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| author | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-06-29 07:46:41 -0700 |
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| committer | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-06-29 07:46:41 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f57f44 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text +*.htm text +*.html text +*.png binary +*.jpg binary +*.svg text +*.pdf binary +*.bmp binary +*.zip binary +*.midi binary +*.mp3 binary diff --git a/78976-0.txt b/78976-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d979f7e --- /dev/null +++ b/78976-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8388 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78976 *** + + + + + [Illustration: “Her eye caught mine, and she ceased to dance.”] + + + + + THE + SHOW GIRL + + BY + MAX PEMBERTON + Author of + “The Garden of Swords,” + “Sir Richard Escombe,” etc. + + + + + THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY + PHILADELPHIA + + + + + [COPYRIGHT] + + Copyright 1909 + by Max Pemberton + + Copyright 1908 + by Max Pemberton + + All Rights Reserved according to + the Copyright Laws of the + United States and Great Britain + + + + + [DEDICATION] + + To + James Gordon Bennett + Hommage Reconnaissant + + + + + CONTENTS + +1. Being a letter from Henry Gastonard, of the Maison du bon Tabac at +Paris, to his friend Paddy O’Connell, of Glendalough, County Wicklow + +2. The response of Paddy O’Connell, of Glendalough, County Wicklow, to +his friend, Henry Gastonard, of the Maison du bon Tabac at Paris + +3. A letter from the same brief author addressed to the Reverend +Arthur Warrington, of Beldon, Suffolk + +4. Henry Gastonard continues the story in a letter to his friend Paddy +O’Connell + +5. Henry Gastonard writes to Paddy O’Connell telling him the story of +a dinner and a challenge + +6. Being a telegram from Paddy O’Connell to his friend, Henry +Gastonard + +7. A letter from the Rev. Arthur Warrington, of Beldon, Suffolk, to +Mrs. Arthur Warrington at Porchester Terrace, Bayswater + +8. In which Paddy O’Connell, of Glendalough, writes to his sister +Clara a full account of the duel between Henry Gastonard and the +Captain Bernard d’Alençon + +9. Being a further instalment of the story from the pen of Paddy +O’Connell + +10. Henry Gastonard writes to Paddy O’Connell a letter concerning his +search for Mimi the Simpleton + +11. Henry Gastonard informs Paddy O’Connell of his probable return to +London + +12. Henry Gastonard tells of a visit to his cousin, the Rev. Arthur +Warrington, at Lowestoft + +13. The Reverend Arthur Warrington writes in all haste to his +Solicitor, Mr. James Frogg, of Serjeant’s Inn, Strand + +14. Paddy O’Connell apologises for his silence + +15. “The Chimes” at Yarmouth, and what Henry Gastonard learned of them + +16. Henry Gastonard gives a further account of his meeting with Mimi +the Simpleton + +17. Paddy O’Connell lays down the law + +18. In which we hear something of the Pageant at Lowestoft + +19. In which we translate a letter from Henry Gastonard, of the Maison +du bon Tabac, at Hampstead, to Mimi the Simpleton, at Felixstowe + +20. In which Mimi replies to Monsieur Henry + +21. Being a telegram from Henry Gastonard to his friend Paddy +O’Connell, of Glendalough + +22. Being a reply from Paddy O’Connell to Henry Gastonard’s telegram + +23. Paddy O’Connell shares the news with his sister Clara + +24. In which Henry Gastonard keeps his promise to Martha Warrington + +25. Containing certain instructions to M. Jules Farman, ex-agent of +police at 4 (bis), Rue de Quatre Septembre, Paris + +26. Madame Mimi writes a letter to Paddy O’Connell + +27. Paddy O’Connell replies to Mimi’s letter + +28. The same author addresses Henry Gastonard at the Hotel Metropole, +Brighton + +29. Henry Gastonard makes an urgent appeal to Jules Farman, of the Rue +de Quatre Septembre, Paris + +30. Jules Farman sends to Henry Gastonard some account of his +stewardship + +31. Henry Gastonard sends Paddy O’Connell some account of his labours +in Paris + +32. In which Paddy O’Connell advised his friend Harry to pay a visit + +33. The Reverend Arthur Warrington thanks Paddy O’Connell for services +rendered + +34. Henry Gastonard tells Paddy O’Connell of his visit to Madame Lea + +35. We meet the Marquis de Saint Faur and another old friend + +36. Paddy O’Connell writes a brief letter from Jack Straw’s Castle at +Hampstead + +37. In which we hear of Henry Gastonard at the Pavilion Henry Quatre, +in the town of St. Germain by Paris + +38. The Reverend Arthur Warrington rebukes his wife, Martha +Warrington, upon a trivial account + +39. We hear of Paddy O’Connell in a letter to Martha Warrington at +Cambridge + +40. A brief note from Jules Farman, in Paris, to Henry Gastonard, at +St. Germain + +41. In which Henry Gastonard receives a summons from the Marquis de +Saint Faur + +42. Paddy O’Connell hears that he may leave London, and is invited to +take the first train to Paris + +43. Martha Warrington, being returned to her home, receives there a +letter from the Château of Bougival + +44. Mr. James Frogg, of Serjeant’s Inn, receives an unexpected answer +to an expectant letter + +45. Mr. James Frogg, of Serjeant’s Inn, passes on the unpleasant news +to the Reverend Arthur Warrington, of Beldon, Suffolk + +46. The Reverend Arthur Warrington receives the news and makes some +complaint of it + +47. Paddy O’Connell informs his sister Clara that he is detained in +London upon business of some importance + +48. In which Henry Gastonard hears of Jules Farman again, and of the +criminal known as Bedotte the valet + +49. Madame Lea d’Alençon has really nothing to say; but she says it +charmingly as ever + +50. Mimi the Simpleton writes a brief note to Madame the Princess +Hélène of Ilidze and we translate it + +51. Mimi and Harry write to Paddy and advise him of their approaching +visit to Ireland + + + + + THE SHOW GIRL + + CHAPTER I. + + [Being a letter from Henry Gastonard of the Maison du bon Tabac at + Paris to his friend Paddy O’Connell of Glendalough, County Wicklow.] + + Maison du bon Tabac, + May 15th, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--You will have seen it in the papers, if papers still +cross the pass to those ancient halls which enshroud the immortal +glories of the clan O’Connell--but, my dear Paddy, you will have +little idea of its meaning or be as far from the truth of it as Paul +Delmet from a parson’s cassock or the Chevalier Honoré de Villefort +from the castles in Spain which the entirely disinterested Baroness +has lately bequeathed to him. + +I can hear your comments, your wisdom, can imagine your displeasure. +What--a man who should be riding his hack in the Row, putting a yacht +into commission at Cowes--or at the worst buying a thousand guinea +motor-car to carry his friends from their creditors--this man living +in a hovel at Montmartre, spending his money upon chansonniers, +grisettes, cocottes and all that paste-board riff-raff which has made +the Quat-Z-Arts famous wherever the American language is not spoken. +This is what you say, my dear Paddy--this is what my beloved cousin +Arthur is saying when he tells himself that in twelve months’ time the +curtain falls upon the play, and he, the patron, walks off with the +proceeds. + +Be sure that I forget this unpleasant truth whenever life will permit +me to do so. The thought for to-morrow is not often the spectre at the +feasts over which Marcelle presides, nor one which Mimi La +Godiche--which is to say Mimi the Simpleton--long permits to remain in +heads as empty as her own. I am to lose my fortune of seven thousand +pounds a year if, at the mature age of twenty-five, I am not earning +five hundred pounds a year by my own labour and talent. So be it, +Paddy. Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we will dine. This fortune +may carry some little sunshine even to the benighted halls of the +Agile Wolf. I make no complaint of destiny--nor of Mimi La Godiche, +whose friends robbed me of a trumpery cigarette-box which is again +upon my table while I write this letter. + +I say that I make no complaint of destiny--why should I? Let me but +open this window, upon which Gabriel de Math has drawn in the best +French chalk an impassioned sketch of an empty champagne bottle--let +me but open it and the world is at my feet--Paris of the golden domes, +Paris of the dark eyes and the meaner streets--a great black Paris, a +Paris of woods and gardens and river, of the mills which grind the +grisettes’ corn, of the hives whence issue the noctambules and night +hawks, whose prey has gossamer wings of greenbacks, whose morrow is +never because of the eternal to-day. All this lies in the great bowl +before me. I pour my fortune into the abyss and they strive for it far +below, in a glitter of brass and spangles, in a flutter of white +petticoats and silken hose and shirt fronts which would be better at +the laundry. But none knows the truth--I am the mad Englishman who +neither paints nor plays. And I am as poor as the rest of them--and +God knows how poor that is. + +So, you see, Paddy, I have my consolations, and among others, as the +papers have told you, the friendship of Mimi La Godiche. What a fine +old cardboard tragedy they have made of it all! Did I not sally forth +at midnight, armed with a blunderbuss and a scimitar to cut down the +apaches who lurk beneath the shadow of la Galette? Did I not enter a +café which the police are afraid to enter? and did not these strong +hands drag therefrom the brave _fille_ who had returned my stolen +diamonds to me and was in danger because of her honesty? News “fitting +to the night,” upon my word, “black, fearful, comfortless and +horrible.” Would for the sake of this Hector that it were the truth +and nothing but the truth--but, my dear Paddy, there’s little of the +truth in it at all, as these indentures shall bear witness. It’s as +false as Fifine of the Alcazar, and not half as pretty. + +You will remember that I have known Mimi La Godiche for some three +months now. She is a pretty, round-limbed blonde, with a mop of +tousled hair, eyes full of “fair speechless messages,” the reticence +of Cleopatra, the youth of Cupid, the devilry of the whole Rue +Champollion in the shape of her bewitching neck. + +I saw her first at the Fête de Neuilly. She stood upon a platform +with a strong man, a juggler and a clown; and when she sang I +determined that she should come to the Quat-Z-Arts and sing to the +Bohemians of the Butte. Montmartre gave her the cold shoulder. Can you +wonder that an audience which has heard Odette Dulac sing “Je suis +Bête” should decline to hear Mimi La Godiche warble “Toujours +l’amour,” in a dress that makes her look like a kitchen-maid and a +voice that would befit a Sunday-school? She came, she saw, she did not +conquer. I offered to send her back to the lion-tamer, who is to her +father, mother, uncle and brother--she declined the invitation, +preferring to sit to Desmond Barrymore, the American, and not a little +delighted to earn her bread at so light a task. + +Now, my dear Paddy, you must tell me, for by all the kingdoms of the +grisettes, I swear that I do not know what my obligations to this waif +and stray may be. Must I pose as the philanthropist of the books, and +send her to a convent at Brussels or a finishing school at Brighton? +Should I plod patiently beneath a soiled genealogical tree to discover +if, in some remote slum of Paris, Lyons, or Marseilles, there may not +be living a venerable kinswoman, perhaps newly released from prison, +who will harbour her? Or shall I remember that the devil knows his own +and will not forget her? + +I cannot tell you. She is earning an honest living with Desmond +Barrymore, and will come to no harm there. Life and laughter and the +light of cities are her whole existence. And imagine the talk of the +Rue Pigalle repeated in the cloister or the argot Montmartrois at +church parade in that “fayre town of Brighton!” It can’t be done, +Paddy. I am the victim of my own enthusiasm, and Mimi will return to +her lion-tamer no more. + +Meanwhile, there are the thieves. The papers have told you that I, a +young English student, studying the sculptor’s art in the great +ateliers of Montmartre, was robbed at the Quat-Z-Arts Ball of a gold +and diamond cigarette-case worth a hundred pounds. At the best it is a +half truth--at the worst an ignorant lie. + +None knows better than yourself, Paddy, the deserved fame of the +Quat-Z-Arts Ball. Here America does not come, nor Sir Lord Moneybags +enter. There is no ticket more prized in all Paris than a ticket for +the Quat-Z-Arts; there is not a festivity in any ballroom in Europe +more decently conducted for those who see eye to eye with these +Bohemians of the Butte, and understand them. True, Venus in many +shapes rides sky-high upon the gilded floats; you sup upon the floor +from the contents of paper bags thrown down to you from the galleries +above; but of the vulgar things to be done in London or New York by +those who are merely vulgarian, you do none at all. So, my dear Paddy, +I certainly did not lose my pretty cigarette-case (given to me, you +remember, by old Bardon, the banker, for dragging his beloved +“cheeild” from the Solent) at the Quat-Z-Arts Ball; nor would anyone +outside a lunatic asylum puzzle his head to say where I did lose it. + +Perhaps it was in a cab on my way to the Abbaye de Thélème, that +sordid supper-house of the Butte, to which one resorts in sheer +despair of sleep and solitude; perhaps later on at the Capitol, to +which, I remember, Mistress Mimi would be conducted with Amé Decroix, +the poet; Honoré de Villefort, the Chevalier; and that bald-headed +old rogue of a perpetual mendicant, Georges Oleander, who writes the +revues. I neither know nor care; for my memories are of a night of +life, and colour, and music; of a scene glittering with dresses and +the pictures that great artists have given to their fellows--of music +which should have moved the feet of every dancing faun that ever trod +a pedestal--of wit and laughter, the veritable _elixir vitæ_. + +This is no psalm-singing screed that I write to you, Paddy, nor are +you the man for the pæans of self-righteousness. I will confess +without shame to certain _bons moments_. Though I am not, and never +have been, the lover of Mimi La Godiche, there have been instants of +the madness in which I have played a madman’s part. + +But Mimi neither misunderstands me nor is misled. Did I but drop the +shabbiest of handkerchiefs, she would become my mistress to-morrow; +but I have no intention of soiling fine linen in this way, nor do I +contemplate such a charming _ménage_ as she would certainly disgrace. +When I embraced her at the Quat-Z-Arts, the floats of my Lady Venus +were already sky-high and the parquet a sea of billowy chiffon--but I +did not do so to give her an opportunity of stealing my cigarette-case +(as that old blackguard Georges Oleander will have it), nor will all +the _avocats_ in Paris convince me that this was the moment of my +loss. No, my dear friend, it was at the Abbaye, I repeat, and if not +at the Abbaye, then at the Capitol. + +I am asking you to keep this fact in mind that what follows after may +be better understood. You know me too well to suppose that I would +have cried to high Heaven for the loss of a twopenny-halfpenny diamond +box, or even be complaining of it to any man. But it was my misfortune +to be asked for a cigarette out of that same by the prince and father +of all beggars, Maître Georges Oleander aforesaid, and so, in a +moment of surprise, I discovered the loss. + +What next is the tale, Paddy? You will guess it first time--that Mimi +La Godiche had thrown her fair arms about me, not in an ecstasy of +love or passion, but purely to pocket the case and enjoy the contents +at her leisure. This I had from the Chevalier Villefort not a week +ago. On Sunday I learned for the first time the true value of a +mendacious tongue and what it may mean even here on the “mountain” +whence you look down upon the domes of Paris. + +The scandal was everywhere. Remember that there is in Montmartre a +great colony of artists, musicians and writers, not less honest, not +less clean-living than the inhabitants of many a sanctimonious town in +the country of your oppressor. These may esteem the marriage-tie +lightly; but they hold love to be a sacred thing, and they would no +more think of robbing their neighbour than of shooting the Pope. + +These had been good friends to Mimi La Godiche because of my +patronage. But no sooner is the black word spoken than every door is +shut upon her, skirts drawn aside, tables shifted, slander uttered in +no mere whisper. They recalled her coming--the strong man of the Fête +de Neuilly, the clown, the tights, the van, the vagrant’s life. A +little more of it and they would have pushed her headlong over to the +great congregation of grisettes, maquereaux and night-hawks who