save!”</p> - -<p>I took it quickly.</p> - -<p>“One hundred francs nothing,” I said. “Young -woman, you’ve got to get next to our monetary system. -That’s not one hundred francs; that’s one hundred -dollars—<i>five</i> hundred francs. Why, what’s the matter?”</p> - -<p>For Anastasia had promptly fainted.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX<br /> - -AN UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENT</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">I ascribed</span> Anastasia’s fainting spell to the somewhat -sketchy meals we had been having; so for the next -few weeks I fed her up anxiously. That same evening -we held a special meeting of the Finance Committee to -consider our improved position.</p> - -<p>“Be under no illusion,” I observed as Chairman, -“with reference to our recent success. It is not, as -you might imagine, the turn of the tide. There are -three reasons why this particular article was accepted: -First, it was snappy and up-to-date; second, it compared -Manhattan and Modern Babylon in a way favourable -to the former; third, and chief reason, the -editor happened to have some very good cuts that he -could work in to make an attractive spread. Given -these inducements, and a temporary lack of more exciting -matter, any offering can dispense with such a -detail as literary merit.”</p> - -<p>Here I regarded some jottings I had made on an envelope.</p> - -<p>“Let us now see how we stand. We started with -twelve manuscripts, of which we have sold four. -There remain five more articles, and three fairy stories. -The articles I regard as time wasted. People won’t read -straight descriptive stuff; even in novels one has to -sneak it in.”</p> - -<p>Here the Secretary regarded ruefully some manuscripts -rather the worse for postal transit.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>“Go on wasting stamps on them if you like,” I continued; -“but, candidly, they’re the wrong thing. As -for the fairy stories, where are they now?”</p> - -<p>“I have sent them to the <i>Pickadeely Magazine</i>.”</p> - -<p>“They might have some chance there. The editor -devotes a certain space to children that aren’t grown -up. Now as to funds.”</p> - -<p>The Secretary sat down, and the Treasurer rose in her -place. She stated that there were five hundred francs -in the treasury, of which a hundred would be needed to -pay the rent up to the end of September. Two hundred -francs would have to be allowed for current expenses; -that would leave a hundred for contingencies.</p> - -<p>“Very good,” I said; “I move that the money -be expended as suggested. And now—two blissful -months of freedom from worry in which to re-write my -novel. Thank Heaven!”</p> - -<p>With that I plunged into my work as strenuously -as before. I must confess I re-read it with a tremor. -It was bad, but—not too bad. Unconsciously I had -reverted to my yarn-spinning style, yet often in the -white heat of inspiration I had hit on the master-word -just as surely as if I had pondered half a day. However, -the result as a whole I regarded with disfavour. -The work was lacking in distinction, in reserve, in the -fine art of understatement. Instead of keeping my -story well in hand I had let it gallop away with me. -Truly I was incorrigible.</p> - -<p>“Anastasia,” I said one day, as I was about half -through with my revision, “you’re always asking if -there’s no way you can help me. I can suggest one.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, good! What is it?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I know where I can hire a typewriter for a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span> -month very cheaply. You might try your hand at -punching out this wonderful work of fiction on it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that please me very much.”</p> - -<p>“All right. I’ll fetch the instrument of torture.”</p> - -<p>It was a very old machine, of eccentric mechanism -and uncouth appearance. With fumbling hesitation -she began. About a word a minute was her average, -and that word a mistake; but rapidly she progressed. -Sometimes I would hear a vigorous: “Nom d’un -Chien!” and would find that she had gone over the -same line twice. Then again, she would get her carbon -paper wrong, and the duplicate would come out on the -back of the original. At other times it was only that -she had run over the edge of the paper.</p> - -<p>The typewriter, too, was somewhat lethargic in action. -It seemed to say: “I’m so old in service, and -my joints are so stiff—surely I might be allowed to -take my own time. If you try to hurry me I’ll get my -fingers tangled, or I’ll jam my riband, or I’ll make -all kinds of mistakes. Really, it’s time I was superannuated.” -No beginner, even in a Business School, -ever tackled a more decrepit and cantankerous machine, -and it said much for her patience that she turned out -such good copy.</p> - -<p>So passed August and most of September—day -after day of grinding work in sweltering heat; I, pruning, -piecing, chopping, changing; she pounding patiently -at that malcontent machine. Then at last, -after a long, hard day it was done. The sunshine was -mellow on the roofs as I watched her write the closing -words. She handed the page to me, and, regarding the -sunlight almost sorrowfully, she folded her tired hands.</p> - -<p>Two tears stole down her pale cheeks.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>All at once I saw how worn and weary she was. -Thin, gentle, sad—more than ever like a child she -looked, with her exquisite profile, and the heaped-up -masses of her dark hair; more than ever like a child -with her shrinking figure and her delicate pallor: yet -she would soon be nineteen. The idea came to me that -in my passion of creative egotism I had given little -thought to her.</p> - -<p>“Why, what’s the matter, Little Thing? Are you -sick?”</p> - -<p>She looked at me piteously.</p> - -<p>“Have you not see? Have you not guess?”</p> - -<p>“No, what?” I demanded in a tone of alarm.</p> - -<p>“Pretty soon you are going to be a fazzer.”</p> - -<p>“My God!”</p> - -<p>I could only gasp and stare at her.</p> - -<p>“Well, are you not going to kees me, and say you -are not sorry?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes. There, Little Thing ... I—I’m -glad.”</p> - -<p>But there was no conviction in my tone, and I sat -gazing into vacancy. In my intense preoccupation -never had such a thing occurred to me. It came as a -shock, as something improper, as one of those brutal -realities that break in so wofully on the serenities of -life. There was a ridiculous side to it, too. I saw -myself sheepishly wheeling a baby carriage, and I muttered -with set teeth: “Never!”</p> - -<p>“Confound it all! It’s so embarrassing,” I thought -distressfully. “It upsets my whole programme. It -makes life more complex, and I am trying to make it -more simple. It gives me new responsibilities, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> -my every effort is to avoid them. Worst of all, it -seems to sound the death-knell of my youth. To feel -like a boy has always been my ideal of well-being, and -how can one feel like a boy with a rising son to remind -one of maturity?”</p> - -<p>Perhaps, however, it would be a daughter. Somehow -that didn’t seem so bad. So to change the subject -I suggested that we take a walk along the river. As -we went through the Tuileries all of the western city -seemed to wallow in flame. The sky rolled up in -tawny orange, and the twin towers of the Trocadero -were like arms raised in distress amid a conflagration. -The river was a welter of lilac fire, while above the -portal of the Grand Palace the chariot driver held his -rearing horses in a blaze of glory. To the east all -was light and enchantment, as a thousand windows -burned like imperial gems, and tower and spire and -dome shimmered in a delicate dust of gold.</p> - -<p>“What a city, this Paris!” I murmured. “Add -but three letters to it and you have Paradise.”</p> - -<p>“Where you are, darleen, to me it is always Paradise,” -said Anastasia.</p> - -<p>In the tranquil moods of matrimony, how is it -that one shrinks so from sentiment? On the Barbary -Coasts of Love we excel in it. In books, on the stage, -we revel in it; but when it comes to the hallowed -humdrum of the home it suits us better to be curtly -commonplace. This is so hard for the Latin races to -understand. They are so emotional, so unconscious -in their affection. Doubtless Anastasia put down my -reserve to coldness, but I could not help it.</p> - -<p>“Look here, Little Thing,” I said, as we walked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span> -home, “you mustn’t work any more. Let’s go to the -country for a week or two. Let’s go to Fontainebleau.”</p> - -<p>“How we get money?”</p> - -<p>“We’ll use that extra hundred francs.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but when that is spend?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t worry. Something will turn up. Let’s -go.”</p> - -<p>“If you like it. I shall love it, the rest, the good -air. Just one week.”</p> - -<p>“And let’s take the Môme with us. Frosine will let -her go. It will be such a treat for her. Perhaps, too, -Helstern will spare a few days and join us.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, it will all be so nice.”</p> - -<p>So next day I bundled up <i>Tom, Dick and Harry</i>, and -under the name of Silenus Starset, I sent it off to the -publishers of my other novels.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been thinking, Little Thing,” I said, “that -when we come back we’d better give up the apartment -and take a room. We can save over twenty francs a -month like that. It won’t be for long. When the -novel’s accepted, there will be an end of our troubles.”</p> - -<p>“Just as you like it. I’ve been very happy.”</p> - -<p>Helstern promised to meet us in the forest, so that -afternoon with the Môme and a hundred francs we took -the train to Barbizon. If we had not both been avid -for it, that holiday would have been worth while only -to see the rapture of the Môme. It was her first -sight of the real country, and she was delirious with -delight. Anastasia had a busy time answering her -questions, trying to check her excitement, gently restraining -her jerking arms and legs. Her eyes shone,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span> -her tongue rattled, her head pivoted eagerly, and many -on the train watched her with amusement.</p> - -<p>As we rolled through the country of Millet, the -westering sun slanted across the level fields, catching -the edges of the furrows, and launching long shadows -across the orchards. We took rooms in a cottage in -Barbizon. From the sun-baked street a step, and we -were in the thick of the forest, drowned in leafy twilight -and pine-scented solitude. And with every turn, -under that canopy of laughing leaves, the way grew -wilder and more luring. The molten sunshine dripped -through branches, flooding with gold the ferny hollows, -dappling with amber the russet pathway. Down, -through the cool green aisles it led in twilights of translucent -green, mid pillering oak and yielding carpets of -fine-powdered cones. And ever the rocks grew more -grotesque, taking the shapes of griffins and primordial -beasts, all mottled with that splendid moss of crimson, -green, and gold. Then it grew on one that wood nymphs -were about, that fawns were peeping from the lightning-splintered -oaks, and that the spell of the forest was -folding one around.</p> - -<p>On the second day Helstern joined us. He was -gloomily enthusiastic, pointing out to me beauties of -form and colour I would have idly passed. He made -me really feel ashamed of my crassness. What a gifted, -acute chap! But, oh, how atrabilious!</p> - -<p>“For Heaven’s sake, old man,” I said one day, “don’t -be so pessimistic.”</p> - -<p>“How can a man be other than pessimistic,” he answered, -“with a foot like mine. Just think what it -means. Look here.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span>Rolling up his sleeve he showed me an arm a sculptor -might have raved over.</p> - -<p>“If I’d been all right, what an athlete I’d have made. -Look at my torso, my other leg. And my whole heart -is for action, for energy, for deeds. Just think how -much that makes life worth while is barred to me. -And I shrink from society, especially where there are -women. I’m always thinking they pity me. Oh, that’s -gall and wormwood—to be pitied! I should have a -wife, children, a home, yet here I am a lonely, brooding -misanthrope; and I’m only forty-six.”</p> - -<p>Yet he cheered up when the Môme was near. The -two were the greatest of friends now, and it was a -notable sight to see the big man with his Forbes Robertson -type of face and his iron-grey mane, leading by -the hand the little girl of five with the slender limbs, -the pansy-blue eyes, and the honey-yellow hair.</p> - -<p>And what exciting tales the Môme would have to tell -on her return: how they had surprised a deer nibbling -at the short grass; how a wild boar with tushes gleaming -had glared at them out of the brake; how an eagle had -arisen from a lonely gorge! Then there were lizards -crawling on the silver-grey rocks, and the ceaseless -calling of cuckoos, and scolding squirrels, and drumming -woodpeckers. Oh, that was the happy child! Yet -sometimes I wondered if the man was not as happy in -his own way.</p> - -<p>He was a queer chap, was Helstern. I remember one -time we all sat together on a fallen log, and the sky -seen through the black bars of the pines was like a fire -of glowing coals. Long, serene and mellow the evening -lengthened to a close.</p> - -<p>“You know,” said the sculptor, as he pulled steadily<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span> -at the Turk’s head pipe, and regarded the Môme -thoughtfully, “I believe that all children should be -reared and educated by the State. Then there would -be no unfair handicapping of the poor: each child would -find its proper place in the world.”</p> - -<p>“What would you do with the home?”</p> - -<p>“I would surely destroy the millions of unworthy -homes, stupid homes, needy homes, bigoted -homes, sordid homes. I would replace these with a -great glorious Home, run by a beneficent State, where -from the very cradle children would be developed -and trained on scientific principles, where they would -be taught that the noblest effort of man is the service -of man; the most ignoble, the seeking of money. I -would teach them to live for the spiritual, not the -sensual benefits of life. Many private homes do not -teach these things. Their influence is pernicious. -How many men can look back on such homes and not -declare them bungling makeshifts, either stupidly narrow, -or actually unhappy?”</p> - -<p>“You would destroy the love ties of parent and -child?”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. I would strengthen them. As it is, -how many children are educated away from their -homes, in convents, boarding-schools, <i>Lycees</i>? Do -they love their parents any the less? No; the more, -for they do not see so much that is weak and contemptible -in them. But if mothers wish, let them enter -the State nurseries and nurse their own little ones—not -according to our bungling, ignorant methods, but -according to the methods of science. Then the youngsters -would not be exposed to the anxieties that darken -the average home; they would not pick up and perpetuate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span> -the vulgarities of their parents. The child of -the pauper would be just as refined as the child of -the peer. Think what that would mean; a breaking -down of all class distinction. The word ‘gentleman’ -would come into its true significance, and in a few -years we would have a new race, with new ideals, new -ambitions, new ways of thought.”</p> - -<p>“You would educate them, too?”</p> - -<p>“They would have all the education they wanted, but -not in the present way. They would be taught to -examine, to reason: not to accept blindly the beliefs of -their fathers; to sift, to analyse: not to let themselves -be crammed with ready-made ideas. I would not try -to turn them all out in one mould, as the pedagogues -do; I would try to develop their originality. Question -and challenge would be their attitude. I would -establish ‘Chairs of Inquiry.’ I would teach them -that the circle is not round, and that two and two do -not make four. Up the great stairway of Truth would -I lead them, so that standing on its highest point they -might hew still higher steps in the rock of knowledge.”</p> - -<p>“And how would you pay for this national nursery -nonsense?”</p> - -<p>“By making money uninheritable. I believe the -hope of the future, the triumph of democracy, the very -salvation of the race lies in the State education of the -children. The greatest enemies of the young are the -old. Instead of the child honouring the parents, the -parents should honour the child; for if there’s any virtue -in evolution the son ought to be an improvement on -the father.”</p> - -<p>In the growing darkness I could see the bowl of his -pipe glow and fade. I was not paying much attention<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span> -to what he was saying, but there in that scented pine-gloom -it was a pleasure to listen to that rich, vibrating -voice.</p> - -<p>“I want to be fair, I want to be just, I want to see -every man do his share of the world’s work. Let him -earn as much money as he likes, but at his death let it -revert to the State for the general education of the race, -not to pamper and spoil his own particular progeny. -Let the girls be taught the glory of motherhood, and the -men military duty; then, fully equipped for the struggle, -let all go forth. How simple it is! How sane! -Yet we’re blind, so blind.”</p> - -<p>“Solonge is sleeping in my arms,” said Anastasia. -“I sink it is time we must go home.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER X<br /> - -THE LIFE AND DEATH OF DOROTHY MADDEN</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> time was drawing near when I would become a -father. Yet as the hour of my trial approached I -realised that I was glad, glad. I hoped it would be a -girl; nay, I was sure it would be a girl; a little, dark, -old-fashioned girl, whose hand I would hold on my -rambles, and whose innocent mind I would watch unfolding -like a flower. And I would call her ... yes, -I would call her Dorothy.</p> - -<p>Dorothy! How sweet the name sounded! But no -sweeter than my little daughter—of that I was sure. -I could feel her hand, small as a rose leaf, nestling in -mine; see her innocent, tarn-brown eyes gazing upward -into my face. Then as she ran and eagerly plucked a -vagrant blossom I would weave about it some charming -legend. I would people the glade with fairies for her, -and the rocks with gnomes. In her I would live over -again my own wonderful childhood. She, too, would be -a dreamer, sharing that wonderful kingdom of mine, -understanding me as no other had ever done.</p> - -<p>Then when she grew up, what a wonderful woman -she would be! How proud she would be of me! How, -in old age, when my hair grew white, and my footsteps -faltered, she would take my arm, and together we would -walk round the old garden in the hush of eventide.</p> - -<p>“Wonderful destiny!” I cried, inspired by the sentimental -pictures unfolding themselves before me. “I -can see myself older yet, an octogenarian. My back is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span> -bent, my hair is snowy white, I have a venerable -beard, and kindly eyes that shine through gold-rimmed -spectacles. A tartan shawl is round my shoulders, and -my hands, as they rest on my silver-headed cane, are -glazed and crinkly. But, crowning glory! Greater -than that array of children of my mind for which men -give me honour, are the children of my flesh who play -around my knee, my grandchildren. There will be -such a merry swarm of them, and in their joyous laughter -I will grow young again. Oh, blessed destiny! To -be a father is much; but to be a grandfather so infinitely -nobler—and less trouble.”</p> - -<p>The more I thought over it, the more I became impressed. -My imminent paternity became almost an -obsession with me. My marriage had surprised me. -No time had I to embroider it with the flowers of fancy, -but this was different. So engrossed did I become with -a sense of my own importance that you would have -thought no one had ever become a father before. In -my enthusiasm I told Lorrimer of my interesting condition, -but the faun-like young man rather damped my -ardour.</p> - -<p>“Marriage,” he observed, in his usual cynical manner, -“is a lottery, in which the prizes are white elephants. -But Fatherhood, that’s the sorriest of gambles. -True, as you suggest, your daughter may marry the -President of the United States, but on the other hand -she may turn out to be another Brinvilliers. She may -be a Madame de Staël and she may be a Pompadour. -Then again, you may have a family of a dozen.”</p> - -<p>“But I won’t,” I protested indignantly.</p> - -<p>“Well, just suppose. You may have a dozen ordinary -respectable tax-payers and one rotter. Don’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span> -you think the black sheep will discount all your successful -efforts? Really, old man, you’re taking an awful -chance. Then after all it’s an ungrateful business. -The girls get married and enter the families of their -husbands; the boys either settle far away, or get wives -you don’t approve of. Anyway, you lose them. At -the worst you beget a criminal, at the best an ingrate. -It’s a poor business. However, cheer up, old man: -we’ll hope for the best.”</p> - -<p>Helstern, on the other hand, took a different view of -it. The sculptor was sombrely enthusiastic.</p> - -<p>“You must let me do a group of it, Madden. I’ll -call it the First-born. I’m sure I could take a gold -medal with it.”</p> - -<p>He led me to a café and in his tragic tones ordered -beer in which we drank to the health of the First-born.</p> - -<p>“Just think of it,” he rolled magnificently, his visionary -instincts aroused; “just think of that little human -soul waiting to be born, and it’s you that give it the -chance to enter this world. Oh, happy man! Just -think of all the others, the countless hosts of the unborn -waiting their turn. Why, it’s an inspiring sight, these -wistful legions, countless as the sands of the sea. And -it’s for us to welcome them, to be the means of opening -the door to as many as possible, to give them beautiful -bodies to enter into, and to make the world more pleasant -for them to dwell in. Now, there’s a glorious ambition -for us all. Let parenthood be the crowning -honour of life. Let it be the duty of the race to so -improve conditions that there will be the right kind of -welcome waiting for them—that they will be fit and -worthy in body and soul to live the life that is awaiting -them.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span>He drank deeply from his big stein, and wiped some -foam from his lips.</p> - -<p>“Why, it’s more than an ambition: it’s a religion. -The Japanese worship the Dead; let us worship the -Unborn, the great races who are to come, the people -we are going to help to make great. For on us it all -depends, on us to-day. Every action of ours is like a -pebble thrown in a still sea, the waves of which go -rippling down eternity. Yes, let us realise our responsibility -to the Unborn, and govern our lives accordingly -in grace and goodliness. There! that goes to -the very heart of all morality—to live our best, not -because we are expecting to be rewarded, but because -we are making for generations to come better bodies, -better homes, better lives. And they in their turn will -realise their duty to the others that are crowding on, -and make the world still worthier for their occupation.”</p> - -<p>He filled his Turk’s head pipe thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“I want to go further,” he went on, “but the rest -is more fanciful. I believe that the armies of the Unborn -know that it all depends on us here to-day what -kind of deal they are going to get, and in their vast, -blind way they are trying to influence us. I like to -think that that is the great impulse towards good we -all feel, the power that in spite of selfishness, is gradually -lifting us onward and upward. It is the multitude -to come, trying in their blind, pitiful way to influence -us, to make us better. There they wait, the soldiers of -the future, ready to take up the great fight, to carry -the banner of freedom, happiness, and mutual love to -the golden goal of universal brotherhood. Truly I worship -the Unborn.”</p> - -<p>He lit his pipe solemnly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>“Then, let me congratulate you, Madden. You are -a very lucky man.”</p> - -<p>Much cheered I thanked him and, absorbed in my -dreams of paternity, continued to tramp the streets. -All the time I was seeing that slim little girl of mine, -with her long dark hair, her hazel eyes, her quaint, -old-fashioned ways. And as the day drew near she -grew more and more real to me. I could feel her -caressing arms around my neck, and her rosebud mouth -pressed to mine. Truly she was the most adorable -child that ever lived.</p> - -<p>One piece of luck we had at this period: The fairy -stories were accepted by the <i>Piccadilly Magazine</i> and -we got ten pounds for them, thus saving the situation -once again.</p> - -<p>When the time came that we should obtain a new -lodging I had taken a room in the rue D’Assas, but I -was immediately sorry, for I discovered that it overlooked -the Maternity Hospital Tarnier. The very first -morning I saw a young woman coming out with a new -baby. She was a mere girl, hatless and all alone, and -she cried very bitterly.</p> - -<p>Then that night, as I was preparing to ascend the -stairs, I heard terrible shrieks coming from the great, -gloomy building as if some woman within were being -painfully murdered. For a moment I paused, stricken -with horror. There was a cab drawn up close by, and -the <i>cocher</i> was pacing beside it. He was the typical -Parisian cab-driver, corpulent and rubicund, the product -of open air, no brain worry, and generous living. He -indicated the direction of the appalling cries: “The -world’s not coming to an end just yet,” he observed -with a great rosy grin.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span>Nor was the view from our window conducive of more -cheerful thoughts. I could look right down into one -of the wards, a great, barn-like place, mathematically -monotonous, painfully clean. There were the white -enamelled beds, each with its face of pain on the pillow, -its tumbled bedding, agony-twisted or still in -apathy. Then in the night I suddenly started, for once -again I heard those awful sounds. They began as long, -half-stifled moans ... then screams, each piercing, -sharp-edged with agony, holding a strange note of terror -... then shriek upon shriek till the ultimate expression -of human agony seemed to be reached ... -then sudden silence.</p> - -<p>At least twice during the night this would happen, -and often in the morning there would be a dismal little -funeral cortége standing outside the gates: a man dabbing -red eyes with a handkerchief would herd some -blubbering children into a carriage, and drive after a -hearse in which lay a coffin. It was all very melancholy, -and preyed on my spirits. I wondered how people -could live here always; but no doubt they got -hardened. No doubt this was why we got our room so -cheaply.</p> - -<p>Then at last the day came when Little Thing held me -very tightly, gave me a long, hard kiss and left me, to -pass through that portal of pain. Back I went to the -room again. How empty it seemed now! I was -miserable beyond all words. I had dinner at the Lilas, -and for two hours sat moodily brooding over my coffee. -What amazed me was that other men could go through -this trial time after time and take it with such calmness. -The long-haired poets, the <i>garçons</i> with their tight, -white aprons—were they fathers too? A girl came<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span> -and sat by me, a girl with high cheek-bones, snake-like -eyes, and a mouth like a red scar. I rose with dignity, -sought my room and my bed.</p> - -<p>There I fell into a troubled doze in which I dreamed -of Dorothy. She had grown up and had made her -<i>début</i> as an operatic star with overwhelming success. -How proud I was of her! Then suddenly as I gazed, -she changed to the young woman of the café, who had -looked at me so meaningly. I awoke with a crushing -sense of distress.</p> - -<p>Hark! Was that a scream? It seemed to cleave -my very heart. But then it might be some one else. -There was no distinguishing quality in these screams. -Trull or princess they were all alike, just plain mothers -crying in their agony. No, I could not tell ... but it -was too terrible. I dressed hurriedly and went out into -the streets.</p> - -<p>At three in the morning Paris is a city of weird fascination. -It turns to us a new side, sinister, dark, -mysterious. Even as the rats gather in its gutters, so -do the human rats take possession of its pavements. -Every one you meet seems on evil bent, and in the dim -half-light you speculate on their pursuits. Here come -two sauntering demireps with complexions of vivid -certainty; there a rake-hell reels homeward from the -night dens of Montmartre; now it is a wretched gatherer -of cigarette stubs, peering hawk-eyed as he shambles -along; then two dark, sallow youths, with narrow faces, -glinting eyes, and unlit cigarettes in their cynical -mouths—the sinister Apache.</p> - -<p>Coming up the Boul’ Mich’ were a stream of tumbrels -from the Halles, and following their trail I came on a -scene bewildering in its movement and clamour. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span> -carts that had been arriving since the previous night -had gorged the ten pavilions that form the great Paris -Market till they overflowed far into the outlying streets. -The pavements were blocked with heaps of cabbages -and cauliflowers, carrots and turnips, celery and asparagus, -while a dozen different kinds of salad gleamed -under the arc-lights with a strange unnatural viridity. -In other parts of the market crates of chickens and rabbits -were being dumped on the pavements; fresh fish -from the coast were being unloaded in dripping, salty -boxes; and a regiment of butchers in white smocks -were staggering under enough sides of beef to feed an -army.</p> - -<p>What an orgy of colour it was! You might pass -from the corals and ivorys of the vegetable market to -the fierce crimsons of the meat pavilion; from the silver -greys of the section devoted to fish, to the golden yellows -of the hall dedicated to butter, and cheese. There -were a dozen shades of green alone—from the light, -glossy green of the lettuce to the dull green of the -cress; a dozen shades of red—from the pale pink of -the radish to the dark crimson of the beet.</p> - -<p>Through this tumult of confusion I pushed my way. -Hurrying porters in red night-caps, with great racks of -osier strapped on their backs, rushed to and fro, panting, -and dripping with sweat. Strapping red-faced -women with the manner of men ordered them about. A -self-reliant race, these women of the Halles, accustomed -to hold their own in the fierce struggle of competition, -to eat and drink enormously, to be exposed to the -weather in all seasons. Their voices are raucous, their -eyes sharp, their substantial frames swathed in many -layers of clothes. Their world is the market; they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span> -were born in its atmosphere, they will die with its -clamour in their ears.</p> - -<p>And from the surrounding slums what a sea of misery -seemed to wash up! At this time you may see human -flotsam that is elsewhen invisible. In the bustling confusion -of the dawn the human rats slink out of their -holes to gain a few sous; not much—just four sous for -soup and bread, four sous for a corner in the dosshouse, -and a few sous for cognac. Here flourish all the <i>métiers</i> -of misery. I saw five old women whose combined ages -must have made up four hundred years, huddled together -for warmth, and all sunk in twitching, shuddering -sleep. I saw outcast men with livid faces and rat-chewed -beards, whose clothes rotted on their rickety -frames. I saw others dazed from a debauch, goggle-eyed, -blue-lipped pictures of wretchedness. And the -drinking dens in the narrow streets vomited forth more -wanton women, and malevolent men, till it seemed to me -that never does misery seem so pitiable, never vice so -repulsive, as when it swirls round those teeming pavilions -at four o’clock of a raw, rainy morning.