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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. 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