throng +the cabarets of the Butte. In short, my dear Paddy, they would have +made a criminal and something worse of her--and you know what that +would mean among the savages of Montmartre. Let me tell you next how I +have come to save her from such a fate--if it be but for the +moment--for, as Richter has told us, woman is the most inconsistent +compound of obstinacy and self-sacrifice with which we are acquainted. + +I have saved her. She is in this very room while I am writing this +letter; but, Paddy, if she were to walk a hundred yards down the alley +which has the honour to house me I would not answer for her life. + +To make this clear, let me return to the Sunday after “the crime” and +to my own recreation upon that innocent day. A morning with Sabine +Monterey and old Villefort upon the Seine at Poissy; lunch in a frock +coat and glory with Lea d’Alençon at her apartment in the Avenue de +Malakoff; then to Longchamp; a little dinner at Armenonville, and +afterwards the long journey home, the steep climb to the Butte and the +card-box house which permits me to look down upon the sails of La +Galette. + +Why I went so far that Sunday night I cannot tell you. There is still +my apartment in the Hôtel St. Paul open to me when I would return to +civilisation. But I think the amorous Lea had put thoughts of Mimi +into my head, and, wondering if all were well with her, I returned to +the Maison du bon Tabac and to my bed. Ten minutes after I had entered +the house, came Chocolat, the messenger from the old Café of the +Assassins, knocking as the devil knocked on old Luther’s door at +Weimar. Then I knew that all was not well with Mimi, and down I went, +the black man upon my heels, vainly endeavouring in three languages to +tell me what had happened. + +What a jargon it was, what a medley of all the elusive argot of the +cabarets! This much alone was clear--that Mimi La Godiche had got +somehow into the Café of the Assassins (they call it the Lapin Agil +to-day), and that if I did not get her out she certainly would be +murdered. + +True, there was a _cipi_, or municipal guard, to protect her from the +immediate fury of her friends; but these would force her presently to +the pavement, and then God help her! So much Chocolat, the messenger, +declared as we hurried down the alley, passed Cerberus at the gate +thereof, and plunged into the darkness of the labyrinth below. I could +save Mimi La Godiche--the _patron_ wished it; madame, his wife, was of +like opinion. The danger lay in the alleys--not in any house, and +certainly not at the famous cabaret of the Agile Wolf. Upon this point +Chocolat was emphatic. They could look after their own--the streets +were another affair. + +Well, I reached the place at last, after as unpleasant a descent as +ever led to Avernus, and entered the café just upon the stroke of +midnight. + +You know the place; the dirty courtyard before it; the rude benches in +the shed that serves for a concert-room; the horrid unshaven faces of +men who wear the mask of death; the savage ferocity in the women’s +eyes. Of course, there are lights enough; lights and a rousing piano, +and a chansonnier who lisps things we should be very sorry to repeat +to-morrow. The fellow was singing nothing more virile than “Monsieur +le Curé” when I came in, and, to be candid, not a soul there paid me +a sou’s worth of attention. Remember that I was unknown in these +places except as a poor devil of a sculptor trying to singe his wings +in the candle of ambition. This reputation has been my protection +hitherto, alike at the Maison du bon Tabac and in the alleys of the +Butte. + +Here at the Lapin Agil I must lose it, finally and irreparably, as all +the omens seem to say--and losing it, have no longer a home upon the +Butte of Montmartre. + +De Courcy was singing when I entered the cabaret, and a bald-headed +old man with a chalk-faced child, who should have been his daughter, +appeared the only claque which the performer commanded. Little Mimi La +Godiche I spied out at once, sitting at a table with a huge ruffian +they call the Mount upon the one side and Desmond Barrymore upon the +other. I was glad to see Desmond there, and pushed my way over to him. +Across the room there stood a company of as savage an appearance as +any defender of the Café des Assassins might desire--squat, burly, +black-eyed brigands, fearful women, girls who saw the sun rise every +day but rarely had seen it set. These were watching Mimi and the Mount +as though the whole drama moved about them. Desmond Barrymore, +however, did not appear to know what it was all about, and told me so +immediately. + +“The man says he’s robbed,” he explained--pointing to the Mount with +the stump of a tattered cigarette. “I guess he’s dreaming. Come right +in, Henry, and help me to put the fear of God into him.” + +He made way for me upon the bench, and I sat down and began to ask +Mimi about it. Her cheeks have not much colour in a common way, but +they were now a beautiful crimson and there was light enough in her +eyes to set the café on fire. + +“What’s up, Mimi?” I asked her. “Why did you send Chocolat barking to +my door?” + +She kicked a pair of fat legs against the bench, and, leaning back, +she laughed in the ruffian’s face as he bent down to catch her answer. + +“_Ah, mes enfants_,” she cried, imitating the inimitable Georges +Tiercy in his famous song. “_Ah, mes enfants--ce cochon de +Jean-le-Mont a une écrevisse dans le vol-au-vent_”--and by that she +meant (for the line is already grown grey) that the fellow who +pestered her had a bee in his bonnet. + +“How did you come here?” I asked her. + +“In the automobile of Monsieur le Comte de Pigalle.” + +They laughed at this, for I need not tell you, Paddy, that the Rue +Pigalle does not boast its Count, and that an automobile which could +climb the Butte might set out to-morrow to vanquish Mont Blanc. + +“No, nonsense. Mimi… there has been a row. What is it all about?” + +Barrymore intervened, jerking a fine fat thumb towards the ruffian. + +“The fellow says she robbed him.” + +“Of what, Barrymore?” + +“Of a cigarette-case set in diamonds.” + +Again the café roared with laughter. A cigarette-case set with +diamonds at the Lapin Agil! Oh, famous treasure! I, of course, knew +the truth in an instant. Mimi La Godiche had stolen my property from +the man who stole it from me. + +“What do you say to that, Mimi?” + +She looked at me as a child in wonder--never was there a cleverer +little actress or one with a cooler head. + +“Do not be foolish, Monsieur Henry (_ne faites pas des bêtises_), I +only smoke a pipe.” + +“And you, my friend?”--this to the ruffian they call the Mount. + +But he flinched at the question, and drained a glass of filthy liquor +before he answered it. + +“She stole the box. Do I steal with my own hands? No, monsieur, but +the she-cats of Paris could rob the Bourse. I was walking to my seat +when she pushed against me. Ask the ‘cipi’ if it is not true? I will +have her searched, I tell you… she shall give me back my property!” + +“Your property, good man! Do you carry cigarette boxes set in +diamonds?” + +“Monsieur, I am an honest man--this property was lost in Paris, and I +would restore it to its rightful owner.” + +“Then you will restore it to me immediately, for it is mine and was +lost at the Quat-Z-Arts Ball, as you very well know.” + +Well, Paddy, this took him by the heels, so to speak, and laid him +upon his back. I had been careful not to advertise the case, fearing a +reputation for riches among the apaches of the Butte; but the cat was +out of the bag this time and every ear intent. As for the ruffian, he +was floored for the moment; but he recovered a second wind of argument +presently, and, being both drunk and querulous, was by no means done +with. + +“It is an affair for the police,” he exclaimed, lurching as he sat, +and bringing his fist down with a smashing blow upon the table. “Ask +the ‘cipi’--she must go with me to the police-station and take the +affair there. I am an honest man and I will not be robbed. You say +that this is your case, monsieur--well, prove so much to the police +and I shall have no more to say. But you shall prove it--I will make +you, I, Jean-le-Mont--hear that, monsieur--I will make you prove it!” + +He stretched an arm across the table and pulled the lappet of my coat +with clumsy vigour. I saw that an uproar was at hand, but determined +to keep my temper as long as possible. Big as Desmond Barrymore and I +are, we were no match for the black