</p> - -<p>Suddenly I stopped to look at a female of unusual -height and robust rotundity. A woman merchant of -the markets, seemingly of substance no less than of -flesh. Her voice was deep and hoarse, her eyes hard -and grim, and the firmness of her mouth was accentuated -by a deliberate moustache. A masculine woman. -A truculent, overbearing woman. A very virago of a -woman. Her complexion was of such a hard redness, -her Roman nose so belligerent. On her bosom, which -outstood like the seat of a fauteuil, reposed a heavy -gold chain and locket. On her great, red wrists were -bracelets of gold; and on her hands, which looked as if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span> -they could deliver a sledge-hammer blow, sparkled many -rings. Beside this magnificent termagant her perspiring -porters looked pusillanimous. “Here,” thought I, -“is the very Queen of the Halles.”</p> - -<p>She was enthroned amid a pile of wicker crates containing -large grey shells. As I looked closer I saw -that the grey shells contained grey snails, and that -those on the top of the heap were peering forth and -shooting out tentative grey horns. Some of them were -even crawling up the basket work. Then as I watched -them curiously a label on the crate caught my eye and -I read:</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Madame Séraphine Guinoval</span><br /> -Marchande d’Escargots<br /> -Les Halles, Paris.</p> - -<p>“Guinoval,” I thought: “that’s odd. Surely I’ve -heard that name before. Why, it’s the maiden name of -Anastasia. The name of this enormous woman, then, -is Guinoval. Sudden idea! Might it not be that there -is some relationship between them?” But the contrast -between my slight, shrinking Anastasia with her child-like -face and this dragoon of a woman was so great that -I dismissed the idea as absurd.</p> - -<p>I was very tired when I reached home. I had been -afoot four hours, and dropping on my bed I fell asleep. -About eleven o’clock I awoke with a vague sense of fear. -Something had happened, I felt. Hurrying down, I -entered the hospital.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” they told me; “my wife had been confined -during the night. She was very weak, but doing well.”</p> - -<p>“And the child,” I asked, trying to conceal my -eagerness. “Was it a boy or a girl?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>“The child, Monsieur, was a girl” (how my heart -leapt); “but unfortunately it—had not lived.”</p> - -<p>“Dead!” I stammered; then after a stunned moment:</p> - -<p>“Can I see her? Can I see my child?”</p> - -<p>So they took me to something that lay swathed in -linen. I started with a curious emotion of pain. That! -so grotesque, so pitiful,—that, the gracious girl who -was going to be so much to me, the sweet companion -who was going to understand me as no one else could, -the precious comfort of my declining years! Oh, the -bitter mockery of it!</p> - -<p>And so next day, alone in a single cab I took to the -cemetery all that was mortal of Dorothy Madden.</p> - -<p class="center">END OF BOOK II</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">BOOK III—THE AWAKENING</h2> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I<br /> - -THE STRESS OF THE STRUGGLE</h3> -</div> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Look</span> here, Madden, you really ought to try and -shake off your melancholy,” said Helstern, as we sat in -front of the Café Soufflet.</p> - -<p>“To hear you call me melancholy,” I retorted, “is -like hearing the pot call the kettle black. And anyway -you’ve never lost an only child.”</p> - -<p>“I believe you’re a little mad,” said the sculptor, -observing me closely.</p> - -<p>“Are we not all of us just a little mad? Would -you have us entirely sane? What a humdrum world -that would be! I hate people who are so egregiously -sane.”</p> - -<p>“But you’re letting this idea of yours altogether -obsess you. You’ve created an imaginary child, just -as you might have created one in fiction, only ten times -more vividly. Then when the earthly frame into which -it was to pass proves too frail to hold it you refuse to -let it die. You keep on thinking: ‘My daughter! my -daughter!’ And spiritually you reach out to a being -that only exists in your imagination.”</p> - -<p>“She doesn’t, Helstern; that’s where you’re wrong. -I thought so at first, but now I know. She really exists, -exists in that wonderful world we can only dimly -conjecture. She sought for admission to this our world<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> -and it was denied her; but she lives in the spirit. She -will grow up in the spirit; and, even as if she were a -child of the flesh, I who loved her so well have her -always.”</p> - -<p>“Rubbish! Look here, I see what’s the matter with -you. You’ve got the fictionists’ imagination. This is -only a creature of your brain. Kill it, as Dickens killed -little Dombey, as the female novelists kill their little -Willies and little Evas. Kill it.”</p> - -<p>“Man, would you make a parricide of me? Murder -is not done with hands alone. I loved this child as -never in my life have I loved any one. It’s strange—I -don’t believe I ever did really love any one before. -I’ve had an immense affection for people; but for -Dorothy I would have died.”</p> - -<p>“You make me tired, man. She’s not real.”</p> - -<p>“She is—to me; and supposing for a moment that -she isn’t, is it not the case that we can never care for -real persons with their faults and follies as we can for -our idealised abstractions? We never really love any -one till we’ve lost them. But, as you say, I must rouse -myself.”</p> - -<p>“Why, of course. Granted that she really exists in -the spirit, let her presence be a sweetness and an inspiration -to you, not a gnawing sorrow. Buck up!”</p> - -<p>“You’re right. I must get to my writing at once. -After all I have my wife to think of. She loves me.”</p> - -<p>“She surely does, devotedly. You have a treasure -in her, and you don’t realise it.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose not. My work takes so much of the -power of feeling out of me. My emotional life is sacrificed -to it. The world I create is more real to me than -the world about me. I don’t think the creative artist<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span> -should marry. He only makes an apology for a husband.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I think a man with the artistic temperament -ought to marry a woman who can look after him from -the material side. She should be a buffer between him -and the world, always willing to keep in the background -and never be a constraint on him. A real -genius, on the other hand, ought never to marry. He’s -altogether too impossible a person. But then, Madden, -you know you’re not a genius.”</p> - -<p>He said this so oddly that I burst out laughing, and -with that I felt my grey mood lifting.</p> - -<p>“By the way,” said Helstern, just as we were parting, -“I don’t like to mention it, but what with hospital -expenses and so on you’ve been having a pretty hard -time of it lately. I’ve just had my quarterly allowance—more -money than I know what to do with. If a -hundred francs would be of any use to you I’ll never -miss it.”</p> - -<p>I was going to refuse; but the thought that the offer -was made in such a generous spirit made me hesitate; -and the further thought that at the moment all the -money I had was ten francs, made me accept. So Helstern -handed me a pinkish bank note.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know how to thank you,” I said. “But -don’t be afraid, I’ll pay you back one of these days. -You know I’ve got a novel knocking around the publishers. -When it gets accepted I’ll be on velvet. In -the meantime this will help to keep the pot a-boiling. -That reminds me I must find a new place to hole up in. -Do you know of any vacant rooms in your quarter?”</p> - -<p>“In the famous Quartier Mouffetard? Come with -me and we’ll have a look.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span>The result was that for a rent of twenty francs a -month I found myself the tenant of a spacious garret -in the rue Gracieuse. So, feeling well pleased, I returned -to the room in the rue D’Assas to gather together -our few effects. I was so engaged when a knock -came to the door and the little Breton <i>bonne</i> appeared.</p> - -<p>“A lady to see Monsieur.”</p> - -<p>I rose from the heap of soiled linen I was trying to -compress into as small bulk as possible.</p> - -<p>“Show her in,” I said with some surprise.</p> - -<p>Then there entered one whom I had almost forgotten—Lucretia.</p> - -<p>My first thought was: “Thank God! my wife isn’t -here!” My second: “How can I get rid of her?” -It is true I have always tried to make life more like -fiction, to drench it with romance, to cultivate it in -purple patches. Here, then, was a dramatic situation -I might have used in one of my novels; here was a -sentimental scene I might develop most artistically; -and now my whole panting, perspiring anxiety was -not to develop it. “Confound it!” I thought, “this -should never have happened. Why can’t fiction stay -where it belongs?”</p> - -<p>Lucretia was dressed with some exaggeration. Her -split skirt showed a wedge of purple stocking almost to -the knee. Her blouse, too, was of purple, a colour that -sets my teeth on edge. She wore a mantle of prune -colour, and a toque of crushed strawberry velvet with -an imitation aigrette. The gilt heels of her shoes were -so high that she was obliged to walk in the mincing -manner of the mannequin.</p> - -<p>She offered me a languid hand and subsided unasked -on the sofa. Her lips were Cupid’s bows of vermilion,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span> -and her complexion was a work of art. She regarded -me with some defiance; then she spoke in excellent -French.</p> - -<p>“Well, <i>mon ami</i>, I have come. You thought to leave -me there in Napoli, but I have followed you. Now, -what are you going to do about it?”</p> - -<p>“Do!” I said, astounded. “Why, you have no -claim on me!”</p> - -<p>“I have no claim on you. <i>You</i> say that—you who -have stolen my heart, you who have made me suffer. -You cannot deny that you have run away from me.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t deny it. I did run away from you; but it -was to save you, to save us both. I have done you no -wrong.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! you thought so. To leave one who loved you -in that way. That is like the Englishman.”</p> - -<p>“But good heavens!” I cried, half distracted, “I -thought I acted for the best.”</p> - -<p>“I love you still,” she went on; “I have traced you -here; I am friendless, alone, in this great and cruel city. -What must I do?”</p> - -<p>As she said these words, Lucretia, after seeing that -she possessed a handkerchief, applied it to her eyes so -as not to disturb their cosmetic environment, and wept -carefully. There was no doubting the genuineness of -her grief. I was touched. After all had I not roused -a romantic passion in this poor girl’s heart? Was she -not the victim of my fatal charms? My heart ached -for her. I would have sat down on the sofa by her -side and tried to comfort her, but prudence forbade.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry,” I said, “but how can I help you? I -have no money, and my wife is in the hospital.”</p> - -<p>“Your wife!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>“Yes; I’m married.”</p> - -<p>“Not one of those girls I saw you with in the café -that night?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; the small one.”</p> - -<p>“A—h.” She prolonged the exclamation. Then -she delicately dried her eyes. “That is different. -What if I tell your wife how you treated me?”</p> - -<p>“But I’ve done you no harm.”</p> - -<p>“Would she believe that, do you think?”</p> - -<p>“Hum! no! I don’t think she would. But what -good would it do? You would only cause suffering and -estrangement, and you would gain nothing. I told you -I had no money to give you.”</p> - -<p>Looking around the shabby room she saw the soiled -linen I was trying to do into a newspaper parcel. This -evidently convinced her I was speaking the truth.</p> - -<p>“Bah!” she said, “why do you insult me with offers -of money? If you offered me ten thousand francs at -this moment I would refuse them. What I want is help, -sympathy.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! If it’s sympathy you want,” I said eagerly, -“I’m there. I’ve gallons of it on tap. But help—what -can I do?”</p> - -<p>“You have friends you can introduce me to. Can -you not find me work of some kind? Anything at all -that will bring me an honest living. Remember I am -only a poor, weak woman, and I love you.”</p> - -<p>Here she showed signs of weeping again.</p> - -<p>“Well,” I said, touched once more, “I don’t know. -The men I know are all artists.” Then an idea shot -through me like a bullet. To cure a woman who is -infatuated with you, introduce her to some man who is -more fascinating than yourself. But to whom could I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span> -transfer this embarrassing affection? Helstern? He -was out of the question. Lorrimer? Ah, there was -the man. Handsome, debonnaire Lorrimer; Lorrimer -who prided himself on being such a Lothario; whom I -had heard say: “Why should I wrong the sex whose -privilege it is to love me by permitting any one member -to monopolise me?” Yes, Lorrimer should be the -lucky one. So I said:</p> - -<p>“Let me see: you would not care to pose for the -artists, would you?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes, I think that would suit me very well indeed.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, I’ll give you the address of an artist -friend. He’s poor, but he knows every one. Perhaps -he can help you. At least there will be no harm in -trying.”</p> - -<p>So I gave her Lorrimer’s address, and she seemed -more than grateful.</p> - -<p>“Thank you very much. Shall I see you again -soon?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps; but remember, not a word of Napoli.”</p> - -<p>“No; trust me. I am very discreet. Well, <i>au -revoir</i>.”</p> - -<p>With that she took her departure, and once more I -felt that I had emerged successfully from a dangerous -situation.</p> - -<p>On the following day I hired a <i>voiture à bras</i>, and -loading on it my few poor sticks of furniture I easily -pulled the load to my new residence. Once there, it -was surprising how soon I made the place homelike. -Anastasia was coming out of the hospital the following -day, and I was intensely eager that everything should -be cheerful. Fortunately, the window admitted much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span> -sunlight, and the slope of the roof lent itself to quaint -and snug effects of decoration. I really did wonders -with drapings of cheap cotton, made a lounge and a -cosy corner out of cushions, contrived a wardrobe (in -view of an increase in our prosperity), and constructed -two cunning cupboards within which all articles of mere -utility were hid from sight.</p> - -<p>Lorrimer dropped in and gave me a hand with the -finishing touches. He also loaned me three lifesize -paintings in oil to adorn my walls. They were studies -for the forthcoming Salon picture that was to mark a -crisis in his career, and showed Rougette in different -poses of the nude. I did not think it worth while to say -anything about Lucretia just then.</p> - -<p>Helstern, too, came to see how things were progressing -and contributed two clay figures, also of the nude; -so that by the time everything was finished my garret -had become quite a startling repository of feminine -loveliness unadorned. The following morning I bought -several bunches of flowers from a barrow, at two sous -a bunch, and arranged them about the room. Then my -two friends insisted on bringing up a supply of food and -preparing lunch.</p> - -<p>So I went off to the hospital to fetch Anastasia. I -felt as excited as a child, and for the moment very -happy. I had been to see her for a few moments every -day, when she would hold my hand and sometimes -carry it to her lips. She was of a deathly whiteness -and more like a child than ever. As she came out leaning -on my arm I saw another of those sobbing girls -leaving the hospital with her baby.</p> - -<p>“What an irony!” I said. “There’s a girl would -give anything not to have that infant. It’s a reproach<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span> -and a disgrace to her. It will only drag her down, -prevent her making a living. It will be brought up in -misery. And we who wanted one so much, and -would have made it so happy, must go away empty-handed.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she answered, with a sob in her throat; “the -doctaire tell me nevaire must I have anuzzer. He tell -me it will keel me. And I want so much—oh, I want -leetle child!”</p> - -<p>Hailing a cab, we were soon at our new home. She -did not seem to take much interest; yet, when she heard -the sounds of welcome from within, she brightened up. -Then when the door was thrown open she gave a little -gasp of pleasure.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m glad, I’m glad.”</p> - -<p>For Lorrimer had painted a banner, <i>Welcome Home</i>, -above the fireplace; the sunshine flooded in; the -flowers were everywhere, and a wondrous lunch was -spread on the table. Then suddenly the two artists, -standing on either side of the doorway, put mirlitons -to their mouths and burst into the Marseillaise. They -wrung her hand, and even (with my permission) -saluted her on both cheeks; and she was so rarely glad -to see them that her eyes shone with tears. So after -all her homecoming was far from a sad one.</p> - -<p>And after lunch and the good bottle of Pommard -that Helstern had provided we discussed plans and -prospects with the hope and enthusiasm of beginners; -while she listened, but more housewife-like took stock -of her new home and its practical possibilities.</p> - -<p>Next day I began work again. My idea was to completely -ignore my own ideals and turn out stuff according -to magazine formula. I had made an analysis of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> -some thirty magazine stories; it only remained to mix -them according to recipe and serve hot. I continued -to hire the rheumatic typewriter, and composed straight -on to the machine, so that I accomplished at least one -story a day.</p> - -<p>Once more Anastasia took charge of the forwarding, -but she seemed to have less enthusiasm now. It was -as if her severe illness had taken something out of her. -All the money I had been able to give her was seventy -francs, and this was not very heartening. She got out -her <i>métier</i> again; but she would often pause in her work -as if her back pained her, and rub her eyes as if they -too ached. Then with stubborn patience she would -resume her toil.</p> - -<p>One morning the manuscript of <i>Tom, Dick and Harry</i> -was returned from the publisher, with a note to say -that “at that time when the taste of the public was -all for realistic fiction work of fancy stood little chance -of success without a well-known name on the cover. As -the policy of the firm was conservative they were -obliged to return it.”</p> - -<p>How I laughed over this letter. How bitterly, I -thought, they would be chagrined when they found out -who the unknown Silenus Starset was. I was even maliciously -glad, and, chuckling, sent off the manuscript -on another voyage of adventure.</p> - -<p>I fairly bombarded the magazines with short stories. -There was not one of any standing that was not holding -a manuscript of mine. And such manuscripts, some -of them! I was amazed at my cheek in offering them. -I would select one of my twelve stock plots, alter the -setting, give it a dexterous twist or two, and shoot it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> -off. My mark was a minimum of a manuscript a day, -and grimly I stuck to it.</p> - -<p>For three weeks I kept pounding away on my clacking -typewriter. It was costing us a small income in -stamps, and economy of the most rigid kind had to be -practised in other ways. We gave up eating ordinary -meat and took to patronising the <i>Boucherie Chevaline</i>. -I came to appreciate a choice mule steak, and considered -an <i>entrecôte</i> of ass a special delicacy. We made -salads of <i>poiret</i>, which is called the poor man’s asparagus. -We drank <i>vin ordinaire</i> at eight <i>sous</i> a litre and -our bread was of the coarsest. Down there in the rue -Mouffetard it was no trouble to purchase with economy, -for everything was sold from that standpoint.</p> - -<p>I think the rue Mouffetard deserves a special page -of description, because it contains the elements of all -Paris slumdom. From the steep and ancient rue St. -Geneviève de Montagne branches the dismal rue Descartes. -It runs between tall, dreary houses, growing -gradually more sordid; then suddenly, as if ashamed of -itself, it changes its name to the rue Mouffetard, and -continues its infamous way.</p> - -<p>The street narrows to the width of a lane and the -houses that flank it grow colder, blacker, more decrepit. -The pavement on either side is a mere riband, and the -cobbled way is overrun with the ratlike humanity -spewed forth from the sinister houses. The sharp -gables and raking roofs, out of which windows like gaping -sores make jagged openings, notch themselves grotesquely -against the sky. Their faces are gnawed by -the teeth of time and grimy with the dust of ages. -Their windows are like blind eyes, barred and repulsive.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span> -The doors that burrow into them are nothing but black -holes, so narrow that two people passing have to turn -sideways, so dark that it is like entering a charnel -house.</p> - -<p>Nearly every second shop is a <i>chope</i>, a <i>buvette</i>, a -saloon. At one point there are four clustered together. -Some of these drinking dens are so narrow they seem -mere holes in the wall, scarcely any wider than the -width of their own door, and running back like dark -cupboards. And in them, with their heads together -and their elbows on the tiny tables you can see the -ferret-faced Poilo, and Gigolette, his gosse, of the -greasy and elaborate coiffure. Hollow-cheeked, glittering -of eye, light as a cat, cunning, cynical, cruel, he -smokes a cigarette; while she, brazen, claw-fingered, -rapacious, sips from his Pernod.</p> - -<p>At the butchers’ only horse-meat is sold. A golden -horse usually surmounts the door, overlooking a sign—<i>Boucherie -Chevaline</i>, or sometimes <i>Boucherie Hyppagique</i>. -The meat is very dark; the fat very yellow; -and there are festoons of red sausages, very red and -glossy. One shop bears the sign “House of Confidence.” -There are other signs, such as “Mule of premier -quality,” “Ass of first choice.”</p> - -<p>As you descend the street you get passing glimpses -of inner courts of hideous squalor, of side streets, narrow -and resigned to misery. Daring odours pollute the -air and the way is now packed with wretchedness. -Grimy women, whose idea of a <i>coiffure</i> is to get their -matted hair out of the way, trudge draggle-skirted by -the side of husky-throated, undersized men whose beards -bristle brutishly. Bands of younger men hang around -the bars. They wear peaked caps and have woollen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span> -scarfs around their throats. They look at the well-dressed -passer-by with furtive speculation. They live -chiefly on the brazen girls who parade up and down, -with their hair coiled over their ears, clawed down in -front, sleek with brilliantine and studded with combs.</p> - -<p>Then, as the narrow, tortuous street plunges down -to the <i>carrefour</i> of the Gobelins it becomes violently -commercial, a veritable market jammed with barrows, -studded with stalls, strident with street cries of all -kinds.</p> - -<p>Here it is that Anastasia does her marketing. It is -wonderful how much she can bring home for a franc, -sometimes enough to fill the net bag she carries on her -arm. She never wears a hat on these expeditions; it -is safer without one.</p> - -<p>Three weeks gone; twenty stories written. I throw -myself back in weariness and despair. It is hard work -doing three thousand words a day, especially when one -has to make a second copy for the clean manuscript. -I began at eight in the morning and worked till ten at -night. My face was thin, my checks pale, my eyes full -of fag and stress. How I despised the work I was -doing! the shoddy, sentimental piffle, the anæmic twaddle, -the pandering to the vulgar taste for stories of the -upper circles. Ordinary folk not being sufficiently interesting -for a snobbish public my heroes were seldom -less than baronets. It got at last that every stroke of -my typewriter jarred some sensitive nerve of pain in -me—“Typewriter nerves” they call it. Then one -night I gave up.</p> - -<p>“I won’t do another of these wretched things,” I -cried; “I’m worked out. I feel as if my brain was -mush, just so much sloppy stuff.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>“You must take rest, darleen. You work too hard.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, rest in some far South Sea Island where I -can forget that books and typewriters exist. I’m heart-sick -of the vampire trade. Well, I’ve reached my limit. -To-morrow I’m just going out to the Luxembourg to -loaf. Oh, that lovely word! I’m going to sit and watch -the children watching the Guignol, and laugh when they -laugh. That’s all I’m equal to—the Guignol.”</p> - -<p>And I did. Full of sweet, tired melancholy I sat -listlessly under the trees, gazing at that patch of eager, -intense, serious, uproarious, utterly enchanted faces, -planted in front of the immortal Punch and Judy show. -Oh, to have written that little drama! Everything -else could go. Oh, to play on the emotions like an instrument, -as it played on the emotions of these little -ones! What an audience! How I envied them their -fresh keen joy of appreciation! I felt so jaded, so -utterly indifferent to all things. Yet I reflected to -some extent their enthusiasm. I gaped with them, I -laughed with them, I applauded with them.</p> - -<p>Then with a suddenness that is overwhelming came -the thought of my own little dream-child, she who in -years to come should have taken her place in that hilarious -band. After all, the November afternoon was -full of sadness. The withered leaves were underfoot, -and the vague despondency of the waning year hung -heavily around me. Suddenly all joy seemed to go -clean out of life, and slowly I returned to the wretched -quarter in which I lived.</p> - -<p>These were the sad days for us both, grey days of -rain and boding. Early and late she would work at -her embroidery, yet often look at me with a sigh. Then -my manuscripts began to come back. Luckily, two<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span> -were accepted, one by a society weekly, the other by a -woman’s journal. The latter was to be paid for on -publication; but I wrote pleading necessity for the -money and it was forthcoming. The two netted us -three pounds ten, enough to pay the rent and tide us -over for another month.</p> - -<p>Once more <i>Tom, Dick and Harry</i> was returned, and -once more gallantly despatched. About this time I -began to lose all confidence in myself. On one occasion -I said to her:</p> - -<p>“See, Little Thing, what a poor husband you have. -He can’t even support you.”</p> - -<p>“I have the best husband in the world. Courage, -darleen. Everything will come yet very right I -know.”</p> - -<p>“If only our child had lived,” I said moodily, gazing -at the sodden, sullen sky.</p> - -<p>Sitting with her hands folded in her lap she did not -answer. I saw that she drew back from her beautiful -embroidery so that a slow-falling tear would not stain -it.</p> - -<p>“You know,” I went on, “I can’t believe we’ve lost -her. Seems to me she’s with us. I let myself think -of her too much. I can’t help it. I loved her. God, -how I loved her! I never loved any one else like that.”</p> - -<p>She looked at me piteously, but I did not see.</p> - -<p>And next day, in a pouring rain, I walked to the -cemetery and stood for an hour by an almost indistinguishable -little grave. I got back, as they say, -“wet as the soup,” and contracted a severe chill. Anastasia -made me stay in bed, and looked after me like a -mother.</p> - -<p>Yes, these were sad days; and there were times when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span> -I felt moved to own defeat, to acknowledge success, to -accept, the fortune I had gained. Then I ground my -teeth.</p> - -<p>“No, I won’t. I’m hanged if I do. I’ll play the -game, and in spite of it all I’ll win.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II<br /> - -THE DARKEST HOUR</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> past month has been the hardest we have yet experienced. -After paying the rent we had about fifty -francs to keep the house going. Not that it mattered -much; for we both had such listless appetites and ate -next to nothing. I refused to do any more pot-boiling -work. For distraction I turned again to the study of -the Quartier, to my browsings in its ancient by-ways. -Amid these old streets that, like a knot of worms, cluster -around the Pantheon, I managed to conjure up -many a ghost of bygone Bohemia. As a result I began -a series of three papers which I called <i>Demi-gods -in the Dust</i>. They were devoted to the last sad days -of De Musset, Verlaine and Wilde, those strong souls -whose <i>liaisons</i> with the powers of evil plunged them to -the utter depths.</p> - -<p>The rue Gracieuse, where we reside, is probably one -of the least gracious streets of Paris. Its lower end is -grubbily respectable, its upper, glaringly disreputable. -It is in the latter we have our room. The houses are -small, old, mean, dirty. There are four drinking dens, -and the cobbles ring to the clang of wooden shoes. The -most prominent building is a <i>hôtel meublé</i>, a low, leprous -edifice with two windows real, and four false. The -effect of these dummy windows painted on the stone is -oddly sinister. Underneath is a drinking den of unsavoury -size, and opposite an old junk shop. At night<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span> -the street is feebly lit by two gas lamps that sprout -from the wall.</p> - -<p>Luckily, our window faces the rue Monge. If it -fronted on the rue Saint-Médard we should be unable -to live there, for the rue Saint-Médard, in spite of the -apostolic nomenclature, is probably the most disgusting -street in Paris.</p> - -<p>It is old, three hundred years or more, and the -houses that engloom it are black, corroded and decrepit. -Its lower end is blocked by the aforesaid hostel of the -blind windows, its upper is narrow and wry-necked -where the Hôtel des Bons Garçons bulges into it. Between -the two is a dim, verminous gulf of mildewed -masonry. The timid, well-dressed person pauses on its -threshold and turns back. For the police seldom trouble -it, and the stranger parsing through has a sense -of being in some desperate cul-de-sac, and at the mercy -of a villainous, outlawed population. They crawl to -their doors to stare resentfully at the intruder, often -call harshly after him, and sometimes stand right in the -way, with an insolent, provocative leer. A glance -round shows that other figures have cut off the retreat -from behind, and for a moment one has a sense of being -trapped. It is quite a relief to gain the comparative -security of the rue Mouffetard.</p> - -<p>But what gives the rue Saint-Médard its character -of supreme loathsomeness is because it is the headquarters -of the <i>chiffoniers</i>. These hereditary scavengers, -midden-rakers, ordure-sifters, monopolise its disease-ridden -ruins, living in their immemorial dirt. They are -creatures of the night, yet one may sometimes see a few -of them shambling forth to blink with bleary eyes at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span> -the sun, their hair long and matted, the dirt grained -into their skins, their clothes corroded, their boots agape -at the seams—very spawn of the ashpit.</p> - -<p>And oh, the odour of the street! The mere memory -makes me feel a nausea. It is the acrid odour of decay, -of ageless, indomitable squalor. It assails you the moment -you enter that gap of ramshackle ruins, pungent, -penetrating, almost palpable. It is the choking odour -of an ash-bin, an ash-bin that is very old and is almost -eaten away by its own putridity.</p> - -<p>Then on a Sunday morning when the rue Mouffetard -is such a carnival of sordid satisfactions the snake-like -head of the rue Saint-Médard is devoted to the <i>marché -pouilleux</i>. Here come the <i>chiffoniers</i> and spread out -the treasures they have discovered during the week. -Over a great array of his wares, all spread out on mildewed -sheets of newspaper, stands an old <i>chiffonier</i> in -a stove-pipe hat. He also wears a rusty frock coat, -and with a cane points temptingly to his stock. His -white beard and moustache are amber round the mouth, -with the stain of tobacco, and in a hoarse alcoholic voice -he draws our attention to a discarded corset, a pair -of moth-eaten trousers, a frying-pan with a hole in it, -an alarm-clock minus the minute hand, a hair brush -almost innocent of bristles—any of which we may have -for a sou or two.</p> - -<p>Such then is the monstrous rue Saint-Médard, and -on a dark, wet November day, when its characteristic -odour is more than usually audacious; when the black, -irregular houses, like rows of decayed teeth, seem to -draw closer together; when the mildewed walls steam -loathfully; when the jagged roofs are black against the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span> -sky and the sinister shadows crawl from the darkened -doorways,—it is more like a horrible nightmare than -a reality.</p> - -<p>But the misery of others often makes us forget our -own, and one day Helstern broke in on us looking grimmer -than ever.</p> - -<p>“Have you heard that our little Solonge is very ill?”</p> - -<p>“No. What’s the matter?”</p> - -<p>“Typhoid. Her mother is nursing her. You might -go down and see her, Madam. It will be a comfort to -her.”</p> - -<p>Anastasia straightened herself from the <i>métier</i> over -which she was stooping.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, I go at once. Oh, poor Frosine! Poor -Solonge!”</p> - -<p>As I looked at her it suddenly struck me that she -herself did not look much to brag about. But she put -on her mantle and we followed Helstern to the rue -Mazarin.</p> - -<p>“It was like this,” he told us. “I had an idea of -a statue to be called <i>Bedtime</i>. It was to be a little -Solonge, clad in her chemise and hugging a doll to her -breast. So I went to see the mother and found the -child had been sick for some days. I fetched the doctor; -none too soon. We’ve got to pull the kid -through.”</p> - -<p>We found the Môme lying in an apathetic way, her -lovely hair streaming over the pillow, her face already -hollow and strange-looking. She regarded us dully, -but with no sign of recognition. Then she seemed to -sleep, and her eyes, barely closed, showed the whites -between the long lashes.</p> - -<p>Frosine was calm and courageous, but her face was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span> -worn with long vigils, and her eyes, usually so cheerful, -were now of a tragic seriousness. She turned to us -eagerly.</p> - -<p>“I can’t get her roused, my little one. Not even -for her mother will she smile. She just lies there as if -she were tired. If she begins to sleep, she twitches and -opens her eyes again. It was a week ago I first noticed -she was ailing. She could scarcely hold up her -arms as I went to dress her. So I put her to bed again, -and ever since she’s been sinking. She’s all I’ve got in -the world and I’m afraid I’m going to lose her. Willingly -would I go in her place.”</p> - -<p>We arranged that Anastasia would remain there and -take turns watching by the bedside of the Môme; then -I returned to our garret alone.</p> - -<p>It was more trying than ever now. Every day some -of my manuscripts came back, and I had not the courage -to send them out again. My novel, too, made its -appearance one morning with the usual letter of regret. -More sensitive than other men, it says much for authors -that they bear up so well under successive blows -of fate. With me a rejection meant a state of bitter -gloom for the rest of the day; and as nearly every day -brought its rejection, cheerful intervals were few and -far between.</p> - -<p>To get the proper working stimulus I drank immense -quantities of strong black coffee. In my desperate -mood I think I would have taken hasheesh if necessary. -It was the awful brain nausea that distressed me most, -the sense of having so much to say and being unable to -say it. I had moods of rage and misery, and sometimes -I wondered if it was not through these that men entered -into the domain of madness.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>But after about six cups of coffee I would brighten -miraculously. My brain would be a gleaming, exulting, -conquering thing. I would feel the direct vision, the -power of forth-right expression. Thrilling with joy, -I would rush to my typewriter, and no power could -drag me away from it. If Anastasia approached me -at such a moment I would wave my arm frantically:</p> - -<p>“Oh, please go away. Don’t bother me.”</p> - -<p>Then, holding my head clutched in both hands, and -glaring at the machine, I would try to catch up the -broken thread of my ideas.</p> - -<p>What an unsatisfactory life! Dull as ditchwater -for days, then suddenly a change, a bewildering sense -of fecundity, a brilliant certainty of expression. Lo! -in an hour I had accomplished the work of a week. But -such hours were becoming more and more rare with -me, and more and more had I recourse to the deadly -black coffee. And if the return of my stories hurt my -pride, that of my novel was like a savage, stunning -blow. I ground my teeth and (carefully observing that -there was no fire in the grate) I hurled it dramatically -to the flames. Then Anastasia reverently picked it -up, tenderly arranged it, and prepared it for another -sally.</p> - -<p>“This will be the last time,” I would swear. “You -can send it one time more; then—to hell with it.”</p> - -<p>And I would laugh bitterly as I thought of its far -different fate if only I would sign it with the name I -had a right to sign it with. What a difference a mere -name made! Was it then that my work was only selling -on account of my name? Was it then that in itself -it had no merit? Was I really a poor, incompetent -devil who had succeeded by a fluke? “I must win,” I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span> -cried in the emptiness of the garret. “My pride, my -self-respect demand it. If I fail I swear I’ll never -write again.”</p> - -<p>There were times when I longed to go out and work -with pick and shovel. Distressed with doubt I would -gaze down at the dancing waters of the Seine and long -to be one of those men steering the barges, a creature -of healthy appetites with no thought beyond work, food -and sleep. Oh, to get away on that merry, frolicsome -water, somewhere far from this Paris, somewhere where -trees were fluttering and fresh breezes blowing.</p> - -<p>Ah! that was the grey Christmas. Everything the -same as last—the booths, the toy-vendors, the holly -and the mistletoe, the homeward-hurrying messengers of -Santa Claus—everything the same, yet oh, how different! -Where now was the singing of the heart, the thrilling -to life’s glory? Did I dream it all? Or was I -dreaming now? As I toiled, toiled within myself, how -like a dream was all that happened without! Yes, all -of the last year seemed so unreal that if I had awakened -in America and had found this Paris and all it had -meant an elaborate creation of the magician Sleep, I -would not have been greatly surprised. It has always -been like that with me, the inner life real, the outer a -dream.</p> - -<p>I walked the crowded Boulevards again, but with no -Little Thing by my side. Ah! here was the very café -where we sat a while and heard a woman sing a faded -ballad. Poor Little Thing! She was not on my arm -now. And, come to think of it, she too used to sing -in those days, sing all the time. But not any more, -never a single note.</p> - -<p>At that moment she was watching by the bedside of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span> -the Môme, she who herself needed care and watching. -She had been the good, good wife, yet I had never cared -for her as I ought. I was always like that, longing for -the things I had not, careless of what I had. Perhaps -even if the child had lived I would have transferred my -affections elsewhere. But I couldn’t bear to think of -that. No, my love for the child would have been an -ideal that nothing could dim.</p> - -<p>But if Christmas was grey, New Year’s Day was -black. Anastasia came back with bad news from the -sick room. The Môme was gradually growing weaker. -Helstern had brought her a golden-brown Teddy bear -and had held it out to her, but she had looked at it with -the heart-breaking indifference of one who had no more -need to take an interest in such things. Her manner -had that aloofness, that strange, wise calmness that -makes the faces of dying children so much older, so much -loftier than the faces of their elders. It is the pitying -regard of those who are on the brink of freedom for us -whom they leave in the prison of the flesh.</p> - -<p>“Little Thing,” I said one day, gazing grimly at the -tobacco tin that acted as our treasury, “what are we to -do? We’ve only one franc seventy-five left us, and the -rent is due to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>She went over to her <i>métier</i> and held up the most -beautiful piece of embroidery I had yet seen.</p> - -<p>“Courage, darleen. The sun shine again very soon, -I sink. Now we can sell this. I am so glad. It seem -zaire is so leetle I can do.”</p> - -<p>“No, no; I can’t let you sell it. I don’t want to -part with any of your work. Let me take it to the -Mont-de-Piété. Then we can get it back some day.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>“But zaire we only get half what we have if we -sell it.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind. Perhaps it will be enough to tide us -over for a day or two.”</p> - -<p>I realised thirty francs for the cushion cover, paid -the rent, and was about seven francs to the good. “We -can go on for another week anyway,” I said.</p> - -<p>During this black month I only saw Lorrimer once. -It was on the Boul’ Mich’ and he was in a great hurry, -but he stopped a moment.</p> - -<p>“I say, Madden, was it you who sent me the Dago -skirt? Where did you dig her up? She’s a good type -and makes a splendid foil to Rougette. I’ve changed -my plans and begun a new Salon picture with both girls -in it. Come up and see it soon. It’s great. I’m sure -the crisis in my fortune has come at last. Well, good-bye -now. Thanks for sending me the model.”</p> - -<p>He was off before I could say a word; but in spite of -the wondrous picture I did not go to his studio.</p> - -<p>I had finished my <i>Demi-gods in the Dust</i> articles. -As far as finish and force went I thought them the best -work I had ever done. Now I began a series of genre -stories of the Paris slums, called <i>Chronicles of the Café -Pas Chemise</i>. I rarely went out. I worked all the -time, or tried to work all the time. I might as well -work, I thought, for I could not sleep. That worried -me more than anything, my growing insomnia. For -hours every night I would lie with nerves a-tingle, hearing -the <i>noctambules</i> in the rue Monge, the thundering -crash of the motor-buses, the shrill outcries from the -boozing den below, the awakening of the <i>chiffoniers</i> in -the rue Saint-Médard: all the thousand noises of nocturnal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span> -mystery, cruelty and crime. Then I would rise -in the morning distracted and wretched, and not till I -had disposed of two big cups of coffee would I feel able -to begin work again.</p> - -<p>Then one morning I arose and we had no more money—well, -just a few sous, enough to buy a crust or so for -<i>déjeûner</i>. She took it as she went on her way to the -bedside of the dying Môme. She was a brave little soul, -and usually made a valiant effort to cheer me, but this -morning she could not conceal her dejection. She kissed -me good-bye with tears coursing down her cheeks. -Then I was alone. Never had the sky seemed so grey, -so hopeless.</p> - -<p>“I fear I’m beaten,” I said. “I’ve made a hard fight -and I’ve been found wanting. I am supposed to be a -capable writing man. I’m a fraud. I can’t earn my -salt with my pen. The other was only an accident. -It’s a good thing to know oneself at one’s true value. -I might have gone on till the end of the chapter, lulled -in my fatuous vanity. I’m humble now; I’m crushed.”</p> - -<p>I sat there gazing at the dreary roofs.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ve had enough. Here’s where I throw up -the sponge. I’m going to spend the rest of my life -planting cabbages in New Jersey. If it was only for -myself I’d never give in. I’ve got just enough mule -spirit to fight on till I’m hurt, but I can’t let others get -hurt too. Already I’ve gone too far. I’ve been a bit -of a brute. But it’s all over. I’ve lost, I’ve lost.”</p> - -<p>I threw myself back on my bed, unstrung, morbid, -desperate. Then suddenly I sprang up, for there came -a knocking at the door.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III<br /> - -THE DAWN</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was the postman, not the usual bearer of dejected -manuscripts; another, older, more distinguished.</p> - -<p>“Registered letter, Monsieur.”</p> - -<p>Wonderingly I signed for it. The man lingered, but -I had no offering for the great god <i>Pourboire</i>. I regarded -the letter curiously. It was from MacWaddy -& Wedge, the last people to whom I had sent <i>Tom, -Dick and Harry</i>. All I knew of them was that they -were a new firm who had adopted the advertising methods -of the Yankees, to the horror of the old and crusted -British publisher. In consequence they had done well, -and were disposed to take risks where new writers were -concerned.</p> - -<p>Well, what was in the letter? Like a man who stands -before a closed door, which may open on Hell or Heaven, -I hesitated. Then in fear and trembling I broke the -seal. This is what I read:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,—We have perused with interest your novel, -<i>Tom, Dick and Harry</i>, and are minded to include it in our -Frivolous Fiction Library. As your work is entirely unknown, -and we will find it necessary to do a great deal -of advertising in connection with it, we are thus incurring -a considerable financial risk. Nevertheless, we are prepared -to offer you a five per cent. royalty on all sales; or, -if you prefer it, we will purchase the British and Colonial -rights for one hundred pounds.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours very truly,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">MacWaddy</span> & <span class="smcap">Wedge</span>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span>“<i>P.S.</i>—Our Mr. Wedge is at present in Paris for a -day or two, so if you call on him you might arrange details -of publication. His address is the Hotel Cosmopolitan.”</p> -</div> - -<p>I sat staring at the letter. It had come at last,—Success! -One hundred pounds! Twenty-five hundred -francs! Why, at the present rate of living it would -keep us for two years; at the rate of the rue Mazarin, -nearly twelve months. Never before had I realised that -money meant so much. The prospect of living once -more at the rate of two hundred and fifty francs a month -intoxicated me. It meant chicken and champagne suppers; -it meant evenings at the moving picture show; -it even meant indulgence in a meerschaum pipe. Hurrah! -How lovely everything would be again. As I -executed a wild dance of delight I waved the letter triumphantly -in the air. All the joy, the worth-whileness -of life, surged back again. I wanted to rush away and -tell Anastasia; then suddenly I sobered myself.</p> - -<p>“I must contrive to see this Mr. Wedge at once. And -I mustn’t go looking like an understudy for a scarecrow. -Happy thought—Helstern.”</p> - -<p>I found the sculptor in bed. “Hullo, old man!” I -cried, “if you love me lend me a collar. I’ve got to -interview a blooming publisher. Just sold a novel—a -hundred quid.”</p> - -<p>“Congratulations,” growled Helstern from the blankets. -“Take anything you want. Light the gas when -you go out, and put on my kettle.”</p> - -<p>So I selected a collar; then a black satin tie tempted -me; then a waistcoat seemed to match it so well; then -a coat seemed to match the waistcoat; then I thought I -might as well make a complete job and take a pair of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> -trousers and a long cape-coat. As Helstern is bulkier -than I, the clothes fitted where they touched, but the -ensemble was artistic enough.</p> - -<p>“I’m off, oh, sleepy one!” I called. “Be back in -two hours or so. Your water’s nearly boiling. By the -way, how did you leave the Môme?”</p> - -<p>“Better, thank Heaven. I do believe the kid’s going -to pull through. Last night she seemed to chirp up -some. She actually deigned to notice her Teddy bear.”</p> - -<p>“Good. I’m so glad. You know, I believe the New -Year’s going to open up a new vein of happiness for -us all.”</p> - -<p>“We need it. Well, come back and we’ll drink to -the healths of Publishers and Sinners.”</p> - -<p>It seemed my luck was holding, for I caught Mr. -Wedge just as he was leaving the luxurious hotel. I -gave my name and stated my business.</p> - -<p>“Come in,” said the publisher, leading the way to the -gorgeous smoking-room. Mr. Wedge was a blonde, -bland man, designed on a system of curves. He was the -travelling partner, the entertainer, the upholder of the -social end of the business. Immensely popular was Mr. -Wedge. Mr. MacWaddy, I afterwards found, was -equally the reverse. A meagre little man, spectacled -and keen as a steel trap, he was so Scotch that it was -said he did not dot his “i’s” in order to save the ink. -However, with MacWaddy’s acumen and Wedge’s urbanity, -the combination was a happy one.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the latter affably, offering me a cigar -with a gilt band, “we’ll be glad to publish your book, -Mr. Madden. By the way, no connection of Madden, -the well-known American novelist; writes under the -name of Norman Dane?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span>“Ye-es—only a distant one.”</p> - -<p>“How interesting. Wish you could get him to throw -something our way. We’d be awfully glad to show -what we could do with his books. They’re just the sort -of thing we go in for—light, sensational, easy-to-read -novels. He’s a great writer, your cousin—I think you -said your cousin?—knows how to hit the public taste. -His books may not be literary, but they <i>sell</i>; and that’s -how we publishers judge books. Well, I hope you’re -going to follow in his footsteps. Seems to run in the -family, the fiction gift. By the way, I’d better make -out a contract form, and, while I think of it, I’ll give -you an advance. Twenty pounds do?”</p> - -<p>“You might make it forty, if it’s all the same.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Wedge drew his cheque for that amount, and I -signed a receipt.</p> - -<p>“I’m just going round to the bank,” he continued. -“Come with me, and I’ll get the cheque cashed for you.”</p> - -<p>So in ten minutes’ time I said good-bye to him and -was hurrying home with the money in my pocket. The -sun was shining, the sky a dome of lapis lazuli, the -Seine affable as ever. Once again it was the dear Paris -I loved, the city of life and light. In a perfect effervescence -of joy I bounded upstairs to the garret. Then -quite suddenly and successfully I concealed my elation.</p> - -<p>“Hullo, Little Thing!” I sighed. “What have you -got for dinner? It’s foolish how I am hungry.”</p> - -<p>“I have do the best I can, darleen,” Anastasia said -sadly. “There was not much of money—only forty-five -centimes. See, I have buy sausage and salad and -some bread. That leave for supper to-night four sous. -Go on. Eat, darleen. I don’t want anything.”</p> - -<p>I looked at the glossy red <i>saucissson-a-la-mulet</i>, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span> -stringy head of chicory, the stale bread. After all, -spread out there and backed by a steaming jug of coffee, -it didn’t look such a bad repast. I kissed her for -the pains she had taken.</p> - -<p>“Hold up your apron,” I said sadly.</p> - -<p>Wonderingly she obeyed. Then I threw into it one -by one ten crisp pink bank-notes, each for one hundred -francs. I thought her eyes would drop out, they were -so wide.</p> - -<p>“Eight—nine—ten hundred. There, I guess we -can afford to go out to <i>déjeûner</i> to-day. What do you -say to our old friend, the café Soufflet?”</p> - -<p>“It is not true, this money? You are not doing this -for laughing?”</p> - -<p>“You bet your life. It’s real money. There’s more -of it coming up, fifteen more of these <i>billets deux</i>. So -come on to the café, Little Thing, and I’ll tell you all -the good tidings.”</p> - -<p>Seated in the restaurant, I was in the dizziest heights -of rapture, and bubbling over with plans. Such a dramatic -plunge into prosperity dazzled me.</p> - -<p>“First of all,” I said, “we must both from head to -heel get a complete outfit of new clothes. We’ll each -take a hundred francs and spend the afternoon buying -things. Then I’ll get our stuff out of pawn. Then as -soon as we get things straight we’ll find a new apartment.”</p> - -<p>Suddenly she stopped me. “<i>Mon Dieu!</i> Where you -get the clothes?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I quite forgot. They’re Helstern’s. I’ll just -run round to his place to return them. He might want -to go out. Here, give me one of those bits of paper -and I’ll pay my debts.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span>I found the sculptor in his underwear, philosophically -smoking his Turk’s head pipe.</p> - -<p>“Awfully obliged, old man, for the togs. I never -could have ventured into that hotel in my old ones. -Well, here’s the money you lent me, and a thousand -thanks.”</p> - -<p>“Sure you can spare it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, and another if you want it. Why, man, I’m -a little Crœsus. I’m simply reeking with the stuff. I -feel as if I could buy up the Bank of France. Just -touched a thou’, and more coming up.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m awfully glad for your sake. I’m glad to -get this money, too. D’ye know what I’m going to do -with it? I’m going to hire a nurse for Solonge. It -will relieve the tension somewhat. What with watching -and anxiety, we’re all worn out. And, Madden, excuse -me mentioning it, but that little woman of yours wants -looking after. She’s not overstrong, in any case, and -she’s been working herself to death. I don’t know what -we would have done without her down there, but there -were times when I was on the point of sending her -home.”</p> - -<p>“All right. Thanks for telling me. I say, as far -as the Môme is concerned. I’d like to do something. -Let’s give you another hundred.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, I don’t think it’s necessary in the meantime. -If I want more I’ll call on you. You’re off? -Well, good-bye just now.”</p> - -<p>As far as they concerned Anastasia I thought a good -deal over his words, and when I returned, after an -afternoon spent in buying a new suit, hat, boots, I -found her lying on her bed, her hundred intact.</p> - -<p>When a woman is too sick to spend money in new<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span> -clothes it’s time to call a doctor. This, in spite of her -protestations, I promptly did, to be told as promptly -that she was a very sick woman indeed. She had, said -the medico, never fully recovered from her confinement, -and had been running down ever since. For the present -she must remain in bed.</p> - -<p>Then he hesitated. “If your wife is not carefully -looked after there is danger of her becoming <i>poitrinaire</i>.”</p> - -<p>I was startled. In the tension of literary effort, in -the egotism of art, I had paid little heed to her. If -she had been less perfect, perhaps I should have thought -more of her. But she just fitted in, made things -smooth, effaced herself. She was of that race that -make the best wives in the world. The instinct is implanted -in them by long heredity. Anastasia was a -born wife, just as she was a born mother. Yes, I had -neglected her, and the doctor left me exceedingly pensive -and remorseful.</p> - -<p>“You must hurry up and get well, child,” I said, -as she lay there looking frail and wistful. “Then we’re -going away on a holiday. We’re going to Brittany -by the sea. I’m tired of grey days. I want them all -blue and gold. We’ll wander down lanes sweet with -may, and sit on the yellow sands.”</p> - -<p>She listened fondly, as I painted pictures, growing -ever more in love with my vision.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I try to get well, queek, just to please you, -darleen. Excuse me, I geeve you too much trooble. -I want so much to be good wife to you. That is the -bestest thing for me. I don’t want ever you be sorry -you marry me. If you was, I sink I die.”</p> - -<p>Once I had conceived myself in the part of a nurse,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span> -I entered into it with patience and enthusiasm. I am -not lavish in the display of affection; but in these days -I was more tender and considerate than ever I had been, -and Anastasia was duly grateful. So passed two -weeks—the daily visits of the doctor, patient vigils on -my part, hours of pain and ease on hers.</p> - -<p>In Bohemia it never rains but it pours; so with cruel -irony in the face of my good fortune other successes -began to surprise me. Within two weeks I had seven of -my stories accepted, and the total revenue from them -was twelve pounds. I felt that the worst of the fight -was over. I had enough now to carry me on till I had -written another novel. I need not do this pot-boiling -work any more.</p> - -<p>Every day came Helstern with news of the growing -prowess of the Môme. She was able to sit up a little. -Her legs were like spindles, and she could not walk; but -she looked rarely beautiful, almost angelic. In a few -days he was going to get a chair on wheels, and take her -out in the gardens.</p> - -<p>“I can’t make this out,” I said, chaffingly. “You -must have made an awful hit with Frosine. Why don’t -you marry the girl?”</p> - -<p>He looked startled.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be absurd. Why, I’m twenty years older -than she is. Besides, I’m a cripple. Besides, I’m a -confirmed bachelor. Besides, she’s a confirmed widow.”</p> - -<p>“No young woman’s ever a confirmed widow. Besides—she’s -no widow.”</p> - -<p>“Good Heavens! You don’t mean to tell me Solonge -is—”</p> - -<p>“Why, yes, I thought you knew. Anyway, there -was no reason to tell you anything like that.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span>Helstern rose slowly. My information seemed to be -exceedingly painful to him. That firm mouth with its -melancholy twist opened as if to speak. Then, without -saying a word, he took his hat and went off.</p> - -<p>“After all,” I thought, “why not? Frosine is as -good as gold, a serene, sensible woman. I’d marry her -myself if I wasn’t already married to Anastasia. I -wonder....”</p> - -<p>Thereupon I started upon my career as a matchmaker. -Why is it that the married man is so anxious -to induce others to embrace matrimony? Is it a sense -of duty, a desire to prevent other men shirking their -duty? Or (as no woman is perfect) is it a desire to -see the flies in our ointment outnumbered by the flies -in our neighbour’s? Or, as marriage is a meritorious -compulsion to behave, is it a desire to promote merit -among our bachelor friends by making them behave -also? In any case, behold me as a bachelor stalker, -Helstern my first quarry. I did not see him for a week, -then one afternoon I came across him by the great -gloomy pile of the Pantheon, gazing at Rodin’s statue -of the Thinker.</p> - -<p>How often have I stood in front of it myself! That -figure fascinates me as does no other in modern -sculpture. The essence of simplicity, it seems to say -unutterable things. Arms of sledge-hammer force, a -great back corded with muscle, legs banded as if with -iron, could anything be more expressive of magnificent -strength? Yet, oh, the pathos of it—the small, undeveloped -skull, the pose of perplexed, desperate -thought!</p> - -<p>So must primitive man have crouched and agonised -in that first dim dawn of intelligence. Within that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span> -brain of a child already glimmers the idea of something -greater than physical force; within that brute man Mind -is beginning its supreme struggle over Matter. Here -is the birth of brain domination. Here is the savage, -thwarted, mocked, impotent; yet trying with every fibre -of his being to enter that world of thought which he is -so conscious of, and cannot yet understand. Pathetic! -Yes, it typifies the ceaseless struggle of man from the -beginning, the agony of effort by which he has raised -himself from the mire. Far from a Newton, a Darwin, -a Goethe, this crude, elementary Thinker! Yet, with -his brain of a child as he struggles for Light, who shall -say he is not in his way as great. Salute him! He -stands for the cumulative effort of the race.</p> - -<p>Helstern himself, as he stood there in his black cloak, -leaning on his stick with the gargoyle head, was no -negligible figure. I was struck by a resemblance to a -great actor, and the thought came that here, but for -that misshapen foot, was a tragedian lost to the world. -This was strengthened by the voice of the man. Helstern, -in his deep vibrating tones, could have held a -crowd spellbound while he told them how he missed his -street car.</p> - -<p>“Great,” I said, indicating the statue.</p> - -<p>“Great, man! It’s a glory and a despair. To me it -represents the vast striving of the spirit, and its impotence -to express its dreams. I, too, think as greatly as -a Rodin, but my efforts to give my thoughts a form -are only a mockery and a pain. I, too, have agonised -to do; yet what am I confronted with?—Failure. For -twenty years I’ve studied, worked, dreamed of success, -and to-day I am as far as ever from the goal. Yes, -I realise my impotence. I have lived my life in vain.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span> -Old, grey, a cripple, a solitary. What is there left for -me?”</p> - -<p>He finished with a lofty gesture.</p> - -<p>“Nothing left,” I said, “but to have a drink. Come -on.”</p> - -<p>But no. Helstern reposed on his dignity, and refused -to throw off the mantle of gloom.</p> - -<p>“I tell you what it is,” I suggested. “I think you’re -in love.”</p> - -<p>“Bah! I was never in love but once, and that was -twenty years ago. We were going to be married. The -day was fixed. Then on the marriage eve she went to -try on the wedding gown. There was a large fire in -the room, and suddenly as she was bending before the -mirror to tie a riband, the flimsy robe caught the flame. -In a moment she was ablaze. Screaming and panic-stricken -she ran, only to fall unconscious. After three -days of agony she died. I attended a funeral, not a -wedding.”</p> - -<p>I shuddered—not at his story, but because the incident -occurred in my novel, <i>The Cup and The Lip</i>. -Alas! How Life plagiarizes Fiction. I murmured -huskily:</p> - -<p>“Cheer up, old man!”</p> - -<p>He laughed bitterly. “Twenty years! I might have -had sons and daughters grown up by now. Perhaps -even grandchildren like Solonge. How strange it seems! -What a failure it’s all been! And now it’s too late. -I’m a weary unloved old man.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, rot,” I said. “Look here, be sensible. Why -don’t you and Frosine hitch up? There’s a fine, home-loving -woman, and she thinks you’re a little tin god.”</p> - -<p>“How d’ye know that?” he demanded, eagerly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span>“Isn’t she always saying so to my wife?” (This -was a little exaggeration on my part.) “I tell you, -Helstern, that woman adores you. Just think how -different that unkempt studio of yours would be with -such a bright soul to cheer it.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve a good mind to ask her.”</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Well, to give you the truth, old man, I’ve been trying -to, but I haven’t the courage. I’ve got the frame -of a lion, Madden, with the heart of a mouse.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what. If I go down and speak for you -will you go through it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I will; but—there’s no hurry, you know. To-morrow....”</p> - -<p>“Come on. No time like the present. We’ll find her -at work.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but ... will you go in and sound her first?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes. Don’t be such a coward. You can wait -outside.”