company upon the opposite side of +the room--and there was a magazine which any foolish word might fire +in an instant. So it was necessary to temporise and, above all things, +to keep the mob quiet; in which endeavour I called for a bottle of +wine and some cigars, and affected to make light of the fellow’s +impudence. + +“You are talking nonsense,” I said. “My case had my name inside it--we +can easily prove that. Drink a glass of wine with me and then come to +the station. What’s the hurry about? We sha’n’t run away, and I don’t +suppose you have any engagement. Now, isn’t that a fair offer, +monsieur?” + +He muttered something, I know not what, and sank back to glower at the +waiter Juno, who snapped the cork from a bottle and set it before me. +Mimi, I observed, was still smiling; Desmond Barrymore playing with +his cigarette as a man over-anxious, but not afraid. As for the +_canaille_ opposite, I perceived its hesitation, and did not fail to +take its meaning. There could be no brawl permitted in the cabaret, +but there might very well be a pretty affair outside. In a word, they +waited for us to go, each believing that he or she would shortly +become the possessor of a gold cigarette-case set with diamonds. This +was the state of the game when the man they call Jean-le-Mont spoiled +everything by a premature declaration of hostilities, both unexpected +and maladroit. For what should he do but lurch to his feet, catch Mimi +by both her slim arms, and begin to hug her like a bear; while he did +not cease to shower upon her that unnameable abuse in common use upon +the Butte. + +Now, this was very unexpected, Paddy, and left the “backs” rather +nonplussed. A table stood between the pair--bottle and glasses had +already gone crash to the floor. Had I struck at the man immediately, +I might have hit Mimi, and done her a mischief; it was impossible to +get at the fellow’s legs or to secure so firm a grip upon his arms as +would open them and release his prey. Luckily, Desmond is a man of +some wit, and did not fail me. I saw him watching the pair with a +droll expression upon his face; then he calmly put his cigarette under +the giant’s nose, and held it there until the fellow turned upon him +savagely and struck a Triton’s blow. Before he could repeat it I had +laid him on the floor with a counter that Molt of Cambridge taught me; +and you could count the minutes before he rose again. + +Forgive me, Paddy, for thrusting upon you this plain tale of a tavern +brawl. The papers have a “piece” about it, and that is my excuse. It +will also permit you to understand the new _rôle_ in which I find +myself--that of brother, uncle, guardian, foster-father, tutor, friend +to a tousled-haired nymph of the slums, for whom now I am solely +responsible. + +Admittedly, there has been some personal humiliation before this was +arrived at. Your ready mind will depict the scene in the cabaret after +that Jean-le-Mont lay upon the floor, and the “_cipi_” drew his sword +and bawled murder. Upon my life, I thought the three of us were done +for. The cries, the fierce oaths, the looks, the words of them! And +then upon it all, the enraged _patron_ forcing us all to the street, +swearing that he would have no murder in his house; which, my dear +Paddy, remembering that it used to be the Café of the Assassins, you +must admit to be both illogical and disloyal. + +He said that we should go, and go it seemed we must. The place was in +an uproar now; the steep street very soon became a pandemonium. I knew +that the apaches were out, and I would tell you what I would tell no +other man alive, that I had the fear of God in me down to my very +toes. + +And what of this waif and stray, Mimi La Godiche, who had my +cigarette-case upon her, and must, but for our protection, jostle with +the ravening wolves at the door? I had never understood the child, and +I understood her less in that moment--for there she was smiling still, +or, stooping, as her trick was, to smooth her short dress over her +knees; now bursting into laughter; now saying, “_Ah, mes enfants_,” in +that tone inimitable of the cabaret. And the ruffian at her feet had +drawn a knife long enough to cut up the beef at Smithfield. Oh, my +dear Paddy, what a harvest of the green years as Jehan Rictus would +paint them for us in those immortal verses which my countrymen so +rarely understand! + +This babel of sounds endured five full and dreadful minutes, I +suppose, during which time the ladies of the company lost no time in +emptying the glasses of the gentlemen, and the gentlemen in picking +the pockets of the ladies. When it became clear that we must go or +face an enraged _patron_ and three of the prettiest bullies in +Montmartre, I whispered a word to Desmond to stand all close until we +reached the street, and then to go as calmly and with as little +concern as might be toward my box of a house upon the height. + +Granted that this was the uninventive hope of a man who certainly +believed he would find a knife in him shortly; but, Paddy, what better +plan could you have named, or by what road did wisdom lie? + +We had to go out into that darkness of the gutter, where the wolves +were waiting, and to go upon the instant. No excuse, no entreaty +seemed to modify the temper of the ruffian, who feared the police, and +would have none of us. For my part, I preferred the unknown dangers of +the pavement to the clubs of Chocolat and the _patron_; and, although +a scene in Thiers recurred to me, when the prisoners from the Abbey +were driven forth to slaughter in those fateful September massacres, I +chose to whistle one of Legay’s songs rather than to recite it. Then, +putting my arm about Mistress Mimi’s waist, I dragged her from the +place, and went pell-mell to the fray. Eheu, Paddy, what a moment to +live! what a pretty episode in the life of a young gentleman come to +Paris to study the sculptor’s art! + +We were in the thick of it, then, and no mistake at all about the +matter. Fifty at least of the choicest blackguards of the Butte waited +in the alley and swarmed about us instantly. I felt their hands all +over me like mice upon a sack of corn. One rogue thrust his great +fingers into my waistcoat pocket, and had the satisfaction of taking +therefrom an American time-piece of the value of three shillings and +sixpence; another robbed me of a wooden pencil in a tin case; a third +of a couple of five-franc pieces and some small change. This plunder +was far from being what they wanted. Just as the vultures loom +mysteriously upon the horizon when a man sits down to die by the +wayside, so did they appear at this talk of gold and diamonds. + +Had there been but two or three there gathered together, I don’t doubt +they would have dealt with us as men deal with chickens at Easter; but +their very numbers defeated a set purpose, and the lights of the +cabaret forbade a murder. For a little while we swayed about as a ship +caught in a vortex; the lamps shone down upon faces besotten with +drink or fired by greed; I could see the room behind us, the figure of +the _patron_, who still gesticulated, the gaunt form of Jean-le-Mont, +now risen to his feet; and it seemed to me to take the place of a +pleasant harbour one had quitted in despair. Then I think a ruffian +tried to pull me down from behind; but the press was too close, and I +caught his hand in mine and went near to breaking his wrist. This was +a mistake, for he also possessed a knife, and drew it, and it needed +an iron hand upon his throat to silence him. + +I am going deeper than I meant into these police-court news, Paddy, +chiefly that you may understand my present difficulty with Mimi La +Godiche. Let me tell you that when the fun really began, when fists +were busy and hats were flying down the Butte, when the women shrieked +and fled and the men called upon their fellows to make an end of us, I +discovered that she had friends, even among such as these, that she +could call them by their gutter-names and that they would answer her. +It may be that many of them hung back just because it was Mimi of the +booths and the _fêtes foraines_, and by no chance could she be +credited with the possession of sixpence; but, the reflection apart, +my spirits sank when I heard them recognise her, and a sense of +degradation, impossible to define, afflicted me anew. + +What a position for Henry Gastonard to be in--self-sought, inevitable, +the price of this gipsy’s game upon the Butte; the consequence of a +chosen masquerade and a self-imposed