</p> - -<p>He stumped along beside me till we came to the rue -Mazarin, and I left him while I went to interview Frosine.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s you,” she said gladly. “Come in. It’s -early, but I put Solonge to bed so that I could get a -lot of work finished. See! it’s a wedding trousseau. -How is Madame? Is everything well? Can I do anything -for you? Solonge remembered you in her prayers. -You may kiss her if you like.”</p> - -<p>“How lovely she is,” I said, stooping over the child. -I was trying to think of some way in which to lead up -to my subject.</p> - -<p>Frosine never left off working. Once more she was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span> -the bright, practical woman, capable of fighting for herself -in the struggle of life.</p> - -<p>“How hard you work! Do you never tire, never get -despondent?”</p> - -<p>She looked at me with a happy laugh. The fine -wrinkles seemed to radiate from her eyes.</p> - -<p>“No; why should I? I have my child. I am free. -There’s no one on my back. You see I’m proud. I -don’t like any one over me. Freedom is a passion with -me.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but you can’t always work. You must think -of the future. Some day you’ll grow old.”</p> - -<p>She shrugged her shoulders. “There will still be Solonge.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but you must think of her too. Listen to me, -Mademoiselle Frosine. I’m your friend. I would like -to see you beyond the need of such toil as this. Well, I -come to make you an offer of marriage.”</p> - -<p>She stared at me.</p> - -<p>“I mean, I come on behalf of a friend of mine. He -is very lonely, and he wants you to be his wife. I refer -to Monsieur Helstern.”</p> - -<p>She continued to stare as if amazed.</p> - -<p>“It is droll Monsieur Helstern cannot speak for himself,” -she said at last.</p> - -<p>“He has been trying to, but—well, you know Helstern. -He’s as shy as a child.”</p> - -<p>Her face changed oddly. The laughter went out of -it. Her head drooped, and she gazed at her work in -an unseeing way. She was silent so long that I became -uncomfortable. Then suddenly she looked up, and her -eyes were aglitter with tears.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span>“Listen, my friend. I want you to hear my story, -then tell me if I ought to marry Monsieur Helstern.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got to go back many years—fifteen. My -father was in business, and I was sheltered as all French -girls of that class are. Then father died, leaving -mother with scarcely a sou. I had to work. Well, I -was expert with my needle, and soon found employment -with a dressmaker.</p> - -<p>“You know how it is with us when one has no <i>dot</i>. -It is nearly impossible to make a marriage in one’s own -class. One young man loved me and wanted to marry -me; but his mother would not hear of it because I was -poor. She had another girl with a good <i>dot</i> picked -out for him, and as children are not allowed to marry -without their parents’ consent he became discouraged. -I do not blame him. It was his duty to marry as his -mother wished.</p> - -<p>“Well, it was hard for me. It was indeed long before -my smiles came back. But it makes no difference -if one’s heart aches; one must work. I went on working -to keep a roof over my mother’s head.</p> - -<p>“By and by she died and I was alone. That was -not very cheerful. I had to live by myself in a little -room. Oh! I was so lonely and sad! Remember that -I was not a girl of the working class. I had been educated. -I could not bring myself to marry a workman -who would come home drunk and beat me. No, I preferred -to sit and sew in my garret. And the thought -came to me that this was going to be my whole life—this -garret, this sewing. What a destiny! To go on -till I was old and worn out; then a pauper’s grave. My -spirit was not broken. Can you wonder that I rebelled?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span>“When I was a little girl I was always playing -with my dollies. When I got too old for them I took -to nursing other little ones. It seemed an instinct. -And so, whenever I thought of marriage it was with -the idea of having children of my own to love and care -for.</p> - -<p>“Imagine me then with my hopes of marriage destroyed. -‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Is my life to be so barren? -Am I to live like many other women, without hope or -joy? Surely this is not intended. Surely I am meant -to enjoy happiness.’</p> - -<p>“Then,” she went on, “one evening I was standing -before a print-shop looking at some drawings when a -tall, fair man stopped to examine them too. He was -an artist, an Englishman. Somehow he spoke to me, -then walked with me as far as my home. Well, to make -my story short, he was the father of Solonge.</p> - -<p>“I never was so happy as then. I did not dream -such happiness could be. If I was sorry for anything -it was that my happiness came in this way. And I -knew this great happiness could not last. In time he -had to go. His home, his mother, called him. We were -both very sad, for we loved one another. But what -would you? We all know these things must have an -end. It’s the life.</p> - -<p>“The parting was so sad. I cried three days. But -I told him he must go. He must think of his position, -his family. I was only a poor little French girl who -did not matter. He must forget me.</p> - -<p>“I did not tell him I was going to have a child -though. He would never have gone then. He would -have made me marry him, and then I would have spoiled -his career. No, I said nothing. But, oh, how the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span> -thought glowed in me! At last I would have a child, -my own.</p> - -<p>“He wanted to settle money on me, but I would not -have it. Then, with tears in his eyes, he went away, -swearing that he would come back. Perhaps he would -have, I don’t know. He was killed in a railway accident. -That is one reason I do not wish to be reminded -of artists. He was a famous artist. You -would know his name if I told it. But I never will. I -am afraid his family would try to take away Solonge.</p> - -<p>“You see I have worked away, and my garret has -been full of sunshine. Oh, how different it was! I -sang, I laughed, I was the happiest woman in Paris. -I’m not sorry for anything. I think I did right. Now -I’ve told you, do you still think Monsieur Helstern would -be willing to marry me?”</p> - -<p>“More so than ever,” I said. “As far as I know he -has pretty much the same views as you have.”</p> - -<p>“He says so little to me. But he has been so kind, -so good. I believe I owe it to him that I still have my -little one.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he’s not a bad old sort. I don’t think you’d -ever regret it.”</p> - -<p>“You may tell him my story, then, and if he doesn’t -think I’m a bad woman....”</p> - -<p>“He’ll understand. But let me go and tell him now. -He’s waiting round the corner.”</p> - -<p>“Stop! Stop!” she protested. But I hurried away -and found the sculptor seated outside the nearest café, -divided between anxiety and a glass of beer.</p> - -<p>“It’s all right, old chap,” I cried. “I’ve squared it -all for you. Now you must go right in and clinch -things.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span>“But I’m not prepared. I—”</p> - -<p>“Come on. Strike while the iron’s hot. I’ve just -been getting the sad story of her life, and she is in a -sentimental mood. Now’s the time.”</p> - -<p>So I dragged him to Frosine’s door and pushed him in.</p> - -<p>Then this was what I heard, for Helstern’s voice would -almost penetrate a steel safe.</p> - -<p>“You know, Mademoiselle Frosine, I—I love your -daughter.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Monsieur Helstern.”</p> - -<p>“I love her so much that I want to ask you if you’ll -let me be a father to her.”</p> - -<p>“But do you love me?”</p> - -<p>“I—I don’t know. I’ve never thought of that. -But we both love Solonge. Won’t that be enough?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. Let us wait awhile. Ask me some -months from now. Perhaps you’ve made a mistake. I -want you to be quite sure. If by then you find you’ve -not made a mistake, I—I might let myself love you -very easily.”</p> - -<p>“You’ve made me strangely happy. Everything -seems changed to me. I may hope then?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>I did not hear any more. But a moment after Helstern -joined me.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Madden, how can I ever thank you! You’ve -made me the happiest of men.”</p> - -<p>Looking back at the lighted window we saw Frosine -bent again over her work, trying to make up for lost -time. Helstern gazed at the shadow and I could scarce -draw him away. What fools these lovers be!</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV<br /> - -A CHAPTER THAT BEGINS WELL AND ENDS BADLY</h3> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“J’aime Paimpol et sa falaise,</div> -<div class="verse">Son clocher et son grand pardon;</div> -<div class="verse">J’aime surtout la Paimpolaise</div> -<div class="verse">Qui m’attend au pays Breton.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is Little Thing singing as she sits by the poppy -patch before the door. There are hundreds of poppies. -They dance in gleeful glory and their scarlet is so -luminous it seems about to burst into flame. Maybe -the shell-pink in the girl’s cheeks is a reflexion of that -radiant glow.</p> - -<p>The coast of Brittany dimples as it smiles, and in its -most charming dimple is tucked away our little village. -The sea has all the glitter of crushed gems. It sparkles -in amethyst and emerald; it glooms to garnet and -sardonyx. There is a bow of golden sand, and the -hill-side is ablaze with yellow brown.</p> - -<p>“Dreamhaven” I call our house, and it stands between -the poppies and the pines. A house of Breton -granite, built to suffice a score of generations, it glimmers -like some silvery grand-dame, and its roof is -velvety with orange-coloured moss.</p> - -<p>We have been here three weeks and Anastasia has -responded wonderfully to the change. Nothing can -exceed her delight. She sings all day, rivalling the -merle that wakes us every morning with his flute-like -run of melody.</p> - -<p>She loves to sit in a corner of the old garden where<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span> -a fig tree climbs the silvery wall. There she will knit -tranquilly and watch the little lizards flicker over the -sun-warmed stone, then pause with panting sides and -bead-like eyes to peer around. But for me, I prefer -the scented gloom of the pine coppice beyond the -garden. Dearly do I love the sudden solitude of -pines.</p> - -<p>I have corrected the proofs of <i>Tom, Dick and Harry</i> -there. I am relieved to find the story goes with <i>vim</i>. -It is as light as a biscuit, and as easy of mental digestion. -I have sent off the last batch of proofs; my part -is done; the rest is Fate.</p> - -<p>Now I turn to my jolly Bretons, so dirty and devout, -so toilworn and so tranquil. My old women have the -bright, clear eyes of children. Never have they worn -hat or shoes, never left their native heaths. Yet they -are happy—because it has never struck them that -they are not happy.</p> - -<p>My young women all want to marry sailors so that -they may be left at home in tranquillity. They do not -desire to see over-much of their lords and masters, who -I fear, are fond of mixing <i>eau-de-vie</i> with their cider. -If they go to live in cities they generally die of consumption. -Their costume is hauntingly Elizabethan, -and they are three hundred years behind the times.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>About a week ago I had a curious conversation with -Anastasia.</p> - -<p>“Little Thing,” I began, “do you know that if I -like I can go away and marry some other French -girl?”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” she said, somewhat startled.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span>“I mean that as far as France is concerned our -marriage doesn’t hold.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Mon Dieu!</i>”</p> - -<p>“It’s all right by English law, but French law -doesn’t recognise it.”</p> - -<p>“How droll! But what does it matter? You don’t -want marry other French girls?”</p> - -<p>“No, but it’s interesting to know that one can.”</p> - -<p>“But me, too. Have I not right to marry some -other persons?”</p> - -<p>“Hum! I never thought of that.”</p> - -<p>“Another thing,” I continued, “under French law -man and wife hold property in common. Now, supposing -you came into fortune, I couldn’t touch it.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! now you speak for laughing. I nevaire come -into fortune.”</p> - -<p>“Well, suppose I come into a fortune—but then -that’s equally absurd; anyway, I just wanted to point -out to you that by a curious vagary of the law we could -repudiate our marriage and contract others—in -France.”</p> - -<p>Anastasia looked very thoughtful. Though I had -spoken jestingly I might have known that with her -serious imagination she would take it gravely. Surely -enough, a few days after she brought up the subject.</p> - -<p>“I sink I like very much, darleen, if we get marry -once more, French way, if you don’t mind.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all; only—I don’t want to make a habit -of it.”</p> - -<p>“Excuse me, darleen; and please I like it very much -if we get marry in Catolick church.”</p> - -<p>“All right. We’ll get married in Notre Dame this -time.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span>“But....” Here she hesitated—“zere is one -trouble.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what is it?”</p> - -<p>“In France it is necessaire by law I have consent -of my fazzaire and my muzzaire.”</p> - -<p>“Well, seeing that they’re in (we hope) heaven, it -won’t be very easy to get it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no! I nevaire say my muzzaire is dead.”</p> - -<p>“But isn’t she?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. I have not hear of her for many -year. I leave wiz my fazzaire when I was leetle girls, -before he put me in the <i>couvent</i>. My fazzaire get -separation from my muzzaire. She’s very bad -womans. She’s beat my fazzaire very cruel, so’s he -get separation. My fazzaire was poet.”</p> - -<p>“And your mother?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, she was not at all <i>chic</i>. She was what we -call ‘merchant of the four seasons.’”</p> - -<p>“Good heavens! You don’t mean one of those -women that hawk stuff in the street with hand barrows?”</p> - -<p>Anastasia nodded gravely.</p> - -<p>I shuddered. Father a <i>cabaret</i> poet; mother a -street pedlar of cabbages and onions. <i>Sacré mud!</i> -Then a sudden suspicion curdled my blood.</p> - -<p>“Tell me,” I demanded, “is it not that your mother’s -name is Séraphine?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she exclaimed, amazedly.</p> - -<p>“And she’s a very big woman with a large nose?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes; how you know?”</p> - -<p>“Well then, let me inform you that your respected -parent is at present doing business in a rather flourishing -way in the <i>Halles</i>. She imports <i>escargots</i> and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span> -wears seven diamond rings on one hand. Judging by -that hand alone, there’s a respectable prospect of your -becoming an heiress after all.”</p> - -<p>“She’s terrible woman,” said Anastasia, after I had -explained my meeting with her mother. “I’m afraid -she’s make trooble. She’s behave very cruel to my -fazzaire and she not like me, because when they separate -I choose go wiz heem. She nevaire forgeeve me. -I’m ’fraid she’s never consent to our marriage in -France.”</p> - -<p>“Wait till we get back to Paris and we’ll tackle her.”</p> - -<p>“When we go back to Paris?”</p> - -<p>“Next week. I can’t afford to rent the house after -the end of the month.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry to go. I love it here.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but I must get back to work again. We -must bid our jolly Bretons good-bye.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>We bade them good-bye this morning; great, great -grandfather Dagorn herding his cows on the velvety -dune; Yyves swinging his scythe as he whisked down -the heavy crimson clover; Marie stooped over her -churn; Mother Dagorn whose withered cheeks are -apple-bright; the rosy-faced children, the leaping -dogs. We looked our last on that golden beach, that -jewelled sea; we roamed our last amid the hedges of -honeysuckle, the cherry-trees snowed with blossom, the -stream where the embattled lilies brandished blades and -flaunted starry banners. Last of all, and with something -very like sadness, we bade good-bye to that old -house I called Dreamhaven, which stands between the -poppies and the pines.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span>Back in Paris. The dear sunny boulevards are once -more embowered in tender green, and once more I am -a dreamy Luxemburger, feeding my Bohemian sparrows -in that cool, still grove where gleam the busts of -Murger and Verlaine: once more I roam the old streets, -seeking the spirit of the past; once more I am the -apostle of the clear laugh and the joyous mind.</p> - -<p>One of the first persons I met as I walked down the -spinal column of the Quarter, the <i>Boul’ Mich’</i>, was -Helstern. He had just come from a lecture by Bergson -at the Sorbonne and was indignant because he had -been obliged to stand near the door.</p> - -<p>“Bergson’s a society craze just now. The place -was crowded with wretched women that couldn’t understand -a word of his lecture. They chattered and -stared at one another through their lorgnettes. One -wretched <i>cocotte</i> threw the old man a bunch of violets.”</p> - -<p>“What did he do?”</p> - -<p>“He took it up and after looking at it as if he didn’t -know what it was he put it in his pocket.”</p> - -<p>“Well, how’s every one? What have you been -doing? Some symbolical group, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“No; I’ve decided to go in for simple things, the -simpler the better. I’ve done a little head and bust -of Solonge I want you to see. I’m rather pleased with -it.”</p> - -<p>“All right. I’ll come as soon as we get settled.”</p> - -<p>“Where are you going this time?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve taken a <i>logement</i> on the <i>Passage d’Enfer</i>; -you know it—a right-angled street of quaint old -houses that runs into the Boulevard Raspail.”</p> - -<p>“I know. I once lived in the rue Boissonniere. -What are you going to do now?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span>“Another novel, I suppose. I have enough money -to last me for five months. Just fancy! five months -to write and not worry about anything at all. How’s -Frosine and the Môme?”</p> - -<p>Helstern beamed. Then for the first time I noticed -a remarkable change in him. No longer could I call -him the “melancholy Dane” (he was really a Swede, -by the way). He had discarded his severe black -stock for a polka-dot Lavallière, and he was actually -wearing a check suit.</p> - -<p>“Come with us on Sunday. We are all going to St. -Cloud.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll ask my wife. Thing’s going all right?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I think she’ll consent to name the day.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I congratulate you. And how’s Lorrimer?”</p> - -<p>“He seems to have taken up with a new girl, a dark, -Italian kind of a type. I’ve seen him with her at the -cafés. He’s fickle in his attachments.”</p> - -<p>“That must be Lucretia,” I thought; and I congratulated -myself on my adroit disentanglement. -Then I felt some compunction as I thought of Rougette.</p> - -<p>But I was reassured, for I saw the two together that -very afternoon in front of the café du Panthéon. -Rougette looked sweet and serene. Whatever might -have been the philandering of Lorrimer it had not -disturbed her Breton phlegm. Or, perhaps it was that -in her simple faith she was incapable of believing him -a gay deceiver. She was more than ever distractingly -pretty, so that, looking at her, I could not imagine -how any one could neglect her for the olive-skinned -Lucretia.</p> - -<p>Lorrimer, too, was the picture of prosperity. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span> -wore a new Norfolk suit, and a wide-brimmed grey -hat. He looked more faunesque and insouciant than -ever, a being all nerves and energy and indomitable -gaiety.</p> - -<p>“Hullo,” he greeted me; “here’s old Daredeath -Dick. Come and join us. Rougette wants to hear all -about her ‘pays Breton.’ You’re looking very fit. -How’s everything?”</p> - -<p>“Excellent, I’m to have a novel published next week, -and I’ve got enough money to follow it up with another.”</p> - -<p>“What a wonderful chap you are to be able to -spread your money out like that! You know wealth -would be my ruin. Poverty’s my best friend. Wealth -really worries me. I never could work if I had lots -of money. By the way, you must see my picture at -the Salon des Independents. Rougette and the Neapolitaine -are in it. It’s creating quite a sensation.”</p> - -<p>“How is our dark friend?”</p> - -<p>He shrugged his shoulders gaily. “Just a little -embarrassing at times. She’s awfully jealous of -Rougette. The other day in the studio she snatched -up a knife, and I thought she was going to stick it into -me; but she only proceeded to slash up a picture I -had done called <i>The Jolie Bretonne</i>, for which Rougette -had posed. After that we had a fuss, and I told her -all was over between us. So we parted in wrath, and -I haven’t spoken to her since. She has a devil of a -temper; a good girl to keep away from.”</p> - -<p>Poor unsuspecting Lorrimer! I felt guilty for a -moment. Then I changed the subject.</p> - -<p>“But you’re looking very spruce. Don’t tell me -you’ve sold a picture.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span>“No, but I’ve got a job, a steady job. I’m doing -cartoons every night at the Noctambules. You must -come round and see me.”</p> - -<p>I promised I would, and returned to the Passage -d’Enfer, where Anastasia was busy putting our new -apartment in order. There was a bedroom, dining-room, -and a kitchen, about the size of a packing-box; -but she was greatly pleased with everything. We supplemented -our old furniture with some new articles -from the bazaars. A dressing-table of walnut, a wardrobe -with mirror doors, and cretonne curtains with a -design of little roses. Soon, we found ourselves installed -with a degree of comfort we had not hitherto -known.</p> - -<p>It was one evening that Anastasia, who had been -papering the dining-room, retired to bed quite early, -that I decided to accept Lorrimer’s invitation and visit -the Noctambules. This is a cabaret in a dark side-street -that parallels the “Boul’ Mich’.” I found myself -in a long, low room whose walls were covered with -caricatures of artists who in their Bohemian days had -been habitués of the place. There was an array of -chairs, a shabby little platform, and a piano. As each -<i>chansonnier</i> came on he was introduced by an irrepressible -young man with a curly mop of hair and merry -eyes. Then, as the singer finished, the volatile young -man called for three rounds of hearty applause.</p> - -<p>The cabaret <i>chansonniers</i> of Paris are unique in their -way. They are a connecting-link between literature -and the stage—hermaphrodites of the entertaining -world. They write, compose, and sing their own songs, -which, often, not only have a distinctive note that -makes for art, but are sung inimitably well. Ex-poets,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span> -students with a turn for satiric diversion, journalists -of Bohemia, all go to swell the ranks of these inheritors -of the traditions of Beranger. From that laureate -of the gutter, Aristide Bruant, down to the smallest of -them, they portray with passionate fidelity the humour -and tragedy of the street—irreverently Rabelaisian -at one moment, pathetically passionate at the next.</p> - -<p>As I enter, Marcel Legay is in the midst of a song -of fervid patriotism. In spite of his poetic name, he -is a rubicund little man with a voice and the mane of a -lion. Then follows Vincent Hispy, with catlike eyes -and droll, caustic wit. Then comes Zavier Privas, big -and boisterous as the west wind, lover to his soul of -the <i>chansons</i> he writes and sings. Finally, with a stick -of charcoal and an eager smile, Lorrimer appears. A -screen is wheeled up on which are great sheets of coarse -paper. The artist announces that his first effort will -be Sarah Bernhardt. He makes about five lightning -lines, and there is the divine Sarah. Then follow in -swift succession Polaire, Dranem, Mistinguette, Mayol, -and other lights of the Paris stage.</p> - -<p>And now the cartoonist turns to the audience and -asks them to name some one high in politics. A voice -shouts Clemenceau. In a moment the well-known -features are on the board. Poincaré! It is done. -And so on for a dozen others. Applause greets every -new cartoon, and the artist retires covered with glory.</p> - -<p>“How did you like it?” grins Lorrimer, as he joins -me in the audience.</p> - -<p>“Splendid! Why, man, you could make barrels of -money in America doing that sort of thing.”</p> - -<p>“I’d rather be a pauper in Paris than a money-changer -in Chicago. But there’s Rougette at the back<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span> -of the hall. Doesn’t she look stunning? Thanks to -this job, I’ve been able to pay her for a good many sittings, -and now she’s got a new gown and hat. By -Jove! that girl will be the making of me yet. Her loveliness -really inspires me. Nature leaves me cold, but -woman, beautiful woman!—I could go on painting her -eternally and not ask for other reward.”</p> - -<p>And, indeed, the Breton girl, with her ash-gold hair -and her complexion of roses and cream, was a delicate -vision of beauty.</p> - -<p>“Never let a woman see that you cannot be serenely -happy without her,” says Lorrimer. “I’d do anything -for Rougette (short of marrying her), yet I never let -her know it. And so she’s faithful to me. Others -have tried to steal her from me; have offered her luxury; -but no, she’s the same devoted, unspoiled girl. Just -look at her, Madden, a pure lustrous pearl. Think -what a life such a girl might have in this Paris, where -men make queens of beautiful women! What triumphs! -what glories! Yet there she is, content to follow the -fortunes of an obscure painter. But come on and join -the girl. They’re going to do a little silhouette drama.”</p> - -<p>As we sit by Rougette, who smiles radiantly, the -lights go out, and beyond the stage a little curtain goes -up, showing a fisher cottage in Brittany. The scene is -early morning, the sea flooded with the coral light of -dawn. Then across the face of the picture comes the -tiny silhouettes of the fishermen carrying their nets. -The cottage is next shown in the glow of noon, and, -lastly, by night, with the fisher boats passing over the -face of the moon.</p> - -<p>Then the scene changes. We see the inside of the -cabin—the bed, the wardrobe of oak and brass, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span> -great stone fireplace, the ship hanging over it, the old -grandmother sitting by her spinning-wheel. To her -come the children begging for a story, and she tells -them one from out the past—a story of her youth, the -rising of the Vendée.</p> - -<p>All this is made clear by three singers, who, somewhere -in the darkness, tell it in sweet, wild strains of -Breton melody. There is a soprano, a tenor, a bass; -now one takes up the story, then another; then all -three voices blend with beautiful effect. And as they -sing we see the tiny silhouettes of the peasants, vivid -and clear-cut, passing across the face of the changing -scene. Those strong, melodious voices tell of how the -farmer-soldiers rose and fought; how they marched in -the snow; how they suffered; how they died. It is -sad, sweet, beautiful; and now the music grows more -dramatic; the action quickens; the climax draws near.</p> - -<p>And as I sit there with eyes fixed on that luminous -space, I feel that something else, also terrible, is about -to happen. Surely some one is moving in the darkness -behind us? Even in that black silence I am conscious -of a shadow blacker still. Surely I can hear the sound -of hard, panting breath? That dreadful breathing -passes me, passes Lorrimer, comes to an arrest behind -Rougette.</p> - -<p>Then I hear a scream, shriek on shriek, such as I -never dreamed within the gamut of human agony. -And in the hush of panic that follows the lights go up.</p> - -<p>Rougette is lying on the floor, her head buried in her -arms, uttering heart-rending cries. Lorrimer, with a -face of absolute horror, is bending over her, trying to -raise her as she grovels there in agony.</p> - -<p>What is it? A hundred faces are turned towards us,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span> -each the mask of terror and dismay. I will always -remember those faces that suddenly flamed at us out -of the dark, all so different, yet with the one awful -expression.</p> - -<p>Then I see a tiny bottle at my feet. Almost mechanically -I stoop and pick it up; but I drop it as if I had -been stung. I fall to rubbing my fingers in agony, -and everywhere I rub there is a brown burn. Now I -understand the poor, writhing, twisting girl on the -floor, and a similar shudder of understanding seems -to convulse the crowd. There comes a hoarse whisper—“<i>Vitriol!</i>”</p> - -<p>Turning to the door, I am just in time to see a girl -in black make her escape, an olive-skinned girl with -beetle-black hair and the eyes of an odalisque. And -Lorrimer looks at me in a ghastly way, and I know that -he too has seen.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V<br /> - -THE GREAT QUIETUS</h3> -</div> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">It’s</span> terrible! It’s unspeakable!” I groaned, on arising -next morning, as I thought of the events of the -night before. “That poor girl, so good, so sweet! -And to think that she should suffer so—through me, -through me.”</p> - -<p>There was a knock at the door, and Lorrimer -appeared. “It’s horrible! It’s unthinkable!” he -moaned. “Poor Rougette, who never harmed a living -soul. And to think that I should have brought this -calamity upon her.”</p> - -<p>“It’s my fault,” I objected; “I introduced Lucretia -to you.”</p> - -<p>“No, no; it’s my fault,” he insisted. “I trifled -with the girl’s feelings.”</p> - -<p>“Well, any way,” I said, “what are we going to do -about it?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. What do you think?”</p> - -<p>“I’d marry her,” I suggested. “But I can’t, being -married already.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll marry her,” cried Lorrimer. “You know, last -night on the way to the hospital, when I saw that -beautiful face covered with those hideous bandages, I -wept like a child. She told me not to mind. It was -not my fault. She would enter a convent, become a -nun. Just fancy, Madden, that lovely face eaten to -the bone, a horrible sight....”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it won’t be so bad, old chap. Perhaps<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span> -she’s only burned on one side; then the other side of -her face will still be beautiful.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that’s one blessing. I told her as they took -her away. ‘Rougette,’ I said, ‘the day you come -out of the hospital is the day of our marriage. You -must not think of anything else. I’ll devote my life -to you.’ Could I do less, old man? We may talk -cynically about women, but when it comes to the -point, we’re all ready to die for ’em. I’d have given -anything last night if it had been me. It’s always the -innocent that suffer.”</p> - -<p>“Every one is talking of it this morning,” I observed. -“It’s in all the papers, but no one suspects who did it. -Are you going to tell the police?”</p> - -<p>“No, how can I? I’m indirectly to blame. But -oh! if I can lay my hands on that girl!” He broke -off with a harsh laugh that was more eloquent of vengeful -rage than any words.</p> - -<p>“Well, cheer up, old man. I applaud your action -in marrying Rougette. And perhaps she won’t be so -terribly disfigured after all.”</p> - -<p>So I accompanied Lorrimer on his way to the hospital, -and we were going down the Boul’ Mich’ when suddenly -he turned.</p> - -<p>“Let me leave you now. Here’s that blithering little -Bébérose coming to buttonhole me and tell me of -his love affairs. I’m not in a fit state to listen at -present. You just talk to him, will you?”</p> - -<p>So I was left to interview Monsieur Bébérose whom I -had met once or twice in his capacity as art patron, -and the proud purchaser (for an absurdly small price) -of one of Lorrimer’s masterpieces. Monsieur Bébérose -is a retired manufacturer of Arles sausages, a man of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span> -fifty, and reputed to be wealthy. He is a little, overfed -man, not unremotely resembling the animal from -whose succulence his money has been made. Besides -the crimson button of the Legion, he wears as a watch-charm -a large gall-stone that had been extracted from -him by a skilful surgeon. On the fore-front of his -head is a faint fringe of hair, trimmed and parted like -an incipient moustache; otherwise his skull would make -an excellent skating-rink for the flies. Add to this -that he is a widower, on the look-out for a second -wife.</p> - -<p>“Well,” I hailed him, “you’re not married yet?”</p> - -<p>Monsieur Bébérose shook his head mournfully. -“No, things do not march at present. You remember -I told you about Mademoiselle Juliette. Well, I like -that girl very much. I have known her since she was -a baby. I think I like to marry her. So I ask the -mother. Well, she put me off. She say she decide in -a week. Then in a week I go back and she tell me that -she think Mademoiselle Juliette too young to marry me -but she have a girl friend, Mademoiselle Lucille, who -want to get married. Perhaps I would be pleased with -the friend.”</p> - -<p>Here Monsieur Bébérose sighed deeply.</p> - -<p>“Well, she introduce me to Mademoiselle Lucille, -and I give them all a dinner at Champeaux! It cost -me over one hundred francs, that dinner. The way -the mother of Mademoiselle Juliette drink champagne -make me afraid for her. I am pleased with Mademoiselle -Lucille very well, and I think I like to marry -her. So I tell the mother if the girl, who is orphan, -is willing, it goes with me, and she says she will speak -with the girl and advise her.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span>Here Monsieur Bébérose began to get indignant.</p> - -<p>“So in a week I go back and say to the mother of -Mademoiselle Juliette. ‘Well, how does it go with -Mademoiselle Lucille?’ She shrug her shoulders.</p> - -<p>“‘Lucille! Oh, yes; I have never asked her. I’ve -been thinking it over, and I think I’ll give you Juliette -after all.’</p> - -<p>“Well, I like Lucille best now, but I like Juliette, too, -so I say: ‘Very well, Madame, it goes with me. When -may I have the pleasure of taking to the theatre my -fiancée?’</p> - -<p>“But Madame say it is not <i>convenable</i> if I go out -alone with her daughter. She must accompany us. -So when we go to the theatre she sit between us; when -we have dinner she watch me all the time. Indeed, I -have not been able to have one word in private with -Mademoiselle Juliette. Perhaps I am not reasonable; -but I think I ought to find out how she feels towards -me before I become fiancé. I think marriage is better -if there is a little affection with it, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it’s preferable. I think.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, I know Juliette will obey her mother -and marry me; but me, I do not like the way they -treat me about Lucille. Am I like a sheep that they -shall pull about? Besides, Juliette is so young—just -nineteen. It might be better if I find some nice young -widow with a little money, don’t you think?”</p> - -<p>I agreed with him that the matter was worthy of -serious consideration, and that the <i>belle-mère</i> was likely -to be a disturbing factor in his domestic equation. So, -solemnly warning him to be careful, I left him more -in doubt than before.</p> - -<p>When I reached home Anastasia was awaiting me.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span>“Well, darleen, what is it that you have of news -about Rougette?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. Lorrimer thinks she’ll have a mask -down one side of her face. He swears he’s going to -marry her though. Fancy” (I shuddered) “marrying -a medallion. Now, there’s a dramatic situation for -you. Handsome, romantic, young artist—wife, supremely -beautiful to port, a hideous mask to starboard. -His increasing love of the beautiful side, his growing -horror of the other. His guilty knowledge that he is -himself responsible for the disfigurement ... why! -what a stunning story it would make, and what a tragic -<i>dénouement</i>! How mean of life to steal so brazenly -the material of fiction!”</p> - -<p>“Poor, poor girl,” sighed Anastasia. “I must go -to the hospital and see her this afternoon. And I too -I have some news for you.”</p> - -<p>“Not bad, I hope?”</p> - -<p>“No, I sink you are please. It is that Monsieur -Helstern have call. He was so funny, so shy, so glad -about somesing. Well, what you sink? He and -Frosine get marry very soon and want you to be witness.”</p> - -<p>“Good! It’ll be the best thing in the world for the -old chap.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he seem very happy—quite different.”</p> - -<p>“Funny,” I remarked, “how every one’s thoughts -seem turning to marriage. It must be epidemic. -There’s Helstern and Frosine. Here’s Lorrimer saying -he’ll marry Rougette; and this morning, Monsieur -Bébérose. By Jove! and weren’t we talking about it -too! Ah, there’s an idea! Why shouldn’t we have -our <i>second</i> marriage at the same time as Helstern and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span> -Lorrimer get tied up? You see four witnesses are -needed at the ceremony, two male and two female. -We can act as one another’s witnesses as well as get -married ourselves. And just think of the money we’ll -save on the carriages and the supper! Talk of killing -three birds with one stone!”</p> - -<p>“We must get my mother’s <i>consentement</i> first.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes, my belligerent <i>belle-mère</i>. Well, we’ll go -and interview her to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid,” said Anastasia, blanching at the prospect.</p> - -<p>“You mustn’t be,” I said bravely; “you have <i>me</i> -to protect you. Remember you’re my wife.”</p> - -<p>“Not by French law. But I will go with you, darleen. -I know you are strong.”</p> - -<p>She looked at me with undisguised admiration. I -think that Anastasia really thinks I am a hero.</p> - -<p>In the afternoon she returned from the hospital with -cheering news. It was not going so badly with -Rougette after all. She had had a wonderful escape. -A great deal of the acid had lodged in her veil, and -what she had got began a little below the left ear. -Her neck and breast were burned badly, and she was -suffering agony, but her beauty had been spared. By -wearing collars of an extra height scarcely any one -would suspect.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur Lorrimer was there too. He’s so change. -I nevaire see a man so serious. Truly, I sink he mean -marry Rougette all right.”</p> - -<p>Next morning, bright and early, we sallied forth to -tackle the redoubtable Madame Séraphine. After reconnoitring -cautiously we located her in her stall in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span> -the fish pavilion throned high amid her crates of <i>escargots</i>. -As with beating hearts we approached we heard -her voice in angry <i>argot</i> berating a meek wisp of a -porter. Against the grey of her surroundings her face -loomed huge and ruddy, and her eyes had the hard -brightness of a hawk’s. Again I wondered how she -could ever have been the mother of my gentle Anastasia.</p> - -<p>“Your father must have been the most angelic of -little men,” I murmured.</p> - -<p>“He was,” she answered breathlessly.</p> - -<p>“You’d better go first,” I suggested nervously.</p> - -<p>“No, you,” she protested, trying to get behind me.</p> - -<p>“But you’ve got to introduce me,” I objected, trying -to get behind her.</p> - -<p>Then while we were rotating round each other suddenly -the eyes of my <i>belle-mère</i> fell on us, and as they -dwelt on Anastasia her mouth grew grimmer, and her -nose more aggressive. Her whole manner bristled -with pugnacity.</p> - -<p>“<i>Tiens! Tiens!</i> if it isn’t, of all the world, my little -Tasie.”</p> - -<p>Anastasia went forward meekly; I followed sheepishly.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Mémé,” she said; “I’ve come to visit you.”</p> - -<p>The majestic woman relaxed not, nor did she make -any motion to embrace her shrinking offspring.</p> - -<p>“Well,” she said, after a long, severe silence, “I -imagine that it is not all for pleasure you come to see -your poor old mother. What is it?”</p> - -<p>“Mémé, I want to present to you my husband.”</p> - -<p>Here I bowed impressively. The big woman with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span> -the folded arms shifted her gaze to me. It was a -searching, sneering, almost derisive gaze, and I hated -her on the spot.</p> - -<p>“So!” she said, more grimly than ever, “and how -is it you can get married without your mother’s consent, -if you please?”</p> - -<p>“We were married in England, Madame,” I said -politely; “but now we want to get married in France -as well, and we are come to ask your consent.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” she said sharply; “you are not really married -then. And what if I refuse my consent? I do -not know you, young man. How do I know if you are -a fit husband for my precious little cabbage? Are -you rich?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Are you a Catholic?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Not rich! Not a Catholic! And this man expects -me to let him marry my little chicken, I who am -so good with the church and can afford to give her a -handsome <i>dot</i>. What is your business?”</p> - -<p>“I am a writer.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Quel toupet!</i> Just the same as her worthless -father, only he was worse—a poet. No, young man. -I think I would prefer a different kind of husband for -my sweet lamb.”</p> - -<p>“I won’t marry any one else, Mémé.”</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue, girl! Do I not know my duty -as a mother? You’ll marry whom I choose.”</p> - -<p>“Then you refuse to give your consent?” I said -with some heat.</p> - -<p>Her manner changed cunningly.</p> - -<p>“I do not say that. All I desire is to know you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span> -better. Will you come and have dinner with me some -Sunday evening?”</p> - -<p>After all, she was my <i>belle-mère</i>. I consented, and -Anastasia seemed relieved. She promised to write and -give us a date. Then I shook hands with her; Anastasia -pecked at her in the French fashion, and there -was, to some appearance, a little family reconciliation.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps the old lady’s not so bad, after all,” I -suggested; but Anastasia was sceptical.</p> - -<p>“I do not trust her. She have some ruse. We -must wait and see.”</p> - -<p>That was a memorable day; for on reaching home -I felt the sudden spur of inspiration, and sitting down -before the ramshackle typewriter, I headed up a clean -sheet:</p> - -<p class="center">THE GREAT QUIETUS</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">A Novel</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“The scene is on the top of a peak that overlooks a -vast plain. A majestic old man, bearded even as the prophets, -stands there looking at the Western sky which the setting -sun has turned into an ocean of gold. Island beyond -island of cloud swims in that amber sea, each coral tinted -and fringed with crimson foam. And as he gazes, the -splendid old man is magnificently happy; for is he not -the last man left alive on this bad, sad earth, and is he -not about to close his eyes on it forever?</p> - -<p>“In the twenty-first century, luxury and wickedness -had increased to such an extent that the whole world became -decadent. The art of flying, brought to such perfection -that all travelled by the air, had annihilated space, -and the world had become very small indeed. Instead of -Switzerland, people went for a week-end skiing to the -Pole; the unexplored places were Baedekerized, and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span> -wild creatures that formerly roamed their valleys relegated -to the alleys of zoological gardens.</p> - -<p>“Behold then, a familiar world, shorn of all mystery; -a tamed world, harnessed to the will of man; a sybaritic -world, starred with splendid cities and caparisoned with -limitless luxury. Its population had increased a thousand -fold; its old religions were outgrown; its moral ideas engulfed -in a general welter of cynicism and sensuality.</p> - -<p>“And out of this dung-heap of degeneracy there arises -a sect of pessimists who declare that human nature is innately -bad; that under conditions of inordinate luxury, -when the most exquisite refinements are within the reach -of the poorest, conditions of idleness, when all the work -of man is done by machinery, it is impossible for virtue -to flourish. War, struggle, rigorous conditions make for -moral vigour. Peace, security, enervating conditions result -in weakness. The blessings that increase of knowledge -had heaped on man were in their very plenitude proving a -curse. But alas! it was too late. Never could man go -back to the old life of virility. There was only one -remedy. It was so easy. Even as far back as the benighted -nineteenth century philosophers had pointed it -out: let every one cease to have children. Let the race -become extinct.</p> - -<p>“For one hundred years had the promulgation of this -doctrine gone on. From their very cradles the children -had been trained to the idea that parenthood was shameful, -was criminal, was a sin against the race. The highest -moral duty of a couple was to die without issue. The -doctrine was easy of dissemination; for even to the remotest -parts of the earth all men were highly educated; -all nations were gathered in world commonwealth with a -world language.</p> - -<p>“But accidents will happen; and it had taken a century -to reduce the population of the world down to a mere -handful. For a score of years all children born had been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span> -suppressed and now, as far as was known, only a dozen -people remained. On a given day these had sworn to partake -of a drug that would ensure them a painless and -pleasant death. That day was past; there only remained -the chief priest to close the account of humanity.</p> - -<p>“He too held the drug that meant his release, and as -he gazed his last on a depopulated world his heart was full -of exultation. He cursed it, this iniquitous earth, where -poor, weak man had been flung to serve his martyrdom. -Well, man had outwitted nature; mind had triumphed over -matter. Now the end....</p> - -<p>“And raising the fatal drug to his lips the last man -drained it to the dregs.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Here ended my prologue: now the story.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“A poor woman, feeling the life stir within her, and -loving it in spite of their teaching, had crawled away and -hid in the depths of a forest. There she had given birth -to a man-child; but, knowing that her boy would be killed, -this woman-rebel lurked in the forest, living on its fruits -and the milk of its deer. Then at last she ventured to -leave her child and revisit the world. Lo! she found that -the day of the Great Quietus has passed; there was no -more human life on the earth. So she returned to the -forest and soon she too perished.</p> - -<p>“The boy thrived wonderously. His mother had told -him that he was the one human being on the planet. He -had lived in a cave and fed of the simple fruits of the -earth, so that he grew to be a young god of the wild-wood. -But he was curious. He wanted to see the wonderful, -wicked world of which his mother had told him so much. -So he set out on his travels.</p> - -<p>“Like a superb young savage he tramped through -Europe. He tamed a horse to bear him; he explored the -ruins of great cities—Vienna, Paris, Berlin. In the ivy-grown<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span> -palaces and the weed-stifled courts of kings he killed -lions and tigers; for all the wild animals had escaped from -the menageries and had reverted to a savage state. He -ached to know something of the histories of these places; -but he could not read, and all was meaningless to him.</p> - -<p>“He discovered how to use a boat, and in his experiments -he was blown across the channel to Britain. Then -one day he lit a bonfire amid the ruins of London. Nothing -in the world but ruin, ruin.</p> - -<p>“He was as one at the birth of things for he understood -nothing. He knew of fire and knives, but not of wheels. -He was a primitive man in a world that has perished of -super-civilisation. Yet as he cowered by his fire in the -centre of Trafalgar Square the vast silence of it all -weighed him down, and he felt oh! so lonely. He caressed -the dogs he had trained to follow and love him. His -mother had been the only human being he had ever seen -and she had died when he was so young. His memory -of her was vague, but he could imagine no one different. -He knew nothing of sex, only that vast consuming loneliness, -those haunting desires he could not understand.</p> - -<p>“Then as he sat there brooding, into his life there came -the woman—a girl. Where she came from he never -knew. Probably like himself she was a deserted child, -and like him she, too, was a child of nature, superb, -virile, unspoiled. She had tamed two leopards to defend -her, and she was clad in the skin of another. With -her leopards she saved his life, just as he was about to fall -in battle against a pack of wolves.</p> - -<p>“Their meeting was a wondrous idyll; their love an -idyll still more wonderful. There in the lovely Kentish -woodland they roamed, a new Adam and a new Eve. Then -to them in that fresh and glowing world, glad as at the -birth of things, a child was born.</p> - -<p>“And here we leave them standing on a peak that overlooks -a beautiful plain, in the glory of the rising sun.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span> -The world rejoices; the sky is full of song; the air is -a-thrill with fate. There they stand bathed in that yellow -glow and hold aloft their child, the beginners of a new -race, a primal pair in a primal world.</p> - -<p>“For nature is stronger than man, and the Master of -Destiny is invincible.”</p> -</div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>I was pounding away at my typewriter one morning, -and Anastasia was out on a marketing expedition, -when there came a violent knocking at my door. As -I opened it Lorrimer almost fell into my arms. He -was ghastly and seemed about to faint. Staggering -to the nearest chair he buried his head in his hands.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter?”</p> - -<p>He only groaned.</p> - -<p>“Heavens, man! tell me what’s wrong.”</p> - -<p>Suddenly he looked up at me with wild staring eyes.</p> - -<p>“Don’t touch me, Madden; I’m accursed. Don’t -you see the brand of Cain on me? I’m a murderer! -Oh, God! a murderer.”</p> - -<p>He rocked up and down, sobbing convulsively.</p> - -<p>“What have you done?” I cried, horrified. “Tell -me quick.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve killed her,” he panted; “I’ve killed Lucretia. -She’s dead now, dead in my studio. I’m on my way -to give myself up to the police.”</p> - -<p>“Killed Lucretia?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes. I didn’t mean to do it. I was mad for -revenge. I had her at my mercy. I thought of poor -Rougette. Her moans have haunted me night and -day. They’ve almost driven me mad. I can’t blot out -the memory of that poor, bandaged face. Then when -I saw that female devil before me something seemed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span> -to snap in my brain. So I’ve killed her. Now I’m -sorry; but it’s too late, too late.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t take it so badly, old chap. Nobody ever -gets punished for murder in France. They’ll bring -in a verdict of <i>crime passionnel</i>, and you’ll be acquitted. -But tell me, quick. What’s happened?”</p> - -<p>He went on in that broken, excited way.</p> - -<p>“She did not know we had seen her that night. -She came to me with the most brazen effrontery. Pretended -to sympathise with Rougette; wanted me to take -her back as a model. That was what maddened me, -the smiling, damned hypocrisy of her. Oh! devil! -devil!”</p> - -<p>“Go on, quick; what did you do?”</p> - -<p>“I told her I was going to paint a picture of -Mazeppa and wanted her to pose for me.”</p> - -<p>“But Mazeppa wasn’t a female.”</p> - -<p>“She doesn’t know that. Well, on impulse I posed -her on that dummy horse I have, and I bound her -to its back with straps, bound her so strongly she -could not move a muscle. She submitted till I had -pulled the last buckle, then she got alarmed, but I -snapped a gag in her mouth before she could scream.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, and then?”</p> - -<p>Lorrimer drew a long, shuddering breath.</p> - -<p>“And then, Madden, I—I <i>varnished</i> her.”</p> - -<p>“Varnished her?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. You see I read it in <i>Pithy Paragraphs</i>, an -advertisement for Silkoline Soap. It began: ‘No -person covered with a coating of varnish could live -for more than half an hour.’ That gave me the idea. -It closes all the pores, you see. Well, there she was -at my mercy. There was a pot of shellac varnish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span> -handy. In a few minutes it was done. From toe to -top I varnished her. Then threw a sheet over her. -And now....”</p> - -<p>“Good Heavens! How long ago?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve come straight here.”</p> - -<p>“Wait, man; perhaps it’s not too late yet. Perhaps—stay -here till I get back.”</p> - -<p>I leapt down the stairs; caught a taxi that was -passing, shouted the number of the house and street, -adding that it was a matter of life and death; leaped -out before the taxi came to a stand; called to the -<i>concierge</i> to follow me, and burst into Lorrimer’s -studio. Not a moment too soon. The girl was in a -dead faint, and it seemed as if every breath would be -her last. In feverish haste I directed the <i>concierge</i> to -unstrap her and wrap her up; then, carrying her downstairs, -we lifted her into the taxi.</p> - -<p>“The baths!” I cried to the chauffeur. “The -baths behind the Closerie de Lilas. And hurry, for -Heaven’s sake! A life’s at stake.”</p> - -<p>In a few minutes we were there, and a nurse had the -girl, who had now recovered consciousness, in a hot bath. -Then for an hour of throbbing suspense, with aching -muscles and dripping brows they fought for her life. -As valiantly as ever hero fought with sword and shield -they fought with soap and soda. In the end the nurse -triumphed. Her skin was considerably damaged but -Lucretia was saved.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI<br /> - -THE SHADOW OF SUCCESS</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">I was</span> killing my chief priest in a blaze of glory when -Anastasia invaded the room that between meals is called -my bureau, at meals the <i>salle-à-manger</i>, in the evening -the <i>salon</i>.</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak to me,” I cried; “I’m at a critical -point.”</p> - -<p>With which I ran my fingers through my hair, took -hold of my teeming skull with both hands, and glared -fiercely at the blank sheet of paper in my typewriter. -With a look almost of awe the wife of the great author -tip-toed out again.</p> - -<p>About an hour after, having duly been delivered of -my great thoughts, I rejoined her. “What is it?” I -asked kindly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, darleen, I have letter from my muzzaire. She -want us have dinner on Sunday. What must I say?”</p> - -<p>“Say yes, of course. The old lady wants to give us -her consent and her blessing. Incidentally, a handsome -<i>dot</i> for you. Shouldn’t wonder if she’d taken -a shine to me after all.”</p> - -<p>“Any one take shine to such lovely sing like you, -darleen; but I don’t know about my muzzaire. Well, -I write and tell her we come. Oh, and anuzzer sing, -I have seen Rougette this morning. She look so happy. -She have come out of the <i>hôpital</i>, and she tell me -she get married with Monsieur Lorrimer, July. You<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span> -nevaire knew she have been burn. It is all down her -neck and shoulder. You cannot see.”</p> - -<p>“I’m so glad. They say beauty is only skin-deep, -but it’s deep enough to change the destiny of nations. -Who would not rather be born beautiful than good? -Why was I not born beautiful?”</p> - -<p>“You are, darleen. You are just beautiful, and -what is better, you are great writer.”</p> - -<p>(I’m afraid Anastasia sees me with the eyes of posterity.)</p> - -<p>“Well, now,” I went on, “I must try and bring -off that triangular marriage scheme of mine. We’ll -fix it all up with my <i>belle-mère</i> on Sunday, and in the -meantime I’ll go out and see the others.”</p> - -<p>So I set forth in high spirits. Everything was going -beautifully it seemed; and when a few moments later -I happened on Monsieur Bébérose issuing from his -apartment, I beamed on him, and he beamed in return. -He was dressed with more care than usual; a hemispherical -figure in a frock coat and tall hat. He was -anxiously trying to get a new pair of lavender kid -gloves on his podgy hands without splitting them, and -the imperial that gave distinction to his series of crisp -chins had been trimmed and brilliantined. Plainly -Monsieur Bébérose had dressed for no ordinary occasion, -and chaffingly I told him so.</p> - -<p>“Ah, no! Ah, no!” he admitted coyly. “I go -to give a <i>déjeûner</i> to my future <i>belle-mère</i> at the Café -Anglais.”</p> - -<p>“Ha! Who is it? Juliette or Lucille?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, neither,” he said, with the archness of a baby -elephant. “It is a new one. I think I will be satisfied -this time.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span>“Is she a widow?”</p> - -<p>“No; but her mother is; and an old friend of mine.”</p> - -<p>“Is she pretty?”</p> - -<p>“Pretty; only twenty and with some money.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! young, charming and with a comfortable <i>dot</i>; -what could be more delightful? Allow me to congratulate -you, my friend. How you must dream of her!”</p> - -<p>“Truly, yes; day and night. She is adorable. She -melts in the mouth.”</p> - -<p>“What a lucky dog you are! I’m dying to see her.”</p> - -<p>“But I have not seen her myself yet. I have just -seen the mother. Ah! I will have that pleasure in a -few days though. Then it is she return from the -friend with whom she is visiting.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I wish you luck. I hope your troubles are -at an end.”</p> - -<p>How pleasant it was, I thought, to see all these wild -creatures of the ranges being rounded up into the blissful -corral of matrimony! How comforting, after one’s -own feathers have been trimmed, to see others joining -the ranks of the wing-clipped! Love should not be -represented as a rosy Cupid, but as a red-jowled recruiting -sergeant. True, I have one of the best wives -in the world; yet, what man is there, who, if he has ever -roved the Barbary coasts of Philander Land, does not -once in a while sigh for the old freedom? Marriage is -a constraint to be good, against which the best of us -feel moments of faint, futile rebellion.</p> - -<p>Sometimes I wished that Anastasia was not so desperately -practical. She seems to consider that I am a -species of great child, and must be looked after accordingly. -I am an ardent suffragist; I have always -advocated the rights of woman; I have always believed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span> -in her higher destiny; I scoff at the idea that woman’s -sphere is the home, and desire to see her marching -shoulder to shoulder with man in the ranks of progress. -Yet, alas! I cannot make a convert of Anastasia.</p> - -<p>Often I have tried to interest her in the burning -question; to inspire in her a sense of having a mission, -of being oppressed; but Anastasia only laughs softly. -She seems to have the ridiculous and old-fashioned idea -that her duty is to make me happy, to surround me -with comfortable routine, to remove from my daily -path all irritating and distracting protuberances. I -have left, with elaborate carelessness on her kitchen -table, enough feminist literature to convert a dozen -women. But Anastasia only rearranges it neatly, -props an open cook-book against it, and studies some -new recipe for stuffing duck.</p> - -<p>“Ah, no,” she would say. “I must not waste my -time reading. That is not serious of me. I have my -<i>ménage</i>, my marketing, my sewing,— Oh, so much to -do! If I threw away my time reading, my Lovely One -might have holes in his socks; and just think what a -shame that would be for me!”</p> - -<p>Yes, it is sad to relate, but I believe if I had offered -her the choice between a new hat and the vote she -would take the hat.</p> - -<p>How often have I wished she had more individuality! -Her idea seems to be to mould her nature to mine, so -that every day she becomes more like a faithful shadow. -How anxiously she watches me as I eat my soup, so -afraid it may not be to my taste! How cheerful, how -patient, how eager to please she is! Oh, for a flare -of temper sometimes, a sign of spirit, something to -show that she is a woman of character, of originality!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span> -But no. Her duty, as she conceives it, is to minister -to my material comfort, to see that I enjoy my food, -to make me wrap up sufficiently. Yet in these things -she is rather tyrannical, insisting on my coming home -to my meals at the hour I have decided on, emphatic -that I change my socks at least twice a week, indignant -if I brush my hair after putting on my coat. However, -she keeps my things in beautiful order, and although -I feel at times that she is a little exacting I yield with -good grace. After all, one ought to consider one’s wife -sometimes.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, I have insisted on some concessions -on her part that are revolutionary to the -French mind—that of sleeping with the window open, -for instance. I over-ruled her objection that the snow -and rain entering during the night, spoiled her <i>parquet</i>. -She keeps it beautifully polished, by the way, and -claims that the shining of it every day gives her enough -exercise without the Swedish gymnastics I insist on her -taking under my direction. But I am so anxious she -should keep slim and lissom, and the exercises are certainly -effective.</p> - -<p>But another matter is beginning to occupy my mind -and to give me a strange mixture of satisfaction and -regret. This is the apparent success of <i>Tom, Dick -and Harry</i>. About a month ago I received my six presentation -copies. MacWaddy and Wedge had done -their work well. The cover was stirring in the extreme. -An American publicity man on his probation -had seized on it as a medium for his first efforts. It -was advertised in the weekly, and even in the daily -papers; a royal princess was announced as having -included it in her library, and more or less picturesque<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span> -paragraphs about the author began to go the round -of the press. The imaginative efforts of the publicity -man were not stultified by any sordid knowledge of -his subject.</p> - -<p>Then press clippings began to come in. A great -many of these were a repetition of the puff on the -paper wrapper, which I had written myself, and therefore -were favourable. But the reviewers who read the -books they review did not let me down so easily. <i>The -Times</i> was tolerant; <i>The Academy</i> acidulous; <i>The -Spectator</i> severe. On the whole, however, my <i>début</i> -was decidedly successful. Nearly all concluded by saying -that “despite its obvious faults, the faults of a -beginner, its crudeness, its obviousness, its thinness of -character-drawing, this first book of Silenus Starset -showed more than the average promise, and his future -work should be looked forward to with some expectation.”</p> - -<p>I gave copies to Helstern and Lorrimer, and they -were both enthusiastic in that tolerant way one’s friends -have of applauding one’s performances.