war upon civilisation! + +Were there not a thousand devils of my Saxon self-respect crying at my +elbow to have done with it--to pitch them a handful of money--to say +to them, “There is your sister in the arts; take her by the hand and +lead her to her home?” A flash of thought it may have been, while I +dealt with the gentlemen of the pavement and calculated the chances +with a greater precision; but there it was, and while it ran strong in +my head, the girl herself lay almost in my very arms, smiling still, a +very _gamin_ enjoying a brawl as a common incident in her daily life. +Do you wonder, Paddy, that I clung to my wreckage and refused to part +with it to any other robber upon the shore? By heaven and earth, I +swear she is the best plucked ’un that ever wore a red silk stocking +or showed it on a booth to a gaping multitude. And that you shall come +to believe for yourself presently--when I take you fifty paces further +from the cabaret and show you in a line just why we were not murdered. + +Do you remember the Rue St. Vincent, that narrow lane by the +Assassins, with the great black buttresses and the dingy oil-lamp we +used to deride together? Well, it was just by there that we seemed in +for the worst; just by the very corner that you would not have paid +the half of a brass farthing for our chances. + +I had as good as given it up, and fallen to wondering what it feels +like to have six inches of steel in your vitals while twenty hands are +picking your pockets and twenty more are rifling your shoes. That this +was premature, the unexpected but quite gentlemanly appearance of some +fifteen agile _sergents de ville_ immediately assured me. They had +been fetched, it seemed, by the “cipi,” or municipal guard, at the +cabaret, who, while he would not have lifted a finger to save Mimi La +Godiche, was by no means willing that an Englishman should be papered +to-morrow, or found drowned upon the following morning. Thus the +company, armed to its very teeth, and thus the rats scuttling to their +holes, the women left to slither down the steep, the men crying that +Mimi La Godiche was _une guêpe_, and that they would settle with her +upon another occasion. + +I thanked the guard, Paddy; thanked Desmond Barrymore for his kindness +to the girl; and bidding him “good night” (it should have been good +morning), I climbed the mountain to that verdant alley wherein my home +lies, and took Mimi to the parlour with me. Her first act was to +return me my diamonds. I need not particularise as to where she had +hidden them, or what was her inspiration. She is here as I write this, +like a dog upon my carpet. She has been for twenty hours almost in the +same position--but what am I going to do with her, what provision make +for her, or how am I going to smuggle her in safety from this mount of +thieves, I know, my dear Paddy, no more than your estimable self. + +So let me have your consolations. All places are filled with fools, +says Cicero--but there are but two at the Maison du bon Tabac, and one +is Mimi La Godiche and the other-- + + Yours eternally, + Henry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + [The response of Paddy O’Connell, of Glendalough, County Wicklow, to + his friend, Henry Gastonard of the Maison du bon Tabac at Paris.] + + Glendalough, County Wicklow, + May 18th, 1905. + +Dear Henry,--Your letter is received. I gather therefrom two +facts:--1. That you are making a fool of yourself in Paris. 2. That +this occupation is congenial to you and the lady of the circus, upon +whom you appear to have bestowed your patronage.--Believe me to be, My +dear Henry, + + Yours sincerely, + Paddy O’Connell. + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + [A letter from the same brief author addressed to the Reverend Arthur + Warrington of Beldon, Suffolk.] + + Glendalough, County Wicklow, + May 18th, 1905. + +Reverend Sir,--Your request that I would favour you with such news as +I may from time to time receive from my friend Henry Gastonard permits +me to assure you that he is now established in Paris, and appears, by +his diligent habit and assured gifts, to be doing all that will +presently entitle him to the permanent possession of the fortune, +conditionally bequeathed to him by his late father, Henry Gastonard, +of London and Bordeaux. + +My dear Sir, + + Yours very faithfully, + The O’Connell of Glendalough. + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + [Henry Gastonard continues the story in a letter to his friend Paddy + O’Connell.] + + The Hôtel St. Paul, Paris, + May 24th, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--Permit me to ignore the flattering document I had the +honour to receive from you three days ago. + +Friendship, my dear Paddy, calls for something more than a pious +expression of opinion upon the reason or conduct of a friend. It +demands a sympathetic endeavour to understand, and an unshaken +determination to accept such facts as are confided to us and call for +our judgment. To tell a man he is a fool is often to tell him the +truth. But I am not aware of many who have become less foolish for the +knowledge, or have derived any consolation whatever from so bald an +utterance. + +Now, Paddy, you know as well as I do that you are all agog for further +news of Mimi La Godiche; and were you in Paris this little chit of the +booths would have your warm friendship, and you would lay scalps upon +the green should any defame her. Cannot I see you with your feet upon +an historic mantel-shelf, and your eyes (so far as tobacco smoke will +permit) upon a regal ceiling, reading that same letter for a second +time, and willing to barter all Ireland and the people thereof for one +week of the Butte, one month of this rolling world of gilt and tinsel +and all its spangled joys. Admit the truth of it, and write me +something sensible. For, Paddy, I have need of you--there is the devil +to pay, and the game grows interesting. + +You will remember that I left Mimi La Godiche upon my hearthrug. +Barrymore had left us; the time was the early morning of the day; the +_canaille_ of the Assassins had gone God knows where. Save for the old +soldier, who is at once my valet-de-chambre, butler, cook, housemaid, +and scullery wench, there was no one with me in the Maison du bon +Tabac. + +Depict the scene, Paddy, and bear with a recital of my virtues. A room +as large as an opera box; about its walls the drawings of Caran +d’Ache, Henri Riviere, and Willette; a couple of armchairs, as ragged +as the beggars at the door of St. Eustache; a yacht’s piano bang +against the wall; a buffet with all the drinks that are not good for +us; the very worst novels littering all the tables; cigarettes and +cigars everywhere; pipes in all the niches--such is the mountain home +of Henry Gastonard, gentleman. + +And upon the hearthrug of this charming apartment, style Louis de +Montmartre, the tousled-haired Mimi squatting like any lady of the +harem, her legs crossed, her feathered hat in her hand, her cheeks as +rosy as a picture from a Christmas-book. + +Now, Paddy, I have told you something of Mimi the Simpleton; but, to +be as frank as the priest of Clanconnell, ’tis precious little that I +myself know of her, anyway. I can no more tell you whether she be +virtuous or otherwise than recite ten chapters of the Koran. This is a +difficulty, to be sure, which my friends of the Hill will never +understand. I can hear the roar of laughter which would attend its +expression either in the neighbourhood of Neuilly or in that of la +Galette. Mimi La Godiche virtuous! Then was Catherine of Russia a +latter-day saint, and Lucretia herself as misunderstood as all the +historians would now have us to believe. This would be the opinion of +the Butte and of Neuilly. It is not my opinion--I cannot tell you why; +nor do I trouble myself for reasons. + +She sat upon my hearthrug, I say, her legs crossed and her great +feathered hat in her hand. When I questioned her, her answers were +often monosyllables; sometimes nods and smiles; long sentences but +rarely. Of her past she appeared to know nothing at all. Her +birthplace she named as Vendome, but was not sure of it. She could +tell me nothing of her childhood; the Fair she spoke of with dread; +the lion-tamer Cassadore stood to her for all terrors past, present, +and to come. She would have burned her hand in the fire rather than +return to him. + +“Have you no remembrance of your father?” I asked her. + +She shook her head many times, as one who wished to think but could +not. + +“And your mother?” + +“There was someone at Orleans, Monsieur Henry, and after that +Cassadore. Oh, Cassadore always, I assure you.” + +“You must be able to tell me more than that, Mimi. Somewhere, +somewhere in your life, there was a woman who was kind to you. Now, +don’t you remember when?” + +“I remember a very old lady, Monsieur Henry--that would have been at +Orleans. And then the road--the great, white, open road--so many days, +so many nights… and after that Cassadore always until you came, +Monsieur Henry.” + +“Why did you not run away, Mimi?” + +“To whom should I run?” + +“Anywhere away from Cassadore. You are young… you can work; why did +you not leave him?” + +“It was impossible, monsieur--as well ask the Abbé to run away from +his church.” + +“You mean that the life had become necessary to you?” + +“Yes, yes, I mean that--would you put me in the kitchen, Monsieur +Henry?” + +“Certainly not, Mimi--but, you see, you can’t stop any longer in +Montmartre, and what then?” + +Her face clouded, but only for an instant. + +“I shall go away with you, Monsieur Henry.” + +“Why should you go with me?” + +“Because I do not wish to go with Cassadore.” + +“There are plenty of others who would take you away, Mimi. Why do you +think of me?” + +“I cannot tell you, Monsieur Henry--you must know yourself why it is.” + +“And if I do, what then? Suppose I cannot take you away?” + +“I shall ask Mr. Barrymore.” + +“Oh, Barrymore would not be of any use to you.” + +“Then I shall go back to Cassadore.” + +“It wouldn’t be safe for you to stop in Montmartre now--I suppose you +understand that much, Mimi?” + +She laughed a little at the suggestion. + +“Jean-le-Mont is very angry,” she said, “I am afraid of Jean-le-Mont.” + +“When did you steal my cigarette-case, Mimi; how did you know that +Jean-le-Mont had it?” + +“He came to Mr. Barrymore’s atelier three days ago--the Italian who +makes the models told me that Jean had the box. At the Lapin Agil I +gave him a rose, Monsieur Henry, and then put my arms about his neck. +Ah, the droll--he discovered it at once, but he did not wish to tell +because the others would know and rob him afterwards. Then Mr. +Barrymore came in because he saw me there, and I told him, and we sent +for you----” + +“And this was the first time you have stolen anything, Mimi?” + +“Monsieur Henry, you know that it is.” + + * * * * * + +Observe, Paddy, the reiteration of this. I know that she is virtuous; +I know that she is honest. No reasons given or asked, as they say in +the thieves’ advertisements. Upon my word of honour, the good faith of +it is astonishing! For I do know, Paddy… and I would stake my fortune +(or what is left of it) upon the truth of my astonishing creed. + +I shall not fatigue you with further particulars of this amazing +morning. For a couple of hours, perhaps, I slept upon my bed, and Mimi +upon the hearthrug; but at six o’clock I waked her, and stopping only +for coffee and a roll, I was out of the house by seven and upon my way +to the Paris of law and of civilisation. All my instinct told me that +the thieves of the Butte would make short work of Mimi La Godiche if +she remained in their neighbourhood. Let her go to the old haunt this +night, and a knife in the back or a collarette of rope would certainly +be her reward. You know Montmartre; you know the particular kind of +blackguard and of blackguardess it can vomit from its cavernous and +detestable mouth. From these I fled with Mimi at my side--whither, the +great Saint Christopher, patron of travellers, alone might tell me. + +You are aware that I have an apartment at the Hôtel St. Paul, and +thither first I took the child in the hope that inspiration would come +and a swift solution of a pretty problem be found. Be sure the +excellent _patron_ stared not a little, and that Madame, his wife, +sniffed more of the morning air than had filled her ancient lungs for +many a day. But a better entertainment was that provided by Narisse of +the Faubourg St. Honoré, who came round with his hand-maidens to +dress her, and must take my directions three times before assuring +himself finally of the madness of this English traveller. + +Oh, Paddy, cannot you hear this man as he exclaims to heaven upon the +feathers of Montmartre, and sees a national infamy in the fine, if +tattered stuffs of Belleville? No doubt I should have gone not “Chez +Narisse” but the Magazin du Louvre; there bought not silk and chiffon +but good, honest serges, a hat to fit a governess and lace suitable to +the deaconess of a Sunday-school. But, Paddy, I am a man, and I know +the name but of one costumier in all Paris, and he is Narisse, and he +made of Mimi La Godiche a veritable beauty in less time than you or I +could finish a rubber of bridge at the club. Ah, these mad +Englishmen--they still exist it appears, and blessed is Paris because +of them! And what shall be said for the girl herself, and what must +she do upon the instant but sing the man a song after the fashion of +Jehan Rictus, just because of the clothes he had put upon her back. +Believe me, when I tell you that the models themselves came near to +joining in the chorus, and that Narisse was speechless before the end +of the second verse. + +Mimi, then, is dressed and in her right mind. Will you follow me as I +lead her forth about the hour of twelve o’clock, and ask myself, what +next? There are many in Paris who know me, and not a few who stared +with some astonishment. Whatever the costumier’s art, my dear Paddy, +it cannot disguise the walk, the airs, the manner of the Butte. I am a +person of some sensibility out of doors, and I object to that freedom +which grips you hysterically by the arm, at odd intervals, to drag you +to a shop window and exclaim upon a rope of pearls which would ruin a +Maharajah, or an emerald bracelet none but a Rothschild could buy. It +is not a joy to me when my companion has the wit and the language +which silences enterprising cabmen or calls for the retort +discourteous of the foot-passenger who has been obstructed. Publicity +has no charms for me; I prefer to give the wall to the humourists and +to go in obscurity. + +We lunched at the Café of the Cascade in the Bois. There was a goodly +company present, and “her ladyship” fell in love with the Baroness +Séchard, who was with Pechala, of the Spanish Embassy. I think the +grand manners of many of these far from grand dames somewhat +astonished her; but the size of the asparagus tickled her sense of +humour, and the bill was ever in her mind. + +“What will happen to us if you cannot pay the bill, Monsieur Henry?” + +“We shall go to prison, Mimi.” + +“Cassadore went to prison once--at Châlons-sur-Marne--I do not wish +to go to prison, Monsieur Henry.” + +“Then we must try to find some money, Mimi. How much have you now?” + +The question should not have been put, for Mimi carries her money +where she carried my cigarette-case, and made no secret of the matter. + +I was but just in time to prevent a display which might have brought +us the bill on the spot, and, as it was, Etienne, the waiter, grinned +from ear to ear as he floated to us with a sole à la Victorine. + +“Did they not tell you in the Rue Pigalle that I am rich, Mimi?” + +“You could never be rich, Monsieur Henry; you are not clever enough.” + +“But, Mimi, am I not a sculptor?” + +This appeared to her a droll saying. She laughed quite honestly and +again appealed to my candour. + +“You know that you will never be a sculptor; you have no talent, +Monsieur Henry; even I have more talent than you. Besides, if you +were”--she added wisely--“how poor we should be.” + +“It is not good to be poor in Paris, Mimi.” + +“It is not good to be poor anywhere, Monsieur Henry.” + +“But if one has no way to get a living--as I have not, what then, +Mimi?” + +“Oh, then one sleeps at the Hôtel of the Belle Etoile. I have stayed +there often when I used to go to the Fêtes. It is a very large hotel, +and you can see the stars while you lie in bed.” + +“Would you go back there, Mimi?” + +“Jesu--no; why do you speak of it when one is no longer hungry, +Monsieur Henry?” + +I did not pursue the subject further, but paid the bill and went out +with her to the Bois. A shabby cab made the usual grand tour with us +and helped us to pass a pleasant hour. Perhaps it astonished me to +discover that the Bois impressed her but little--but then she had been +accustomed to the spangles all her life and could make little of a +passable equipage with a fat Baroness in it, or a costly motor