</p> - -<p>“For a first novel, it’s wonderful,” said the sculptor.</p> - -<p>“You’re a marvel for a beginner,” said the artist.</p> - -<p>These back-handed compliments rather discounted -my pleasure. On the other hand, Anastasia, who read -it with rapture, thought it the most wonderful production -since “Les Misérables.” She hugged and treasured -it as if it were something rarely precious, and -verily I believe if she had been asked to choose between -it and the Bible she would have chosen <i>Tom, Dick and -Harry</i>.</p> - -<p>Yes, it had all the appearance of success, and yet I -was, in a way, disappointed. It was the equal of my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span> -other work—no better, no worse. It had the same -fresh, impetuous spirit, the same wheedling, human -quality, the same light-hearted ingenuity. It had the -points that made for popularity: yet I had hoped to -strike a truer note. I had a fatal faculty for success. -I began to fear that I was doomed irrevocably to be a -best-sellermonger.</p> - -<p>Well, it must be as the public willed. I could only -write in the way that was natural to me. Still I hoped -that in <i>The Great Quietus</i> I would show that I could -aspire to better things. There were opportunities in -it for idyllic description, for the display of imagination. -I would try to rise to this new occasion.</p> - -<p>So I was deep in the book the following Sunday -morning when Anastasia reminded me it was the day -we had promised to dine with her mother. The old -lady, she said, had asked her to go in the afternoon -and help to prepare dinner. Would I follow about -six in the evening? I promised, glad to get the extra -time on my manuscript.</p> - -<p>About six, then, I looked up from my work; suddenly -remembered the important engagement, and -rushed on my best garments. I called a taxi and told -the chauffeur to stop at the beginning of the street. -Anastasia, if she saw me, would give me a lecture on -extravagance.</p> - -<p>The house was in the rue Montgolfier, up five flights. -I knocked and Anastasia answered the door. She -looked as if she had been crying. There was a sound of -conversation from an interior room, where I saw a table -set for dinner, with the red checked table-cloth beloved -of the <i>bourgeois</i>.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter?” I whispered.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span>“Oh, I’m so glad you come. Wat you think she -want, that bad muzzaire of me? She ask another man -here and she want that I leave you and marry him. -He is quite rich, and she say she geeve me twenty tousand -francs for <i>dot</i>. All afternoon she <i>discute</i> with -me. She tell me I always am poor wiz you, and nevaire -have much <i>confort</i>. And then she say you are stranger -and some day you leave me. She tell me the uzzer man -geeve me automobile and I will be very grand. And -what you sink? When I say no, no, no, I nevaire, -nevaire leeve you, she say she geeve you two tousand -francs and you geeve me up like nothing. Oh, I ’ave -awful, awful time.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care two pins for your mother,” I said. -“But where’s the other party to this arrangement? -Where’s the damned Frenchman? I’m going to knock -his face in.”</p> - -<p>Suddenly Madame Guinoval appeared, wearing a -black satin robe that crackled on her and threatened to -burst with every movement of her swelling muscles. -The slightly moustached mouth was grim as a closed -trap, and the red face was flushed and angry looking.</p> - -<p>I was furious, but I tried to be calm.</p> - -<p>“Madam,” I said, “Anastasia has just told me all. -You are her mother so I do not express my opinion of -you, but,” I added in a voice of thunder, “where is the -sacred pig who wants to steal away my wife?”</p> - -<p>There was a movement of alarm from the dining-room.</p> - -<p>“Because here’s where I show,” I went on, “that -an American is equal to two Frenchmen. Let me get -at the brute.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span>Anastasia clung to me, begging me to be calm, but -Madame Guinoval was haughtily intrepid.</p> - -<p>“Hegesippe! Hegesippe!” she cried, “come out and -show this <i>coquin</i> you are a brave man.”</p> - -<p>There was no alacrity on the part of Hegesippe, so -the lady entered and fairly boosted him to the front. -I stared; I gasped; my hands dropped; for the suitor, -looking very much alarmed indeed, was little Monsieur -Bébérose.</p> - -<p>“Well,” I said, “you’re a fine man to try and steal -a friend’s wife.”</p> - -<p>It was now the turn of Anastasia and Madame -Guinoval to gasp, for Monsieur Bébérose burst away -from the grasp of the latter and rushing to me began -to stammer a flood of apologies. He was so sorry; -he had not known how things were; he had been deceived. -“It was <i>that</i> woman had deceived him,” he -said dramatically, pointing to Madame Guinoval.</p> - -<p>“That woman” retorted by a terrible calm, a calm -more menacing than any storm, a calm pregnant with -withering contempt.</p> - -<p>“Out of my house,” she said at last; “out, out, -you <i>sale goujat</i>!” And Monsieur Bébérose needed no -second bidding. He grabbed his hat from the rack -and his cane from the stand and vanished. Then the -virago turned to us. Going into the bedroom she -brought Anastasia’s coat and hat. She ignored me -utterly.</p> - -<p>“Do you still,” she said, “intend to remain with -this man?”</p> - -<p>Anastasia nodded a determined head, at which the -mother threw the coat and hat at her feet.</p> - -<p>“Then go, and never let me see your face again.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span> -Never will I give my consent to your marriage in -France. May my tongue wither if I ever give it.”</p> - -<p>“Put on your hat outside,” I said to Anastasia, and -pushed her out. Then I turned to the woman:</p> - -<p>“It does not matter,” I hissed. “You’re a devil. -You’ve tried to play a dirty game, but it won’t do. -And now listen to me.”</p> - -<p>Then I took a step towards her and adopted the -manner of a stage villain. My face was apparently -convulsed with rage, and my raised lips showed my -teeth in a vicious snarl. It was most effective. I vow -the woman shrank back a moment.</p> - -<p>“I’ll pay you out, you harridan. I’ll make you -smart for this. Nobody ever did me a bad turn but -what I did them a worse. Beware, Madame, beware. -I will have my revenge.”</p> - -<p>I slammed the door in her face. Then I laughed -loud and long.</p> - -<p>“I say! it’s all awfully funny, Little Thing. Now -let’s go and have some dinner in place of the one we -should have had with your mother.”</p> - -<p>When we got home that night, another matter -claimed my attention. On opening <i>The Bookman</i>, -which had arrived that morning, I found therein a well-displayed -advertisement of <i>Tom, Dick and Harry</i>. -There was half a column of press extracts carefully -culled and pruned, the evil of them having in some inexplicable -way evaporated. But, oh, wonderful fact -that made me scratch my head thoughtfully! in -bracketed italics was the announcement: Seventh Impression. -There was no guessing how many copies -went to an impression. If the publishers were boosting -up the number of editions by printing only five hundred<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span> -copies at a time this did not mean much. But it was -hardly likely. In any case it did not look as if MacWaddy -and Wedge were losing money over their venture.</p> - -<p>The result was that next morning I read over my -contract with them. Thank goodness! I still had the -American rights; so by the first post I wrote to Widgeon -& Co., the literary agents, putting the matter in -their hands. There was a reply by return saying that -there were several representatives of American firms in -London at that time, and that they would get in touch -with them without delay.</p> - -<p>The following day there came a telegram: “Messrs. -Liverwood & Son offer to publish book on fifteen per -cent. royalty basis. Will we accept. Widgeon.”</p> - -<p>I immediately wired back: “Accept for immediate -publication.”</p> - -<p>Well, that was off my mind anyway. A few days -after, I got a letter from MacWaddy & Wedge saying -that they hoped to have a new book from me soon. -What were the prospects, they wanted to know, of me -being able to let them have it for their autumn lists? -In which case they would begin an advertising campaign -right away. I wrote back that my affairs were -now in the hands of Widgeon & Co. and that all business -would be done through them.</p> - -<p>A week went past. Every day I had new proof that -<i>Tom, Dick and Harry</i> was going well. Then one -morning I had a letter from my agents. They had, -they said, an opportunity to place a good serial. -Would I send them as much of my new book as I had -finished and give a synopsis of the rest. I did so, and -in three weeks’ time they wrote again to say that the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span> -American magazine <i>Uplift</i> had bought the serial rights -for a thousand dollars.</p> - -<p>That, too, was as satisfactory as it was unexpected. -It was like finding the money. Once more I seemed to -have entered on the avenue of success that seemed to -open up before me in spite of myself. From now on, -there would be nothing but monotonous vistas of -smooth going. I was doomed to popular applause. -Once more would I leap into the lists as a writer of best-sellers. -So strongly had I the gift of interesting narrative -that I could win half a dozen new reputations; -of that I felt sure.</p> - -<p>Yes, I had succeeded—no, I mean I had failed, -failed by these later lights that Paris had kindled within -me. Here, amid art that is eternal, art that means -sacrifice, surrender, renunciation, I had learned to despise -that work which merely serves the caprice of an -hour. I had come to crave form, to strive for style. -Yet what can one do? My efforts for art’s sake were -artificial and stilted; it was only when I had a story -to tell that I became entirely pleasing. Well, let -me take my own measure. I would always be a bagman -of letters. In that great division of scribes into sheep -and goats I would never be other than a bleating and -incorrigible goat.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII<br /> - -THE FATE OF FAME</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Madame Séraphine</span> had spoiled my plan of a triple -marriage, but there was nothing to prevent a double -one. It took place one midsummer morning in the -Mairie, rue Grenelle. On the strength of my thousand -dollars from the <i>Uplift</i> people, I offered to pay all expenses.</p> - -<p>In the great gloomy chamber of the Mairie we occupied -one of a series of benches. Frosine and Rougette -were looking radiant, and Helstern and Lorrimer -comported themselves as if getting married was part -of their daily routine. I was the only person at all -excited.</p> - -<p>On the other benches were other bridal parties, a -bridal party to a bench. On a platform facing us sat -a tall man with an Assyrian beard. He wore evening -dress traversed by a tricoloured sash. He took each -couple in turn, looking down on them with no more -interest than if they had been earwigs. Then he mumbled -into his beard for about two minutes; finally he -cleared his throat and for the first time we heard him -distinctly: “The ceremony is terminated.”</p> - -<p>After he had spoken this phrase about a dozen times -our turn came. Joyfully I pushed forward my candidates -and in a few minutes they were admitted into the -matrimonial fold according to the law of France.</p> - -<p>Then I whirled them off to Marguery’s where we had -a lunch of uproarious jollity, punctuated with kisses,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span> -compliments and toasts. They would fain have lingered, -but I whisked them off once more to the Place -Denfort Rochereau where on every Saturday afternoon -assembles the crowd of tourists that descends into the -darkness of the Catacombs. I bought candles for all, -showed my permit to the door-keeper, and we joined -the long procession of candle-bearing cosmopolitans. -The three women were delighted. It seemed so original -for a Parisian to visit the Catacombs of Paris.</p> - -<p>So for miles we followed these weird galleries hewn -from the living rock and lined with the bones of their -million dead. As we walked in single file the flickering -candles gruesomely lit up the brown walls where the -shank bones were piled with such meticulous neatness, -knob dove-tailing into hollow, and the whole face of -them decorated with fantastic frescoes of thousands of -skulls. And behind these cordwood-like piles were vast -heaps of indistinguishable débris, the bones of that -mediæval myriad gutted from the graveyards when -the great city had to have more room.</p> - -<p>We were all emerging from a side-gallery when I -pulled Anastasia back; for there, at the head of a -party of Cook’s tourists, whom should I see but her -enemy O’Flather. Luckily he did not notice her and -she did not recognise him, so I held my tongue. But -I thought:</p> - -<p>“Ah, now if I were a writer of fantastic fiction, -instead of a recorder of feeble fact, what a chance I -should have here! Could I not in some way have left -us in the darkness, all three together, our candles lost -down one of those charnel pits? Then imagine: a battle -in the dark between him and me, with the girl insensible -between us. There in the black bowels of Paris<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[300]</span> -how we smash at one another with naked femurs in our -hands! How the bones and dust of death come toppling -down on us! How, finally, I bowl him over with -a chance-hurled skull. Then imagine how I wander -there in the darkness with the girl in my arms! How -we starve and nearly go mad! And how at last, on the -following Saturday, the next batch of tourists finds us -lying insensible at the foot of the great stairs!” As -I thought of these things, by an absent-minded movement, -I raised my candle. There was a fierce, frizzling -noise. It was the feathers on the hat of the stout dame -in front. They shrunk in a moment down to three -weedy quills. Poor lady! she did not know, and I—I -confess it with shame—had not the moral courage -to tell her.</p> - -<p>No sooner had we got into the open air again than -I whirled my party off again to Montmartre. There -was a matinée at the Grand Guignol, and I had taken -seats in the low gallery. The pieces were more thrilling -than usual and the three women screamed ecstatically.</p> - -<p>For example: A father and son are left in charge -of a solitary lighthouse. (You see the living-room of -the lighthouse; you hear the howling of the storm.)</p> - -<p>Then the son confesses to the father that he has -been bitten by a rabid dog and that he feels the virus -in his veins. He implores the father to kill him, but -the old man refuses. The storm increases.</p> - -<p>The son begins to go mad. He freezes, he burns, he -raves, he weeps. Night is failing. It is time to light -the lamps. The old man goes to do so: but the son is -trying to kill himself and the father has to wrestle with -him. The hoarse horn of a ship is heard in the growing -storm.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[301]</span>There is no time to lose. The ship is close at hand, -rushing on the rocks. The old man leaves his son and -springs to the rope-ladder leading to the lights. He -gets up it almost to the top, but the son is after him. -With the blood-curdling snarl of a mad animal he -seizes his father by the leg and buries his teeth in it. -The old man kicks out, and the son, loosing his hold, -tumbles crashing to the stage below. The curtain falls -on the spectacle of the old man crouching over the -dead body of his boy and the doomed ship crashing on -the rocks.</p> - -<p>This was one of the most cheerful pieces we saw, so -that when we issued forth again we were all in excellent -frame of mind for an <i>apéritif</i> at the Moulin Rouge. -We had dinner at the Abbaye, and finished up by visiting -those bizarre cabarets, Hell, Heaven and Annihilation.</p> - -<p>“It’s been a lovely day you’ve arranged for us,” -said Lorrimer as we broke up; “but one thing you -missed to make it complete. Could you not have contrived -a visit to the Morgue?”</p> - -<p>“I tried,” I admitted mournfully, “but they’re not -issuing permits any more.” However, I agreed with -him; it had been one of the loveliest days I had ever -spent.</p> - -<p>So Lorrimer and Rougette went off to Brittany, -and Helstern and Frosine to Normandy, and it seemed -very lonely without them all. Yet the days passed -serenely enough in our little apartment in that quiet -by-street. I was becoming more and more absorbed in -<i>The Great Quietus</i> which already was beginning to show -signs of unruliness. My Pegasus, harnessed to imagination, -is hard to keep in hand, and I perceived<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[302]</span> -that, soon it would take the bit in its teeth. Anastasia -was deeply interested in some tapestry she was trying -to imitate from a design in the Cluny Museum. Sometimes -for hours as we both worked you would not hear -a sound in the tiny room.</p> - -<p>Then when we were tired of toiling we would go -out on, to me, the pleasantest of all the boulevards, -Montparnasse. We would walk down as far as the -Invalides, and, returning, sit in front of the Dome or -the Rotando Café and sip <i>Dubonnets</i> while we watched -the passing throng. We mixed with the groups of -artists and students that thronged the rue de la Grand -Chaumiere with its gleaming signs of Croquis schools, -where for half a franc one may sketch for three hours -some nude damsel with a wrist watch and very dirty -feet. Or we spent a tranquil evening in a Cinema, -halfway down the Boulevard Raspail, whose cherry-coloured -lights saves the people on the apartments -across the way a considerable sum yearly in gas bills.</p> - -<p>Days of simple joys! What a world of difference -a few extra francs make. Economy still, but self-respecting -economy, not sordid striving to make ends -meet. Anastasia would not waste anything. The remains -of the <i>gigot</i> for dinner appeared as a <i>ragoût</i> at -lunch. The morning milk left over must serve as the -evening soup. Often I groaned in spirit, and suggested -a little more recklessness. But no! I must not -forget we were poor. We must cut our coat according -to our cloth.</p> - -<p>It was useless to try and change her. She was of -that race of born house-wives who have made France -the rich nation it is to-day. Early in the morning see -their kimono-clad arms protruded from their windows<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[303]</span> -to shake the energetic duster; a little later see them -seated, trim and smiling at the cash-desks in their husband’s -shops. Centuries of prudence are in their veins; -industry is to them a religion, and the instinct of thrift -is almost tyrannical. I know one of them who insisted -on her daughter marrying an Englishman because she -had sent her to a school in Brighton for a year, and did -not want to see the money wasted.</p> - -<p>So, recognising the genius of the race, I submitted -meekly to Anastasia’s sense of economy. Her greatest -delight was to spend the afternoon in the great Magasins -that lie behind the Opera. She would spend three -hours there, walking them from end to end, turning -over enormous quantities of stuff which she would throw -aside in the contemptuous way of the born shopper, -swooping hawk-like, pressing intrepidly through crowds -that appalled me, breathing air that gave me a headache, -and in the end returning with six sous of riband, -declaring that she had had a glorious day.</p> - -<p>Often I wonder how a woman who is tired if she -walks a mile in the open air can walk ten in a close, -heated department store without fatigue. As I walk -in the street Anastasia lags hopelessly in the rear, but -the moment we enter the Louvre or the Bon Marché -there is a mighty change. The enthusiasm of the bargain -stalker gleams in her eyes; she becomes alert, a -creature of fierce and predatory activity. It is I who -am helpless now, I who try in vain to keep up, as in -some marvellous way she threads in and out that packed -mob of sister bargain-stalkers. She is still fresh when -I am ready to drop with exhaustion, and she knows the -Galerie and the Printemps as well as I know my pocket. -Her only weakness is for special bargains. How often<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[304]</span> -has she bought fancy boxes of note-paper and envelopes, -just because they were too cheap to resist. I have -enough rose and cream stationery to last me the balance -of my life. I believe she buys them for the sake of the -box.</p> - -<p>As the days went on I found myself becoming more -and more in love with the lotus life of Bohemia. I began -to dread making an engagement; it weighed on -me like a burden. I wanted to be free, free to do what -I liked every moment of my time. An engagement -was a constraint. The chances were that when the -time came I did not feel in a sociable mood. Yet I -would have to take part in conversation that did not interest -me; I would have to adapt my thoughts to the -thoughts of others. So Society became to me a form -of spiritual tyranny, a state where I could not be myself, -but had to play the complacent ape among people -who were often uncongenial.</p> - -<p>The fact of the matter was, I was overworking myself, -living again that strange intense life of the maker -of books, heedless of the outside world, and more and -more vividly intent on the glowing world of my dreams. -When I felt the force flag within me I would stimulate -myself anew with draughts of strong black coffee. -More and more was I the martyr to my moods, a prey -to strange enthusiasms, strange depressions.</p> - -<p>For hours I would sit tense over my typewriter, all -nerves and desire; now attacking it in a frenzy of -whirling phrases, now wrestling with the god of scribes -for a few feeble fumbling words. Words—how I loved -them! What a glory it was to twist and torture them, -to marshall and command them, to work them like -jewels into the gleaming fabric of a story!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[305]</span>As I walked the streets I had moments of wonderful -exaltation; moments when my brain would be full of -strange gleams and shadows. I would know the joy -that is theirs who feel for a moment the inner spirit of -things. I would have the reeling sense of intoxication -as the Right Word shot into my consciousness. As I -walked, the ground beneath my feet would seem billowy, -the world around strangely, deliciously unreal, and the -people would take on a new and marvellous aspect. -So light I felt, that I imagined my feet must have some -prehensible quality preventing me flying upward.</p> - -<p>Particularly I favoured walking in an evening of -soft-falling rain. It turned the boulevards into avenues -of delight. The pavements were of beaten gold; -down streets that were like plaques of silver shot ruby -lights of taxicabs; the vivid leaves on the trees were -clustered jewels. Perhaps I would see two people descending -from a shining carriage, the lady in exquisite -gown, held up to show silk-stockinged ankles, the man -in evening dress. “They are going to dinner,” I would -say; “to force themselves to be agreeable for three -hours; to eat much rich, unnecessary food. Ah! how -much better to be one’s own self and to walk and dream -in the still, soft rain.”</p> - -<p>So on I would go, and the world would become like -a shadow beside the glow of my imagination. I would -think of my work, thrill at its drama, chuckle over its -humour, choke at its pathos. I would talk aloud my -dialogues till people stared at me, even in Paris, this -city of privileged eccentricity. I was more absent-minded -than ever, and my nerves were often on edge. -My manner became spasmodic, my temper uncertain. -I avoided my friends, took almost no notice of Anastasia;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[306]</span> -in short, I was agonising in the travail of, alas! -best-seller birth.</p> - -<p>For my story had once more got out of hand. It -was writing itself. I could not check it. I would -rattle off page after page till the old typewriter seemed -to curse me and my frenzy. Then, if perchance I was -sitting mute and miserable before it, a few cups of -that hot, black coffee till my heart began to thump, -and I would be at it once more. I wanted to get it -finished, to rid my mind of it, to send it away so that -I would never see it again.</p> - -<p>At last with a great spurt of effort I again wrote -the sweetest word of all—The End. I leaned back -with a vast sigh: “Thank God, I can rest now.”</p> - -<p>Then I looked at the manuscript sadly.</p> - -<p>“Another of them. I’ve no doubt it will sell in -the tens of thousands. It will be a success; yet what -a failure! What a chance I had to make art of it! -What poetry! What romance! And I have sacrificed -them for what?—adventure, exciting narrative, -melodrama. I had to invent a villain, an educated -super-ape who makes things hum. But I couldn’t help -it. It was just the way it came to me and I could do -no other.</p> - -<p>“Oh, cursed Fate! I am doomed to success. Like -a Nemesis it pursues me. If I could only achieve one -glorious failure how happy I would be! But no. I -am fated to become a writer with a vogue, a bloated -bond-clipper.</p> - -<p>“Alas! No more the joy of the struggle, the hope, -the despair. Farewell, garrets and crusts! Farewell, -light-hearted poverty! Farewell, the gay, hard life! -Bohemia, Paris, Youth—farewell!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[307]</span>And as I gazed at the manuscript that was to make -for me a barrel of money there never was more miserable -scribe than I.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[308]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII<br /> - -THE MANUFACTURE OF A VILLAIN</h3> -</div> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Here’s</span> crime,” I said darkly, as I touched glasses -with O’Flather.</p> - -<p>The man with the bull-dog face and the brindled hair -knotched his sandy eyebrows in interrogation.</p> - -<p>“Down with the police,” I went on, taking a gloomy -gulp of grenadine.</p> - -<p>“Wot d’ye mean?” said my boon companion, suspending -the operation of a syphon to regard me suspiciously.</p> - -<p>“O’Flather,” I lowered my voice to a mysterious -whisper—“have you never longed to revel in violence -and blood? Have you never longed to be a villain?”</p> - -<p>“Can’t say as I have,” said O’Flather, somewhat -relieved, proceeding to sample the brandy and soda -I had ordered for him.</p> - -<p>“Is there no one you hate?” I suggested; “hate -with a deadly hatred. No one you wish to be revenged -on, terribly revenged on?”</p> - -<p>“Can’t say as there is,” said the fat man thoughtfully. -“But wait; yes, by the blasting blazes, there’s -the skirt wot put my show on the blink. I’d give a -month in chokey to get even with her.”</p> - -<p>“What would you do if you met her?” I demanded.</p> - -<p>“Wot would I do?” he snarled, and his cod-mouth -opened to show those teeth like copper and verdigris -clenched in venomous hate; “I’d do her up, that’s -wot I would do.” He banged his big, fat fist down on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[309]</span> -the table. “I’d pound her face in. I’d beat her to a -jelly. I’d leave about as much life in her as a sick -fly.”</p> - -<p>“Did you never find out where she went?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Nary a trace,” he said vindictively. “I hiked it -over here to see if I could get on her tracks. They -say if you wait long enough by the Caffay-day-la-Pay -corner all the folks you’ve ever known will come along -some day. Well, I’ve been waiting round there doing -the guide business, but nary a trace.”</p> - -<p>“What would you say if I told you where she is?”</p> - -<p>“I should say you was a good pal.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, O’Flather, I saw her only this morning.”</p> - -<p>“The blazes! Tell me where an’ I’ll start after -her right now.”</p> - -<p>“Easy on, my lad. Don’t get excited. Let’s talk -the matter over coolly. I’m sure it’s the girl I saw -in the doorway of your Exhibition that night. It -struck me as so odd I inquired her name. Let me see; -it was Guin ... Guin ... Ah! Guinoval.”</p> - -<p>“By Christmas, that’s her; that’s her; curse her. -Where is she?”</p> - -<p>“Wait a bit; wait a bit, O’Flather. Revenge is a -beautiful thing. I believe in it. If a man hits you -hit him back, only harder. But while I approve your -motive, I deprecate your method. It’s too primitive, -my dear man, too brutally primitive.”</p> - -<p>“Wot d’ye mean? D’ye think it’s too much to -beat her up after the dirty trick she played me?”</p> - -<p>“Keep cool, O’Flather. Have a little imagination. -There are other ways that you could hurt her far more -than by resorting to crude violence. She’s a very honest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[310]</span> -girl, I believe. Sets a great deal on her reputation. -Well, then, instead of striking at the girl, strike -at her reputation.”</p> - -<p>“But how? Wotter you getting at?”</p> - -<p>“It’s simple enough. These days the popular form -of villainy is White Slavery. Become a White Slaver. -What’s to prevent you abducting the girl, having her -taken to that Establishment you so strenuously represent—your -Crystal Palace? Once within those doors -it’s pretty hard for her to get out again. You have her -at your mercy and the Institution ought to pay you -handsomely.”</p> - -<p>“But it’s a risky business. You know them French -judges have no mercy on a foreigner. If I was caught -I’d get it in the neck.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t do the actual abduction yourself. You’re -too fat and too conspicuous to do the job yourself. -Besides, she knows you. Get three of these bullies -that hang around the Crystal Palace to do it for you. -You wait there till they come with the girl.”</p> - -<p>“But how would they know her?”</p> - -<p>“That’s true. Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, -O’Flather, being a bit of a villain myself, and ready to -help a pal; I’ll go with your cadets, or whatever they -are, and point out the girl. You engage your men. -We’ll all go down in a taxi. The chauffeur must understand -that he’s to ask no questions. When the -girl comes along I point her out. Gaston rushes in -with a chloroformed rag. Alphonse and Achille grab -her arms. Presto! in a moment she’s in the taxi. In -ten minutes she’s in your Crystal Palace. Is it not -easy?”</p> - -<p>“Seems so,” he said thoughtfully. “I think I could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[311]</span> -get the men for to-night. Won’t two do? Sure it -needs three?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I said thoughtfully; “it might be better -even with four, but I think three will do. I’ve found -that she goes to work every morning about two o’clock, -and takes the same road always. It’s dark then, and -the road’s almost deserted. I can be at the Place de -l’Opera at half-past one, when you can meet me with -your men and a taxi. How will that do?”</p> - -<p>“Right O! I’ll be there. To-night then. Half-past -one. And say! tell me before you go whereabouts -this abduction business is going to be done. It -don’t matter to me, but you might be a little more confidential. -Where’s she working?”</p> - -<p>“She’s working in the <i>Halles</i> and she goes by the -name of Séraphine Guinoval.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The night was come, and though I arrived punctually -at the rendezvous O’Flather and his myrmidons -were there before me. The fat man was tremendously -excited and fearfully nervous. His hand shook so that -he spoiled two cigarettes before he got one rolled decently. -He sank his voice to a hoarse whisper.</p> - -<p>His accomplices were of the usual type of <i>souteneurs</i>—little, -dark, dapperly-dressed men with lantern-jawed -faces, small black moustaches and cigarettes in -their cynical mouths. Their manner was sullenly cool -and contemptuous—a contempt that seemed to extend -to their patron. There was no time to lose. We all -bundled into the waiting taxi.</p> - -<p>“Good luck to ye,” said O’Flather. “I’ll be off -now and wait. The boys know where to take the jade. -Once they get her into the taxi the rest is easy. I’ll be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[312]</span> -waiting there to give her the glad hand; and extend, -so to say, the hospitality of the mansion. You’re sure -you know where to drop on her?”