driven +by a man who looked like an Oneida Indian. Her exclamations were few +but her observation unfailing. She detected me at once when I nodded +to Lea d’Alençon, who drove a pair of cream-colored ponies near the +Cascade. + +“Why did that lady look so angry, Monsieur Henry? Are you in love with +her?” + +“Why should I be, Mimi? She is the wife of Captain d’Alençon of the +Engineers.” + +“But she is in love with you--I am sure of it. And she is very angry +with you.” + +“Then I cannot help it. Let us get out and walk, Mimi, and ask +ourselves where we are going to stay to-night. That will be more +interesting than Madame d’Alençon.” + +“You wish to see her pass again--is not that the reason, Monsieur +Henry?” + +Well, of course it was, and she had guessed wisely enough; but what +was I to say to her? Lea is one of my virtues, as I have told you +before, Paddy. When I wish to balance the books of all the moralities, +cash, day and ledger, Lea d’Alençon stands for the most valuable of +my assets. She is too clever to be anything else, and yet you might +call her the most amorous woman and one of the most dangerous in +Paris. Just a hundred times, perhaps, has she advised me to get out of +this delectable country and go back to England. I might have done so +but for her promise to visit me there upon an early occasion. Be sure, +Paddy, that I have no desire whatever to cut the Captain’s throat +merely to prove myself a good Parisian. Lea is charming as a friend. +She would be all the malignities impersonified otherwise. + +I should tell you that I had recognised her when she passed me, and +that this astonished her considerably. It is considered less than +nothing at all in Paris to drive in the Bois with a cocotte--but to +recognise your lady friends when thus employed must be named little +less than an infamy. So here was a pretty problem for this majestic +Astarte with the raven locks and the liquid black eyes and all the +langour of the trained voluptuary. Either I wished to insult her or it +were possible that my companion might be introduced. This she must +have told herself, for the chariot reappeared presently and was drawn +up at the pavement not fifty yards from the place where we stood. + +“Bon jour, Madame d’Alençon.” + +“Bon jour, Monsieur Gastonard.” + +“I have a story for you; when will a good comrade hear it?” + +“Why not at five o’clock; my husband is at Valérien. Is it a story of +the theatre, Monsieur Gastonard?” + +“It is a story of virtue, madame.” + +We laughed together. This poor old Pantaloon Virtue still provokes a +smile--if his name be ever mentioned--in such saloons as Lea +d’Alençon and her kind have made famous. Some spirit of sheer devilry +must have prompted me to this confidence, Paddy; but behind it lay a +firm belief in the sagacity of this shrewd woman of the world and in +her honesty. She would place Mimi the Simpleton in some possible +situation--I had not a moment’s doubt of it. + +How we laughed together over the whole story when I went to her rooms +an hour later. Mimi, meanwhile, had been dispatched to the Hôtel St. +Paul, and there entrusted to the safe custody of _la patronne_. I +myself sat in a wonderful cradle chair and watched Lea pour out really +excellent tea from a Chinese pot that should have been behind glass. +She had changed her gown for a delicate robe of lace and chiffon, and +thrust the prettiest pair of feet in all Paris from a petticoat over +which a costumier must have shed tears of joy. + +“Who is this girl?” she asked me. + +I told her that I did not know. + +“Why has she become virtuous?” + +“A natural condition, Lea; why is not marble chalk?” + +Observe, Paddy, that Lea and I have been some months at the point when +“Monsieur” or “Madame” provokes ridicule, and no formality clouds our +brutal frankness. Had it been otherwise I could not have spoken to her +of Mimi La Godiche at all. + +“Let me tell you the girl’s story,” I said, “or what I know of it. Six +months ago she was performing outside the walls of Paris with a +monster of a man named Cassadore, whose riches are three lions and +whose wardrobe a pair of spangled tights. I was in the tent when this +child was taken into the cages with this man, and I did not fail to +remark two facts; one, that she was absolutely lacking in a sense of +fear, and, secondly, that she might become eventually one of the most +beautiful women in Paris. Five francs judiciously expended obtained an +introduction to her--a hundred francs bought her of the lion-tamer. +Rejoice, my dear Lea, that in our society women are not sold for a +hundred nor for ten hundred francs, or who can tell what I might not +bid for you at an auction. In Mimi’s case the bargain was soon made. +After all, the tamer had a dozen girls of her station ready to be +driven into the cages at his nod--what was this girl to him? I bought +her and took her to the Butte. Febry, of La Galette, gave her a chance +to get hissed upon his stage, and she did not disappoint him. I tried +her again, paying a thousand francs for the privilege at the +Quat-Z-Arts and the Coq d’Or. Again, my dear lady, she was a hopeless +failure. No femme de chambre acting in the kitchen could have failed +so dismally. And yet I continue to believe in her; my faith is +unshaken. I am ready to declare that she will become a great actress, +astonish Paris, and end in an apartment not a third of a mile removed +from the Arc de Triomphe or the Avenue Marigny. It is this faith which +brings me now to the house of the charming Lea d’Alençon. I come, +_foi d’honneur_, simply to seek a salve to my vanity. How shall I get +this child taught? Where shall I place her while she is being taught? +You, of all my friends, can best advise me upon that point. Do so, and +you shall not find a more grateful man in Paris to-day.” + +Well, I could see that I had impressed her, but I had not convinced +her, as the next question proved. + +“Why do you say that the child is virtuous?” she asked me. + +“Because I know her to be so,” was my retort. “Put your hand upon the +marbles at the Madeleine and will they burn you? It is true that a +fire might be conceived of such a nature as to melt your marble and +cause it to run as liquid steel--but, my dear Lea, we are not talking +of the forges, but of the facts. This child is virtuous because she is +utterly devoid of any desire to be anything else. The wisest up on the +Butte recognise the truth and are proud of it.” + +“And now these very people drive her out. Did you not tell me that she +cannot return to Montmartre, Henry?” + +“Certainly not--at least, to the only quarter of Montmartre where it +would be possible for her to live. The thieves have marked her +down--she would not be alive a week if she remained up there.” + +“And you propose----?” + +“My dear Lea, nothing of the kind. I have no matrimonial intentions, +believe me. It is you who will propose.” + +She laughed a little wickedly. The talk had drifted apart from my +idea, and I could not but be amused by her sudden _volte face_. + +“Louis does not return from Valérien until to-morrow,” she said +quickly. “I am supposed to dine with my sister Lucille. Where are you +going to take me, Henry?” + +“Alone, Lea?” + +She looked me straight in the face. + +“Let us ask the Curé of the Madeleine.” + +“By all means. And while we dine we will make plans for Mimi.” + +“Let us dine on the island,” she cried, ignoring it; “there is the +safest place in Paris.” + +“I will be at the Cascade at a quarter to seven. Of course, it may be +a tragedy.” + +“The tragedies, my dear Henry, are always for to-morrow.” + +And so, Paddy, amiable fool that I was, I consented. It will be no +surprise to you to hear that the Curé of the Madeleine had another +appointment, and could not turn up. But of this dinner and of all the +absurdities which followed upon it, I will write to-morrow. + +Meanwhile, find me, my dear fellow, your friend, + + Harry. + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + [Henry Gastonard writes to Paddy O’Connell telling him the story of a + dinner and a challenge.] + + Hôtel St. Paul, Paris, + May 30th, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--This is to tell you that I go out with Bernard d’Alençon +somewhere about daybreak to-morrow, and that when I write again, Paris +will be in possession of a pretty scandal. + +I am not joking, my dear Paddy. A more serious human being than Henry +Gastonard does not exist in all this city to-night. I am to fight +Bernard d’Alençon, and I am to fight