</p> - -<p>“Sure. She’s as regular as clock-work, passing the -same corner and always alone. Rely on that part of it. -The rest lies with your satellites and with you.”</p> - -<p>“All right,” he chuckled malevolently. “The -thing’s as good as done. So long now. See you to-morrow -same place.”</p> - -<p>The taxi darted off, and the last I saw of my villain -was his immense bull-dog face lividly glowering in the -up-turned fur collar of his coat, and his ham-like hand -waved in farewell.</p> - -<p>We were embarked on the venture now, and even I -felt a thrill as I looked at the dark, dissolute faces of -the men by my side. At that moment the affair began -to seem far more serious than I had bargained for, -and I almost wished myself out of it. But it was too -late to turn back. I must play my part in the plot.</p> - -<p>I had selected a narrow pavement and a dark doorway -as the scene of operations. It would be very easy -for three men lurking there to rush any passer-by into -a taxi at the edge of the pavement without attracting -attention. As I explained, I could see my three braves -agreed with me. They shrugged their shoulders.</p> - -<p>“<i>Parbleu!</i> It’s too easy,” they said, and retiring -into the doorway they lit fresh cigarettes.</p> - -<p>How slowly the time seemed to pass! I paced up -and down the pavement anxiously. Several times I -felt like bolting. The false beard I had donned was -so uncomfortable; and, after all, I began to think, it -was rather tough on my <i>belle-mère</i>. There in the -darkened doorway I could see the glow of three<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[313]</span> -cigarettes, and I could imagine the contemptuous, -sneering eyes behind them. Hunching forward, the -chauffeur seemed asleep. The street was silent, dark, -deserted. Then suddenly I heard a step ... it was -her.</p> - -<p>Yes, there was no doubt. Passing under a distant -lamp I had a convincing glimpse of her. I could not -mistake the massive figure waddling along in the black -serge costume of the market women, with the black -shawl over her shoulders, the black umbrella in the -hand. She was hatless too, and carried a satchel. -All this I saw in a vivid moment ere I turned to my -bullies and whispered huskily:</p> - -<p>“Ready there, boys! She comes.”</p> - -<p>My excitement seemed to communicate itself to them. -Their cigarettes dropped, and Alphonse peered out almost -nervously.</p> - -<p>“<i>Sapristi!</i> that her?” he exclaimed hoarsely. -“You are sure, Monsieur?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes; sure, sure. She’s a <i>large</i> girl.”</p> - -<p>He shrugged his shoulders as if to say: “Monsieur, -our patron, he has a droll taste among the women, <i>par -exemple</i>. But that is not our affair. Steady there -Gaston and Alphonse! Get ready for the spring.”</p> - -<p>The three men were tense and <i>couchant</i>; the -chauffeur snored steadily; the unsuspecting footsteps -drew nearer and nearer. Crossing the street, I stood -in the shadow on the other side.</p> - -<p>What happened in the next half minute I can only -surmise. I saw three dark shadows launch themselves -on another shadow. I heard a scream of surprise that -was instantly choked by a hairy masculine hand. I -heard another hoarse yell as a pair of strong teeth met<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[314]</span> -in that masculine hand. I heard volleys of fierce profane -Gallic expletives, grunts, groans, yelps of pain and -the unmistakable whacking of an umbrella. Evidently -my desperadoes weren’t having it all their own way. -The bigger shadow seemed to be holding the smaller -ones at bay, striking with whirling blows at them every -time they tried to rush in. The smaller shadows -seemed to be less and less inclined to rush in; each was -evidently nursing some sore and grievous hurt, and the -joy of battle did not glow in them. There is no doubt -they would have retired discomfited had not their -doughty antagonist suddenly tripped and fallen with a -resounding thump backwards. Then with a mutual -yell of triumph they all knelt on her chest.</p> - -<p>She was down now, but not defeated. Still she -fought from the ground, but their united weight was -too much for her. She fell exhausted. Then with -main strength they hauled, pushed, lifted her into the -taxi, and piling in after her, panting and bleeding from -a score of wounds, they sat on her as fearfully as one -might sit on an exhausted wild cat. The taxi glided -away, and I saw them no more.</p> - -<p>As to the sequel, I found it all in the columns of the -<i>Matin</i> two mornings after. Herewith is a general -translation:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Madame Séraphine Guinoval is a buxom brunette who -carries on a flourishing business in Les Halles. To look at -her no one would suspect her of inspiring an ardent and -reckless passion; yet early yesterday morning Madame -Guinoval was the victim of an abduction such as might have -occurred in the pages of romance.</p> - -<p>“It was while she was going to her work in the very -early morning that the too fascinating fair one was set<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[315]</span> -upon by three young apaches and conveyed to a well-known -temple of Venus. Madame Guinoval appears to have given -a good account of herself, judging from the condition -of her assailants as they confronted the magistrate this -morning. All three suffer from bites, one received as he -sat on the lady’s head; their faces are scratched as by a -vigorous young cougar; two have eyes in mourning, while -each claims to have received severe bodily injuries. A -more sorry trio of kidnappers never was seen.</p> - -<p>“But their plight is nothing to that of the instigator -of the plot—a certain Irish American, known as the -Colonel Offlazaire, a well-known <i>boulevardier</i>. He, it -seems, became so infatuated with the charms of the fair -<i>Marchande d’escargots</i> that with the impetuous gallantry -of his race he was determined to possess her at all costs. -Alas! luckless, lovelorn swain! He is now being patched -up in the hospital.</p> - -<p>“The real trouble began, it seems, when they got the -Guinoval safely within that pension for young ladies kept -by Madame Lebrun on the rue Montmartre. They put -her in a dark room and turned the key in the door. Then -to her entered the Chevalier Offlazaire, locked the door, and -turned on the light. He then must have entered into a -violent argument with the fair one, for presently were -heard sounds of commotion from behind the closed door, a -man’s voice pleading for mercy, and the smashing of -furniture. So fierce, indeed, did the turmoil become, that -presently the proprietress of the establishment, supported -by a bodyguard of her fair pensionnaires, felt constrained -to open the door with her private key.</p> - -<p>“Not a moment too soon! For the unfortunate Chevalier -Colonel was already <i>hors de combat</i>, while over him, -the personification of outraged virtue, poised the amazonian -Séraphine, whirling a chair around her head in a berserker -rage. Terrified, Madame Lebrun and her protégées fled -screaming; then the infuriated lady of the <i>Halles</i> proceeded<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[316]</span> -to reduce the establishment to ruins. Very little -that was breakable escaped that flail-like chair swung by -outraged virtue. Particularly did she devote her attention -to the room known as the Crystal Palace, where she -smashed all the mirrors that compose the walls, and then -ended by reducing to ruins the magnificent candelabra. -Her frenzy of destruction was only interrupted by the arrival -of the police.</p> - -<p>“In consequence of the serio-comic character of the -affair, and its disastrous effects on those who promoted it, -the magistrate was inclined to be lenient. A nominal fine -of fifty francs was imposed on each of the three accomplices, -while the illustrious O’Flather was fined two -hundred francs, and found himself so ridiculously notorious -that he departed for pastures new.”</p> -</div> - -<p>(As for Madame Guinoval, I think she enjoyed the -whole thing immensely.)</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[317]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX<br /> - -A CHEQUE AND A CHECK</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">One</span> morning I received a cheque for nine hundred -dollars from Widgeon & Co.—payment for <i>The Great -Quietus</i>, now running serially in the <i>Uplift</i>. Did I -wave it in the air? Did I do a war-dance of delight? -No. I looked at it with sober sadness. The struggle -was over. Henceforward it was the easy money, the -work that brought in ten times its meed of reward. -Alas! how I was doomed to prosperity! I banked the -cheque with a heavy heart.</p> - -<p>Always was it thus. I vowed each book would be -my last. I would drop out of the best-seller writing -game, take to the country and raise calves. Then, -sooner or later the desire would come to leap into the -lists once more. There was usually a month’s boredom -between books, and I would go at it again. “Perhaps,” -I would say, “I’ll be able to write a failure this -time.”</p> - -<p>So, having got <i>The Great Quietus</i> off my hands already, -I was having this feeling of energy going to -waste. One day then, as I walked along the Avenue de -la Grande Armée, I happened to stop in front of an -automobile agency. There in the window was displayed -the neatest <i>voiturette</i> I had ever seen. It had -motor-bicycle wheels, a tiny tonneau for two, an engine -strong enough for ordinary touring. It was called -the <i>Baby Mignonne</i>, and I fell in love with it on the -spot.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[318]</span>As I was admiring the dainty midget two American -women stopped in front of the window.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it just the cutest thing?” said one.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it just a perfect darling?” said the other.</p> - -<p>Then they passed on, leaving me tingling with pride -at their verdict; for on the spur of the moment I had -made up my mind that this diminutive runabout should -belong to me. Ha! that was it. I was seeking for a -new character in which to express my energy. Well, -I would become a dashing motorist in a leather cap -and goggles, swishing along in my Baby Mignonne. -Yet I hesitated a moment.</p> - -<p>The price was thirty-eight hundred francs. That -would not leave much out of my forty-five. It seemed -a little indiscreet in a man who had been fighting the -wolf so long to spend the first decent bit of money he -made in an automobile; a man who lived in a garret, -whose wardrobe was not any too extensive, and whose -wife, that very morning, had finished a hat for winter -wear with her own hands. Ah! now I came to think of -it, she had looked so pale leaning over her cherry -ribands. Now I understood my sudden impulse. It -was for <i>her</i> I was buying it; so that I might drive her -out; so that she might get lots of fresh air; so that -the roses might bloom in her cheeks again. With a -sense of splendid virtue, I said to the agent: “I’ll -take it.”</p> - -<p>Then I halted: “But I don’t know how to drive -one,” I said prudently. “How do I know I can get -a chauffeur’s certificate?”</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said the agent, “that was easy. There was -a school for chauffeurs next door, where for a hundred -francs they qualified you for the licence.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[319]</span>So I promised the man I would return when I could -drive, and made arrangements to begin lessons on the -following day.</p> - -<p>I returned home full of my new hobby. At all -costs I must keep it a secret from her. Her economical -soul would rebel at my splendid sacrifice. Then again -I wanted the surprise to be a dramatic one. I would -tell her one day to meet me at the Place de l’Opera, -and as she lingered, patiently waiting for me to come -plodding along on “<i>train onze</i>,” up I would dash on -my Baby Mignonne. Removing my goggles, I would -laugh into her amazed face. Then I would remark in a -casual way:</p> - -<p>“I thought you might be too tired to walk home, -so I brought you round your car. Jump in quickly. -We’re blocking up the traffic.”</p> - -<p>So clearly did I see the picture that I chuckled over -my coffee and Camembert.</p> - -<p>“What make you so amuse?” she asked curiously.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing,” I said hurriedly. “I was just thinking -of a little business I have in hand.”</p> - -<p>I continued to chuckle throughout the day, and my -wife continued to wonder at this change in her husband. -(Here let me change for a moment from my view point -to hers.) She never pryed into his affairs, but nevertheless -she watched him curiously. And day by day -his conduct was still more puzzling. Although an inveterate -late riser, he sprang from bed at half-past -seven and dressed quickly. Then after a hurried breakfast -he said: “I’ve got an engagement at nine. Don’t -wait for me.” She did not dare ask him where he was -going, but she saw an eager glow in his eyes, a gladness -as of one hastening to a tryst.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[320]</span>And when he returned how joyous he was! With -what a hearty appetite he attacked his lunch! How -demonstrative in his affection! (Wives, when husbands -grow demonstrative in their affection, begin to -get suspicious.)</p> - -<p>She marked, too, his unusual preoccupation. He -had something on his mind; something he was desperately -anxious to keep from her. He seemed afraid -to meet her eye. She began to be anxious, even afraid.</p> - -<p>Next morning he arose at the same time and went -off again on his mysterious business. She fretted: she -worried. She knew he was wilful and headstrong; -she knew he would always be an enigma to her; -she loved him for that very quality of aloofness; -yet over all she loved him because of his caprice, because -some day she dreaded she might lose him. He -had moods she feared, subtle, harsh moods; then again -he was helpless and simple as a child.</p> - -<p>Yes, she had never been able to fathom his whimsical -changes, and he certainly was greatly excited about -this affair. It could not be that he was incubating a -new novel, for that only made him irritable. Now -his eyes expressed a rare pleasure. What, O, what -could this secret business be?</p> - -<p>(So much for what I imagined to be the “Psychology -of Anastasia” at this moment. To return to myself.)</p> - -<p>I was certainly getting a great deal of fun out of my -lessons. The change from book-making to machinery -was a salutary one, and every day saw me more enthusiastic. -There in the quiet roads of the Bois-de-Boulogne -I practised turning and backing, accompanied -by an instructor who controlled an extra set<span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[321]</span> -of brakes in case of accident. I was beginning to be -very proud of myself as I bowled around the Bois, -and was even becoming conceited when one morning -my professor said to me:</p> - -<p>“To-morrow, Monsieur, you must come in the afternoon -instead of the morning. Then we will drive -along the Champs Elysées and the boulevards, for it -is necessary you have some experience in handling -the automobile in the midst of traffic. On the morning -after, the Inspector will come to examine you for your -certificate.”</p> - -<p>I was tremendously excited. Instead of rising early -the following day I visibly astonished Anastasia by -sleeping till ten o’clock. But after lunch I announced -that I was going out and would not be back to supper.</p> - -<p>I saw her face fall. Doubtless she thought: “His -mysterious business has only been transferred from -forenoon to afternoon. I thought this morning when -he did not get up it was finished. It seems only the -hour is changed. But I will say nothing.”</p> - -<p>So she watched me from the window as I went away, -and I believe the position must have been getting on -my nerves for that afternoon, amid the bewildering -traffic of Les Etoiles, I lost my head. Trying to avoid -a hand-barrow, I crashed into a cab, and of course the -emergency brakes refused to work. Considerable damage -was done. There were two policemen taking down -names, a huge crowd, much excited gesticulation. In -the end I promised to call at the office of the cab proprietor -and pay for the damage. Sadly I drove back -to the garage. Never, I thought, should I pass my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[322]</span> -examination on the morrow. But my instructor -cheered me up, and I began to look forward to it hopefully.</p> - -<p>I arrived home trembling with excitement. I could -hardly eat my supper, and rose soon after it was over.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got an engagement this evening,” I said nervously; -“I may be late; don’t wait up for me.”</p> - -<p>I was conscious how furtive and suspicious my manner -was. I turned away to avoid her straight, penetrating -gaze.</p> - -<p>“Won’t you tell me where you are going?” she said -quietly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, just out on business,” I said irritably. “I -have a matter to attend to.”</p> - -<p>With this illuminating information I went off. I -had the impression that she was restraining herself -with a great effort. Well, it was certainly trying.</p> - -<p>I paid the proprietors of the cab a cheque for two -hundred francs. Then it was necessary to go round -and inform the police that everything had been settled. -Then it seemed fit to promote a good feeling all round -by ordering a bottle of champagne. Then one must -drink to my success as a chauffeur in another bottle. -When I reached home it was after midnight and I was -terribly tired. The excitement of the day had worn -me out; and, besides, there was the worry over the examination -in the morning. The wine too had made -me very drowsy.</p> - -<p>Anastasia lay silent on her bed. She did not move -as I entered so I supposed she slept. Making as little -noise as possible, I undressed. As I blew out the -candle my last impression was of the exceeding cosiness -of our little room. Particularly I noted our new dressing-table<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[323]</span> -of walnut, the armoire with mirror doors, -and the fresh curtains of cream cretonne with a design -of roses. “It’s home,” I thought, “and how glad I -am to get back to it!” Then I crept between the -sheets, and feeling as if I could sleep for ever and -ever, I launched into a troubled sea of dreams.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“What’s the matter?”</p> - -<p>It seemed as if some one was shaking me furiously. -Opening my eyes I saw that it was Anastasia.</p> - -<p>“What, is it? Fire? Burglars?” I exclaimed. I -had always made up my mind in the case of the latter -I would lock the bedroom door and interview them -through the keyhole. I am not a coward, but I have -a very strongly developed sense of self-preservation.</p> - -<p>“No, no; something more serious than that,” she -answered in a choking voice.</p> - -<p>“What then? Are you sick?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, sick of everysing. I waken you up because -you talk in your sleep.”</p> - -<p>“Do I? Seems to me you needn’t waken me up -just for that. What was I saying?”</p> - -<p>“Saying? You talk all the time about <i>her</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Her? Who?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do not try to deceive me any more. I know -all.”</p> - -<p>“You know more than I do,” I said, astonished. -“What do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do I not know you have a <i>maîtresse</i>? Do I -not know you go to see her every day? Do I not know -you are spending all your money with her? For two -weeks have I borne it, seeing you go every day to keep -your shameful assignations with her. Though it was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[324]</span> -almost driving me mad I have said no word. Hoping -that you would tire of her, that you would come back -to me, I have tried to bear it patiently. Oh, I have -borne so much! But when it comes to lying by your -side, and hearing you cry out and murmur expressions -of love for her, I can bear it no longer. Please excuse -me for waking you, but you torture me so.”</p> - -<p>I stared. This was an Anastasia altogether new to -me. Her voice had a strange note of despair. Where -had I heard it before? Ah! that night on the Embankment, -when she was such a hunted, desperate -thing. Never had I heard it since. Yet I knew the -primal passion which lies deep in every woman had -awakened. I was silent, and no doubt my silence -seemed like guilt. But the fact was—her accusation -had been launched in tumultuous French, and I was -innocently trying to translate it into English.</p> - -<p>“What was I saying?” I said at last.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you cry all night, ‘Mignonne! Mignonne! -Petite Mignonne!’ You say: ‘You are love; you -are darleen.’ And sometimes you say: ‘You are cute -little sing.’ What is ‘cute little sing’? Somesing -very <i>passionnante</i> I know. You have nevaire call me -zat. And nevaire since we marry you call me -Mignonne.”</p> - -<p>Suddenly it all burst upon me, and I laughed. It -did not strike me how utterly heartless my laugh must -have sounded.</p> - -<p>“So that’s it. You’ve found out all about Mignonne?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes. Who is this petite Mignonne? I kill -her. I kill myself. Tell me who she is. I go to her. -I beg her not to take you from me. I ’ave you first.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[325]</span> -You belong to me. No one shall ’ave you but me. -Tell me who she is.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell you,” I said, avoiding her gaze.</p> - -<p>“Zen it is true? You have <i>maîtresse</i>? You have -deceive me! Oh, what a poor, poor girl I am! Oh, -God, help me!”</p> - -<p>She was sobbing bitterly. Now, I am so constituted -that though I am keenly sensitive to stage sobs and -book sobs, domestic sobs only irritate me. Outside I -can revel in sentiment, but at home I seem to resent -anything that goes beyond the scope of everyday humdrum. -I am tear-proof (which is often a mighty good -thing for a husband); so my only answer was to pull the -blankets over my head, and say in a rough voice:</p> - -<p>“For goodness’ sake, shut up and let’s have a little -sleep.”</p> - -<p>But there was going to be no sleep for me that -night, and to have one’s sleep invaded would make a -lamb spit in the face of a lion.</p> - -<p>“Are you going to see her to-morrow?” she demanded -tragically.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I said, with a disgusted groan. Really the -whole thing was becoming too ridiculous. All along -I had been irritated at her jealousy, the more so as -there had been certain grounds for it. It had been the -only fault I had found with her, and often I had been -stung to the point of protest. Now all my pent-up -resentment surged to the surface.</p> - -<p>“Oh, please, darleen, excuse me; please say you -won’t go. Stay wiz your leetle wife, darleen.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve got to go; it’s important.”</p> - -<p>“Promise me zen you shall see her for the last time. -Promise me you’ll say good-bye.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[326]</span>“I can’t promise that.”</p> - -<p>“You love her?”</p> - -<p>“Ye—es. I love her.”</p> - -<p>My mind was made up. There is no cure for -jealousy like ridicule. It would be a little hard, but -I would keep the thing up for another day. I would -let matters come to a climax, then I would triumphantly -drive round on my little voiturette and say, -pointing to the blue and gold name plate:</p> - -<p>“There! Allow me to introduce to you ‘Little -Mignonne.’”</p> - -<p>The whirl of the alarm-clock put an end to my -efforts to get some sleep, so up I sprang in by no means -the best of tempers. My examination at nine, and I -had had a wretched night.</p> - -<p>Anastasia got up meekly to prepare the coffee. I -ate without saying a word, while she even excelled -me in the eloquence of her silence. Never eating a -mouthful, she sat there with her hands clasped in -her lap, her eyes downcast. She seemed to be restraining -herself very hard. The domestic atmosphere was -decidedly tense.</p> - -<p>At last I rose and put on my coat.</p> - -<p>“Then you’re going?” she said, breathing hard.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I’m going.”</p> - -<p>At that her pent-up passion burst forth. She cried -in French:</p> - -<p>“If you go to her, if you see that woman again, I -never want you to come back. I never want to see you -again. You can go forever.”</p> - -<p>“You forget,” I said, “this is my house.”</p> - -<p>She bowed her head. “Yes, you are right. I am -nothing in it but a housekeeper you do not have to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[327]</span> -give wages to, a convenience for you. But that will -be all right; I will go.”</p> - -<p>I shrugged my shoulders. “Really, you’re too absurd.”</p> - -<p>Suddenly she came to me and threw her arms around -me, looking frantically into my eyes.</p> - -<p>“Tell me, tell me, do you not love me?”</p> - -<p>I softly unloosened her grasp. An actress on the -stage can do justice to these emotional scenes. In -real life, a little woman in a peignoir, with hair dishevelled, -only makes a hash of them.</p> - -<p>“Really,” I said with some annoyance, “I wish you -would cease to play the injured wife. You’re saying -the very things I’ve been putting into the mouths of -my characters for the last five years. They don’t seem -real to me.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me. Do you love me?”</p> - -<p>“Why verge on the sentimental? Have I ever, since -we were married, been guilty of one word of love towards -you?”</p> - -<p>“You have not.”</p> - -<p>“Yet we have been happy—at least I have. Then -let us go on like sensible, married people and take -things for granted.”</p> - -<p>“If you do not love me, why did you marry me?”</p> - -<p>“Well, you know very well why. I married you -because having saved you from a watery grave, I was -to a certain extent responsible for you. It was up to -me to do something, and it seemed to be the easiest -way out of the difficulty.”</p> - -<p>“Was that all?”</p> - -<p>“No, perhaps not all. I wanted some one to cook -for me. You know how I loathe eating at restaurants.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[328]</span>“Then you did not learn to care for me afterwards?”</p> - -<p>“Why as to that I never stopped to consider. -Really it never occurred to me. I was quite happy -and contented. And I had my work to think of. You -know that takes all emotional expression out of me.”</p> - -<p>“And now you love this Mignonne?”</p> - -<p>“Hum! Ye—es, I love Petite Mignonne.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I cannot bear it! I have come to love you -so much. Try, try, to geeve her up, darleen. It will -keel me if you do not.”</p> - -<p>Here she sank on her knees, holding on to the skirts -of my coat.</p> - -<p>“I—It’s too late to give her up now.”</p> - -<p>“Then, you’re going?” She still clung to me.</p> - -<p>I disengaged myself. “Yes, I’m going.”</p> - -<p>She rose to her feet. She was like a little Sarah -Bernhardt, all passion, tragic intensity.</p> - -<p>“Then go! shameful man. Go to the woman you -love. I never want to see you again. But know that -you have broken my heart! Know that however happy -you may be there is never more happiness for me!”</p> - -<p>With these words ringing in my ears I closed the -door behind me. Poor little girl! Well, it was tough -on her, but she must really learn to curb that emotional -temperament. And after all, it was only for a -few hours more. I would show her how foolish she -had been, and she would forever after be cured of -jealousy. With this thought I hurried off to my examination.</p> - -<p>I found the Inspector to be a most genial individual -who desired nothing more than that I should pass; so, -profiting by my mishap of the day previous, I acquitted -myself to admiration. Elated with success, I was returning<span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[329]</span> -merrily home when suddenly I remembered the domestic -cloud of the morning. My conscience pricked me. -Perhaps after all I had been a little harsh. Perhaps -in the heat of the moment I had said things I did not -mean. Well, she had never resented anything of the -kind before. By the time I reached home she would -have forgotten all about it. I would hear her hurried -run to the door to greet me. “Hello! Little Thing,” -I would say. And then she would kiss me, just as lovingly -as ever. Oh, I was so confident of her desperate -affection!</p> - -<p>But, as I reached the door, there was an ominous -stillness within.</p> - -<p>“She is trying to frighten me,” I thought; yet my -hand trembled as I put the key in the lock.</p> - -<p>“Hello, Little Thing!”</p> - -<p>No reply. A silence that somehow sickened me; -then a sudden fear. Perhaps I would find her dead, -killed by her own hand in a moment of despair. But, -as I hurriedly hunted the rooms, the sickening feeling -vanished, for nowhere could I find any trace of her. -The breakfast things were on the table just as I had -left them. Everything was the same ... yet stay! -there was a note addressed to me.</p> - -<p>Again that deadly sickness. I could scarce tear -open the envelope. There was a long letter written -in French in an unsteady hand, and blurred with many -tears. Here is what I read:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“I am leaving your house, where I am only in the way. -Now you may bring your Mignonne or any one else you -wish. I would not stand for a moment between you and -your happiness.</p> - -<p>“For a long time I have felt keenly your coldness and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[330]</span> -indifference, but I have suffered it because I thought it -was due to the difference of race between us. Now that I -know you do not love me, I can remain no longer. I do -not think you will ever make any one happy. You are too -selfish. Your work is like a vampire. It sucks away all -your emotions, and leaves you with no feeling for those -who love you.</p> - -<p>“I have tried to please you, to make you care for me, -and I have failed. I can try no more. You will never -see me again, for I am going away. I feel I cannot make -you happy, and I do not want to be a drag on you. You -must not fear for me. I can work for a living, as I did -before. Do not try to seek me out. I am leaving Paris. -You can get a divorce very easily, then you can marry -some one more worthy of you. I will always love you, -and bless you and bless you. For the last time,</p> - -<p class="right">“Your heart-broken <span class="smcap">Wife</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>I sat down and tried to collect my thoughts, I -turned to the letter and read it again. No; there it -was, pitilessly plain. I was paralysed, crushed by an -immense self-pity. In fiction I would have made the -deserted husband tear his hair, and cry, “Curse her; -oh, curse her!” Then tear her picture down from -the wall, and fall sobbing over it. If there had been -a child to cling to him it would have been all the more -effective. But this was reality. I did none of these -things, I lit a cigarette.</p> - -<p>“Well, if that’s not the limit!” I cried. “Who’d -have thought she’d have so much spirit. But she’ll -come back. Of course she’ll come back.”</p> - -<p>So I sat down to await her homecoming, but oh! the -house was very sad and still and lonely! Never before -had I realised how much her presence in it had -meant to me. I made some tea and ate some bread and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[331]</span> -butter, and that night I went to bed very early and -did not sleep at all. Next morning I made some more -tea and ate some more bread and butter, but I did not -wash any dishes. I was too sad to do that.</p> - -<p>The next day crawled past in the same lugubrious -way. I went to the police and reported her disappearance, -and they began to search for her. I approached -the Morgue to make daily inquiries with fear and -trembling. I spent my days in looking for her. -Every one sympathised with me, as, wan and woebegone, -I wandered round the Quarter. I did not -speak of my trouble but the whole world seemed to -know, and the general opinion seemed to be that she had -gone off with some other man. They hinted at this, -and advised me to forget her.</p> - -<p>“I can’t forget her,” I cried to myself. “I never -dreamed she meant so much to me. Over and over -again I live the time we spent together. Looking -back now, it seems so happy, the happiest time in my -life. And to be separated all through a wretched misunderstanding!”</p> - -<p>And every night I would sit all alone in the apartment, -brooding miserably, and hoping every moment -to hear a knock at the door, and to find that she had -come back to me. But as time went on this hope -faded. Once, when I saw them fishing a drowned girl -out of the Seine, I had a moment of terrible fear. -There in the boat it lay, a dripping, carrion thing, and -with a thousand others I pressed to peer. With relief, -I saw that the cadaver had fair hair.</p> - -<p>I began to write again, but the old, gay, whimsical -spirit had gone out of me, and in its place was one of -bitterness. Yet I was prospering amazingly. <i>Tom,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">[332]</span> -Dick and Harry</i> was selling among the popular books -in the American market, and it looked as if the new -book was going to be equally successful. Already had -I received a royalty cheque for three thousand dollars, -and I had spent most of it in hiring private detectives -to search for Anastasia. For six months I believed -I looked the most wretched man in Paris. You see, -I was playing the part of the Deserted Husband as -splendidly as I had played all my other parts. Yet -never did I fail to minutely analyse and record my -feelings, and even in my blackest woe I seemed to find -a somewhat Byronic satisfaction. Never did I cease -to be the egotistic artist.</p> - -<p>But all my searchings were vain. The girl seemed -to have disappeared as if the Seine had swallowed her. -I was wasting my life in vain regrets, so after six -months had gone I put my affairs into the hands of a -divorce lawyer, and having fulfilled all the requirements -of French law, I sailed for America.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">[333]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CHAPTER X<br /> - -PRINCE OF DREAMERS</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">I was</span> lucky in getting a state-room on the <i>Garguantuan</i>, -and on reading over the list of passengers I saw a -name that seemed vaguely familiar, Miss B. Tevandale. -Where had I heard it before?</p> - -<p>Then my memory sluggishly prompted me. Wasn’t -there a Miss Boadicea Tevandale who had played some -part in my life? Oh, Irony! when we recall our past -loves and have difficulty in remembering their names!</p> - -<p>For the first two days the weather was very unsettling -and I decided that I would better sustain my dignity -by remaining in my cabin. On the third, however, -I ventured on deck, and there sure enough I saw -a Junoesque female striding mannishly up and down. -Yes, it was Boadicea. She was looking exasperatingly -fit—I had almost written <i>fat</i>; but really, she seemed -to have grown positively adipose.</p> - -<p>“Miss Tevandale.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Madden.”</p> - -<p>“Why, you look wretched,” she said, after the first -greetings were over.</p> - -<p>“Yes; I’m a little seedy,” I answered wanly. -“Haven’t quite got my sea-legs yet. But you seem a -good sailor?”</p> - -<p>“Aggressively so. But where have you been all -this time? What wild, strange land has been claiming -you? All the world wondered. It seemed as if you -had dropped off the earth.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">[334]</span>“I’ve been concealing myself in the heart of civilisation. -And you? I thought you would have been Mrs. -Jarraway Tope by now.”</p> - -<p>“Why! Didn’t you get my letter? I wrote just -after you left to say that I had broken off my engagement.”</p> - -<p>“No; the letter never reached me. I suppose it got -side-tracked somewhere. So you didn’t marry Jarraway -after all. Well, well, it’s a funny world.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t seem tremendously excited at the -news.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! You want me to ask why you broke it off. -I beg your pardon. I did not think I had the right -to ask that.”</p> - -<p>“If you have no right, who has?”</p> - -<p>“I—I don’t quite understand.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you remember the words you said when last -we met?”</p> - -<p>I blush to say I did not remember, but I answered -emotionally:</p> - -<p>“Yes; they are engraven on my memory forever.”</p> - -<p>“Then can you wonder?”</p> - -<p>“You don’t mean to say it was on my account you -broke off your marriage with a millionaire?”</p> - -<p>She answered me with a shade of bitterness.</p> - -<p>“Listen, Horace; there need be no mincing of matters -between us two. Since I saw you last I have been -greatly interested in Woman’s Suffrage. In fact I -have been devoting myself body and soul to the Cause. -Even now I am returning from a series of meetings in -England, which I attended as a delegate from New -York, and mixing with these noble-minded women has -completely cured me of that false modesty that so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_335">[335]</span> -handicaps our sex. I believe now that it is a woman’s -privilege, just as much as a man’s, to declare her affection. -Horace, I love you. I have always loved -you from that day. Will you be my husband?”</p> - -<p>I grew pale. I hung my head. My lips trembled.</p> - -<p>“Boadicea,” I faltered, “I cannot. It is too late. -I am already married.”</p> - -<p>I saw the strong woman shrink as if she had received -a blow. Then quickly she recovered herself.</p> - -<p>“How was it? Tell me about it,” she said quickly.</p> - -<p>So there, as we watched the rolling of the whale-grey -sea and each billow seemed part of a cosmic conspiracy -to upset my equilibrium, I told her the story of -Anastasia’s desertion.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” I said brokenly, “I’ll never see her -again. In fact, even now I am sueing for a divorce. -In a few months I expect to be a free man.”</p> - -<p>“My dearest friend, you have my sympathy.”</p> - -<p>Under the cover of our rugs I felt her strong capable -hand steal to meet mine. Here was a fine, lofty soul -who could solace and understand me. This big, handsome -woman, with the cool, crisp voice, with the clear, -calm eye, with the features of confidence and command, -was surely one on whom a heart-broken world-weary -man could lean a little in his hour of weakness and trouble. -I returned the pressure of that large firm hand, -and, moved by an emotion I could no longer suppress, -I turned and dived below.</p> - -<p>There is no matchmaker like the Atlantic Ocean; -and so as the days went on I grew more and more taken -with the idea of espousing Boadicea. As we sat there -in our steamer chairs and watched the shrill wind -whip the billow peaks to spray, and the sudden rainbows<span class="pagenum" id="Page_336">[336]</span> -gleam in the silvery spendrift I listened to her -arguments in favour of the Suffrage and they seemed -to me unanswerable. I, too, became inspired with a -fierce passion to devote my life to the Cause, to enter -and throw myself in the struggle of sex, to play my -humble part in the Woman’s War. And in Boadicea -I had found my Joan of Arc.</p> - -<p>So as we shook hands on the New York pier we had -every intention of seeing one another again.</p> - -<p>“You have helped me greatly with your noble sympathy,” -I said.</p> - -<p>“You have cheered me greatly with your splendid -understanding,” she answered.</p> - -<p>“We are comrades.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, we are good comrades—in the Cause.”</p> - -<p>She had to go West on a lecturing tour, and it was -some months before I saw her again. When I did, my -first words were:</p> - -<p>“Boadicea, I’m a free man.”</p> - -<p>“Are you? How does it feel?”</p> - -<p>“Not at all natural. I don’t believe I’ll ever be -satisfied till I’m chained to the car again. Boadicea, -do you remember those words you spoke that day we -met on the <i>Garguantuan</i>? Does your proposition -still hold good?”</p> - -<p>“What proposition?”</p> - -<p>“Let us unite our forces. Let us fight side by side. -Boadicea, will you not change your name to Madden? -You know my sad history. Here then I offer you the -fragments of my heart.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t. You make me feel like a cannibal.”</p> - -<p>“Here then I offer you my hand and name. I will -try to make you the most devoted of husbands.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_337">[337]</span>“I am sure you will. Horace, we will work together -for the good of the Cause.”</p> - -<p>A month after we were married and spent our honeymoon -in London, chiefly in attending Suffragette meetings. -Very soon I began to discover that being wedded -to a woman who is wedded to a Cause is like being -the understudy of your wife’s husband. And if that -rather militant suffragette happens to be a millionairess -then one’s negligibility is humiliatingly accentuated. -I was only a millionaire in francs, while Boadicea was -a millionairess in dollars, and the disparity of values -in national currency began to become more and more a -painful fact to me.</p> - -<p>I was not long, too, in discovering that my sympathy -with the Cause was only skin-deep. Indeed, my suddenly -discovered enthusiasm had surprised even myself. -It was unlike me to become so interested in real, -vital questions, that more than once I suspected myself -of being a hypocrite. At long distance the idea of -Woman finding herself fascinated me just as socialism -fascinated me. I could dream and idealise and let my -imagination paint wonderful pictures of a woman’s -world, but once the matter became concrete, my enthusiasm -took wings. Then it was I had my first tiff -with Boadicea.</p> - -<p>“Boa, I don’t want to march in the demonstration -on Sunday,” I said peevishly.</p> - -<p>“Why not, Horace?” demanded Boadicea with displeasure.</p> - -<p>“Oh, well, I don’t like the male suffragettes. They -look so like fowls. They remind me of vegetarians -or temperance cranks. Some of the fellows in the club -chaffed me awfully the last time I marched with them.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_338">[338]</span>“Oh, very well, Horace. Please yourself. Only I’m -just a <i>little</i> disappointed in you.”</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t mind so much,” I went on, “if the -women were inspiring, but they’re not. In the last -demonstration I couldn’t help remarking that nearly -all the women who marched were homely and unattractive, -while those who watched the procession were often -awfully pretty and interesting. Now, couldn’t you reverse -the thing—let the homely ones line up and let -the pretty ones march? Then I’d venture to bet you’d -convert half the men on the spot.”</p> - -<p>Boadicea stared. This was appalling heresy on my -part; but I went on bravely.</p> - -<p>“Another thing: why don’t they dress better? Do -they think that the inspiration of a great cause justifies -them in being dowdy? I tell you, well-fitting corsets -and dainty shoes will do more for the freedom of -woman than all the argument in the world. Coax the -Vote from the men; don’t bully them. You’ll get it if -you’re charming enough. Therein lies your real -strength—not in your intellect, but in your charm.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t tell me, Horace, you’re like all the rest of -the men. A woman with a pretty face can turn you -round her finger!”</p> - -<p>“I’m sadly like most men, I find. I prefer charm -and prettiness to character and intellect; just as in -my youth I preferred bad boys to good. But, in any -case, I refuse to march any more with these ‘<i>vieux -tableaux</i>.’ Remember I have a sense of humour.”</p> - -<p>“But all your enthusiasm? Your boiling indignation? -Your thought of our wrongs?”</p> - -<p>“Has all been overwhelmed by my sense of humour.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_339">[339]</span> -One can only afford to take trivial things seriously, -and serious things trivially.”</p> - -<p>“So you are going to throw us over?”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. I believe in the Cause, but I won’t -march. The cause of woman would be all right if -there were no women—I mean the chief enemy to -women’s suffrage is the suffragette. No woman has -more influence than the French woman. It is all the -more powerful because it is indirect. It is based on -love. A Frenchwoman knows that to coax is better -than to bully.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’re always praising up the French women. -Why don’t you go over to Paris to live, if you are so -fond of them?”</p> - -<p>“I never want to set foot in Paris again.”</p> - -<p>“But what about me? I’ve never been there. Am -I never to see it?”</p> - -<p>“No; I don’t think you would like it.”</p> - -<p>“I think I would. I think we’d better go over there -for the Spring.”</p> - -<p>Any opposition on my part made her determined, so -that if I wanted a thing very much I had to pretend -the very opposite. On the other hand, if I had expressed -a keen wish to go to Paris she would have objected -strenuously. Her nature was very antagonistic. -I admired her greatly for her intellect, for her -character; but she was one of those self-possessed, logical, -clear-brained women who get on your nerves, and -every day she was getting more and more on mine.</p> - -<p>We took an Italian Palace near the Parc Monceau, -bought a limousine, kept a dozen servants, moved in -the Embassy crowd and had our names in the Society<span class="pagenum" id="Page_340">[340]</span> -column of the New York paper nearly every day. -Life became one beastly nuisance after another—luncheons, -balls, dinners, theatre parties. I, who had -a Bohemian hatred of dressing, had to dress every -evening. I, who dreaded making an engagement because -it interfered with my liberty, found myself obliged -to keep a book in which I recorded my too numerous -engagements. I, who had so strenuously objected to -the constraints of company, was obliged to force smiles -and stroke people the right way for hours on end. -Was there ever such a slavery? It seemed as if I never -had a moment in which I could call my soul my own. -I was bored, heart-sick, goaded to rebellion.</p> - -<p>“Why can’t we be simple, even if we are rich?” I -remonstrated. “It would be far less trouble and we’d -be far happier. I’m tired of trying to live up to my -valet. Let’s cut out this society racket and live naturally.”</p> - -<p>“We can’t. We must live up to our position. It’s -our duty. Besides, I like this ‘society racket’ as you -so vulgarly call it. It gives me an opportunity to -impress people with my views. And really, Horace, -I think you’re too ungrateful. You should be glad of -the opportunity of meeting so many nice people.”</p> - -<p>“Like Hades I should! Do you call that Irish -countess we had for lunch nice? She had a long face -like a horse, blotched and covered with hair, and spoke -with the accent of a washerwoman. And that stiff -Englishman—”</p> - -<p>“You can’t deny Sir Charles is awfully good form.”</p> - -<p>“Good form be hanged! I think he’s a pig-headed -ass. I couldn’t open my mouth without treading on -his traditional corns. American Spread-eagleism isn’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_341">[341]</span> -in it with British Lionrampantism. We have a sense -of humour that makes us laugh at our weaknesses, but -the Englishman’s are sacred. That Englishman actually -believed that the masses were being educated beyond -their station, believed that they should be kept -in the place they belonged.”</p> - -<p>“Really you’re disgustingly democratic. What’s -the use of having money if it doesn’t make one better -than other people who haven’t? As for Sir Charles; -I think he’s perfectly charming.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, of course. You’re aping the English, like -all the Americans who come over here. Everything’s -perfectly charming, or perfectly dreadful. You’ll -soon be ashamed of your own nationality. Bah! of -all snobs the Anglo-American one’s the most contemptible. -Of all poses the cosmopolitan one’s the most disgusting.”</p> - -<p>“Really your language is rather strong.”</p> - -<p>“It’s going to be stronger before I’m finished. I’ve -been sitting quiet in my little corner taking notes on -you and your friends, and I’ve got the stuff for a book -out of our little splurge in society. There’s a good -many of your friends in it, Madam. I fear they’ll cut -you dead after they read it.”</p> - -<p>“If you publish such a work I’ll get a divorce.”</p> - -<p>“Go and get one.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’re a brute, a brute!”</p> - -<p>Here Boadicea stamped a number six shoe furiously -on the floor.</p> - -<p>“Yes, and I’m glad of it. To woman’s duplicity let -us men oppose our brutality. When the worst comes -to the worst we can always fall back on the good old -system of ‘spanking.’”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_342">[342]</span>“Oh! Oh! You dare not. You are not physically -capable.”</p> - -<p>“Is that so? You’re a strong woman, Boa; but I -still think I could use the flat of a nice broad slipper on -you.”</p> - -<p>She was speechless with wrath. Then, with another -exclamation of “brute,” she marched from the room. -Soon after I heard her order the car and go out.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I murmured bitterly to my cigarette, “seems -like you’d caught a Tartar this time. Aren’t you -sorry you ever married again? How different it was -before. Let’s see. What’s on to-night?”</p> - -<p>My little book showed me that I was due to dine with -an ambassador.</p> - -<p>“What a nuisance! I’ve got to dress. I’ve got to -stoke my physical machine with food that isn’t suited -to it. I’ve got to murmur inanities to some under-dressed -female. How I hate it all! There was my -old grandfather now. He died leaving a million, but -up to his death he lived as simply as the day he began -working for wages. Ah! there was a happy man. I -remember when he used to come home for supper at -night they would bring him two bowls, one full of hot -mashed potatoes, the other of sweet, fresh milk. He -would eat with a horn spoon, taking it half full of potatoes, -then loading up with milk. And how he enjoyed -it! What a glorious luxury it would be to sit -down to-night to a bowl of potatoes and a bowl of -milk!”</p> - -<p>I stared drearily round the great room which we had -sub-let from the mistress of a Grand Duke. Such -lavish luxury of mirror and marble, of silk and satin-wood, -furnished by an artist to satisfy an epicure!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_343">[343]</span> -Sumptuous splendour I suppose you would call it. -But oh, what would I not give to be back once more in -the garret of the rue Gracieuse! Ay, even there -with its calico curtains and its home-made furniture. -Or sitting down to a dinner of roast chicken and <i>Veuve -Amiot</i> with.... Oh, I can’t bear to mention even her -name! The thought of her brings a choke to my -throat and a mist to my eyes.... How happy I was -then, and I didn’t know it! And how good she was! -just a good little girl. I didn’t think half enough of -her. What a mistake it’s all been!</p> - -<p>I stared at the burnt-out cigarette, reflecting bitterly.</p> - -<p>“I should never have come back to this Paris. It -just makes me unhappy. At every turn of the street -I expect to suddenly come face to face with her. I -can’t bear to visit the <i>rive gauche</i>. It’s haunted for -me. I see myself as I was then, swinging my old -cherry-wood cane as I strode so buoyantly along the -quays. Every foot of that old Latin Quarter has its -memory. I can’t go there again. It’s too painful.”</p> - -<p>I rose and paced up and down the room.</p> - -<p>“God! wasn’t I happy though! Remember the -afternoons in the Luxembourg and the Bal Bullier, and -the Boul’ Mich’. How I loved it all! How I used to -linger gazing at the old houses! How I used to dream, -and thrill, and gladden! Oh, the wonder of the Seine -by night, the work, the struggle, the visits to the Mont-de-Piété, -the careless God-given Bohemian days! It -hurts me now to think of them.... It hurts -me....”</p> - -<p>Going over to the mantelpiece I leaned one elbow on -it, looking down drearily at the fire.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_344">[344]</span>“Ah, Little Thing! How glad she always was when -I came home! I can feel her arms round my neck as -she welcomed me, feel her soft kisses, see the little room -all bright and cheery. Oh, if these days would only -come again! Where is she now, I wonder? Poor, -poor Little Thing.”</p> - -<p>As I stood there like a man stricken, miserable beyond -all words, suddenly I started. All the blood -seemed to leave my heart. Some one was talking to -the butler in the hall.</p> - -<p>“Is Madam in please? I have bring some leetle -<i>hem-broderie</i> she want see. She tell me to come now.”</p> - -<p>Just a tired, quiet, colourless voice, interrupted by -a sudden cough, yet oh, how sweet, how heaven-sweet -to me! Again I listened.</p> - -<p>“Oh, she have gone out. I am so sorry. She have -made appointment wiz me for now and I have not much -time. I will leave my <i>hem-broderie</i> for Madam to regard. -Then I will call again to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>She was going, but I could not restrain myself.</p> - -<p>“Thomas,” I said to the man, “call her back. I -will make a selection of her work for Madam.”</p> - -<p>As I stood there by the mantelpiece with head bent, -waiting, I saw in the mirror the crimson curtains -parted, and there stood a little, grey figure, shrinking, -shabby, surprised. Then I turned slowly and once -again we were face to face.</p> - -<p>“Little Thing!”</p> - -<p>She started. Her hand in its shabby, cotton glove -went up to her throat, and she made a step as if she -would throw herself in my arms.</p> - -<p>“You?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_345">[345]</span>“Yes,” I said miserably. “I never thought to see -you again.”</p> - -<p>“And I did not, sink I evaire see you. It would -have been better not.”</p> - -<p>“It would; but I’m glad, I’m glad.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am glad too, for I want to say how sorry -I am I leave you like that. I was mad wiz jealousy. I -could not help it. After, I want very much keel myself, -but I have promised you I do not.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, it was my fault. I could have explained -everything so easily. But after all, it’s too late. -What does it matter now?”</p> - -<p>“No, it does not mattaire much now. I am so glad -for you you have got divorce from me. I am very bad -womans. Please excuse me.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes; but forgive me. I never cared enough -for you—or at least I never showed I cared. Now -I know.”</p> - -<p>“You care now. Oh, that will make me so happy. -You know there is not much longer for me. The doctor -tell me so. I am <i>poitrinaire</i>.”</p> - -<p>She shrugged her shoulders with a resigned little -grimace.</p> - -<p>“But,” she went on, “now I shall be so glad. I -don’t care for myself. You remember for laughing -you used to call me ‘Poor leetle Sing,’ and I say: ‘No, -I am not poor leetle sing, I am very, very, ’appy leetle -sing.’ Ah! but now I am poor leetle sing indeed.”</p> - -<p>“Can I not help you? I must.”</p> - -<p>“No, I will take nussing from you. And anyway it -would not help much. I make enough from my <i>hem-broderie</i> -to leeve, and I don’t want any pleasure some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_346">[346]</span> -more. Just to leeve. The sisters at the convent are -very good to me. I see them often, and when I am sick -at the last I know they will care for me. Really I am -very well. Now I must go; I must work; I lose time.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, let me do something!”</p> - -<p>“No, I am very good. I sink at you always, and I -bless you. You see I have the good souvenirs.”</p> - -<p>From the breast of her threadbare jacket she took a -worn silver locket and showed me a little snapshot of -myself.</p> - -<p>“There, I have the souvenir of happy days. Now -I must go.”</p> - -<p>She looked very frail, and of a colour almost transparent. -She tried hard to smile. Then she swayed as -if she would faint, but recovered herself by clutching at -a chair.</p> - -<p>“Little Thing,” I said, “it’s too late, but we must -at least shake hands.”</p> - -<p>She pulled off a grey cotton glove and held out a -hand all toilworn and needle-warped.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye,” she said wearily.</p> - -<p>I seized the little thin hand, conscious that my hot -tears were falling on it. Looking up, I saw that her -eyes too were a-stream with tears.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye,” I said chokingly.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, darleen, good-bye for evaire....”</p> - -<p>That was all. She turned and left me standing -there. I heard her coughing as she went downstairs. -Sinking down I sobbed as if my heart would -break....</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“What’s the mattaire, darleen?”</p> - -<p>It seemed as if some one was shaking me violently.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_347">[347]</span> -My pillow was wet with tears and the sobs still convulsed -me. I opened staring eyes, eyes that fell <i>on -a dressing-table of walnut, an armoire with mirror -doors, and cretonne curtains, with a design of little -roses</i>. Yet I stared more, for Anastasia, fresh and -dainty, but with a face of great concern, was bending -over me.</p> - -<p>“What’s the mattaire, darleen? For ten minutes -I try to wake you up. You have been having bad -dream. You cry dreadful.”</p> - -<p>“Dream! Dream! Am I mad?... Where am I -now?... Tell me quick.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, darleen, what’s the mattaire? You affrighten -me....”</p> - -<p>“No, no; what’s the address of this house?”</p> - -<p>“Passage d’Enfer.”</p> - -<p>“And the date...? What’s the date?”</p> - -<p>“The twelve Novembre.”</p> - -<p>“But the year, the year?”</p> - -<p>“Why the year is Nineteen hundred thirteen.”</p> - -<p>“Thank God! I thought it was nineteen fourteen.” -Then the whole truth flashed on me. Prince of Dreamers! -In a night I had dreamed the events of a whole -year of life. Yesterday was the day of my accident, -and this morning—why, I had to pass my examination -for a chauffeur’s licence; this morning at nine -o’clock, and it was now eleven. Too late.</p> - -<p>Yet I did not care then for a thousand Inspectors. -I was not married to Boadicea. I still had Little -Thing. I vow I was the happiest man in the world.</p> - -<p>“Pack everything up,” I said. “We leave for -America to-morrow.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_348">[348]</span>Once more I sat in the favourite chair of my favourite -club, surveying the incredible bank-book. Figures! -Figures! More formidably than ever they loomed up. -Useless indeed to try and cope with this flood of fortune.</p> - -<p>And now that I had two reputations to keep up, the -flood was more insistent than ever. Not only were -there the best-sellers of Norman Dane to bargain with, -but also the best-sellers of Silenus Starset. And for -my own modest needs, with Anastasia’s careful management, -my little patrimony more than sufficed. What -then was I going to do with these senseless figures that -insisted so in piling up, and yet meant nothing to me? -Suddenly the solution flashed on me, and as if it were -an illuminated banner I saw the words:</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">James Horace Madden, Philanthropist.</span></p> - -<p>That was it. This wonderful gift of mine that made -the acquisition of money so easy, what should I do -with it but exercise it for the good of humanity?</p> - -<p>Yes, I would be a philanthropist; but on whom would -I philanthrope?</p> - -<p>The answer was easy. Who better deserved my help -than my fellow-scribes who had failed, those high and -delicate souls who had scorned to commercialise their -art, who were true to themselves and fought, for all that -was best in literature? Even as there was a home for -old actors, so I would found one for old authors, battered, -beaten veterans of the pen, who in their declining -years would find rest, shelter, sympathy under a generous -roof.</p> - -<p>Yes, writing popular fiction had become a habit with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_349">[349]</span> -me, almost a vice. I was afraid I could never give it -up. But here would be my extenuation. The money -the public gave me for pleasing them I would spend on -those others who, because they were artists, failed to -please. And in this way at least I would indirectly -be of some use to literature.</p> - -<p>Then again; what a splendid example it would be to -my brother best-seller makers, turning out their three -books a year and their half dozen after they are dead. -Let them, too, show their zeal for literature by devoting -the bulk of their ill-gotten gains to its encouragement.</p> - -<p>The club had changed very little. I saw the same -members, looking a little more mutinous about the waist -line. There was Vane and Quince, qualifying perhaps -for my home. I greeted them cordially, aglow with -altruism. After all, it was a day of paltry achievement. -We were all small men, and none of us weighed -on the scale. I felt very humble indeed. Quince had -been right. I would never be one of those writers -whom all the world admires—and doesn’t read. -Truly I was one of the goats.</p> - -<p>But that night at dinner in the Knickerbocker I -threw back my head and laughed. And Anastasia in -a new evening gown looked at me in surprise and demanded -what was the matter. I surveyed her over a -brimming glass of champagne.</p> - -<p>“Extraordinary thing,” I thought; “isn’t it absurd? -I’m actually falling in love with my own wife.”</p> - -<p class="center">THE END</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph1">FOOTNOTE:</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[A]</a> This was written in the Spring of 1914.</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> - -<p>Archaic or variant spelling and hyphenation have been retained.</p> -</div></div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRETENDER ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. -</div> - -<div style='margin-top:1em; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE</div> -<div style='text-align:center;font-size:0.9em'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE</div> -<div style='text-align:center;font-size:0.9em'>PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person -or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the -Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when -you share it without charge with others. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work -on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the -phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: -</div> - -<blockquote> - <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most - other parts of the world 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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you - are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws - of the country where you are located before using this eBook. - </div> -</blockquote> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg™ License. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format -other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain -Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -provided that: -</div> - -<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation.” - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ - works. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. - </div> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right -of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread -public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state -visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. -</div> - -</div> -</body> -</html> diff --git a/old/68849-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/68849-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 270d410..0000000 --- a/old/68849-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/68849-h/images/coversmall.jpg b/old/68849-h/images/coversmall.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 9b9746b..0000000 --- a/old/68849-h/images/coversmall.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/68849-h/images/i_title.jpg b/old/68849-h/images/i_title.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 033a41f..0000000 --- a/old/68849-h/images/i_title.jpg +++ /dev/null |