him somewhere in the +neighbourhood of the Bois at five o’clock to-morrow morning. The +affair is as irrevocable as the sunset I have just witnessed from the +Chalets du Cycle, where Mademoiselle Mimi has given me tea and +recited, to the great astonishment of waiters and cyclists alike, the +first lesson she received this morning from Pelletier, of the +Conservatoire. + +So, if you please, has this great question of the hour been settled. A +woman’s shrewd opinion has backed up a mere man’s idea that something +may be made of Mimi the Simpleton, something at least ventured in her +interests. The suspicion that this chit of the _fêtes foraines_ may +yet startle Paris is so much an obsession where I am concerned that I +have willingly agreed to place her with Pelletier for twelve months +and to see what comes of it. He is too clever a man to try to make a +silk purse out of a sow’s ear. He will train her for the Vaudeville or +the Palais Royal, and if he cannot make a success of her, then is she +lost indeed. She lodges meanwhile in a little English pension near the +Louvre, and God help its inmates if she have the mind to misbehave +herself! + +Be sure that for me this is a closed book, and that I am very +unlikely, when once this other folly is over, to see or hear of +Mistress Mimi again. The whim of a moment has given her a chance in +Paris; the whim of another will banish her from my recollection when, +as must be, if I am not killed to-morrow morning, I set out to save my +fortune from my cousin and to make those five hundred pounds per annum +which will enable me to hold it. + +You will remember, Paddy, that when last I wrote to you, I was about +to dine in blessed seclusion with that amiable but charming woman Lea +d’Alençon. Providence and a far from belle Americaine saved me from +such an imprudence. The American lady, I understand, appeared just +when Lea was wrestling with a refractory hat and an equally obstinate +pyramid of her famous black hair. She carried a letter from Elise +d’Alençon, the Captain’s sister, who is now in New York, and could +not, in decency, be denied. What Lea said, or, better still, what she +thought, I leave you to guess; but she covered her retreat by asking +her cousin Emilie, who is madly in love with young Derogy of the +Chasseurs, and by sending post haste for the cavalryman to join us. So +we were five at the table instead of two, and we dined at Armenonville +and not at the Cascade. + +I was glad of this--frankly glad. Lea is too good a friend of mine +that I should ever wish her to become anything else. And remember, +Paddy, that virtue is as much a matter of opportunity and of accident +as of the commandment, both written and unwritten. To you alone would +I confess my belief that it had been her intention to bring matters to +a crisis this night. Bernard was conveniently at Fort Valérien; her +mother had gone to Tours to let their chateau to a Yankee from +Vermont; I had come to her in a romantic mood and appealed to her upon +the score of my interest in another woman--a sure passport to +intimacy. And then upon the top of it all the lady from New York, +Jenny Middleton she called herself, with an accent to butter your +bread and the eye of the eagle as it soars. Oh, we were a merry party, +be sure; and even cousin Emilie (who is married to a man of sixty as +sour as vinegar and as yellow) made little of her cavalryman in such +a presence. + +You know the dinner at the Armenonville, as good as it is dear, as +_chic_ as it is distant. We discussed London restaurants with our +soup; the Verney scandal with our fish; the character of the American +man with the entrée and Mimi the Simpleton with the ices. Mrs. +Middleton, I observed, was much interested in the character of my +_protégée_ and firm in her belief that I had made a fool of myself. + +“She will go back to the lion-tamer in a month,” she said, “and leave +you with the bill for a keepsake.” + +When Lea began her dissertation upon virtue, the lady from the West +joined in the merriment, and I perceived that here was an American +who, like others of her countrywomen, had no interest in Paris +virtuous but much in Paris of the vices. It was cheerful to be done +with it all at last, and to begin that momentous return which might +land me either in an infamy or, at the best, destroy my friendship +with the charming Lea. + +I say the fun began at Armenonville, and you will readily understand +the nature of it. Lea did not disguise her intention to return in my +cab--Emilie was equally insistent upon riding with the guardsman. For +a little while we stood in the glitter of the lights, amid the most +wonderfully dressed women in the world, scheming and planning to our +different ends. First it would be Lea suggesting three cabs and a +hurried departure--then the cavalryman gallantly volunteering to +telephone for an automobile which would carry us all. Mrs. Middleton +herself providentially had special designs upon me, and watched her +prey with a feline patience beautiful to behold. When two cabs +appeared, I put the agitated daughter of Venus in the first of them, +and by a ruse got Lea and Emilie and the cavalryman into the second. + +This was providential to be sure, if we may suppose Providence stoops +to the mild intrigues of pretty Frenchwomen; for I may tell you that +d’Alençon himself did not stop the night at Fort Valérien, but was +back in his own apartment at half-past nine, and detected there by Lea +just at the moment she was waiting for me to appear and take her to +supper as I had promised. Ah, the dear soul, what a terrible five +minutes she must have spent upon the pavement waiting for my cab! But +a blessed destiny had sent me on with the Stars, to say nothing of the +Stripes, to the gates of the Jardin de Paris, whence a messenger +carried a hasty note back to Lea telling her of the impossibility of +it. + +Oh, these fair Americans! Do you know, Paddy, that if I were a man of +genius, I would make the five hundred a year which my father’s Will +demands just by catering for their naughtiness in Paris. Of course, +the whole affair would have to be a sham, as unlike the true Paris as +Bayswater is unlike London, and no more vicious than a magic-lantern +show in a Sunday-school. Then I should catch the class which now +visits that poor place the Jardin de Paris, net the fools who go to +the Moulin Rouge because they ought not to go, and send them back to +their native land as happy as a “week-ender” who has seen the Louvre. + +Mrs. Middleton, I discovered, had come to Paris to write a book upon +French social customs. She assured me that it was imperative upon her +to visit the music-halls. “I want to see the people play,” she said. +“I guess they work pretty well the same everywhere; but it’s the +national games I’m set upon.” When I pointed out to her that the lady +who displayed hose to her fellow-countrymen at the Jardin de Paris was +a Spaniard, and not a Frenchwoman, she insisted immediately on going +to verify the fact. It was two in the morning before I got rid of her, +and then I had to tell her that if she were shut out of her hotel the +police would want to know the reason why. + +So you see, Paddy, I neither dined nor supped with the charming Lea; +and, once more having escaped those fascinating toils, returned at +length to a welcome bed. When I awoke on the following morning the +valet at the hotel informed me that Captain Berton, of the Engineers, +desired particularly to see me, and upon the fellow being shown up, I +learned in ten words that he had come to arrange this pleasantry with +d’Alençon. + +Perhaps, had I been clothed and in my right mind I should have +answered him as he deserved, offered to punch the Captain’s head, and +told his ambassador not to make a fool of himself. This, +unfortunately, did not happen. Berton caught me when I was both tired +and irritable, and I sent him headlong to Honoré de Villefort, that +old rascal of a Chevalier who will never cease to remind me of his +obligation. What is even worse, Paddy, I named pistols--and that is +just the maddest thing your friend Henry Gastonard has done since he +was born. + +I am a fool--I know it. Often as I have desired to play in one of +those gigantic farces they call an “affair of honour in Paris,” never +did I contemplate standing up to a man with a pistol in my hand. Of +course, I had no real cause of quarrel with Bernard d’Alençon, nor he +with me. He is madly jealous of the charming Lea, and hates me like +poison; if he can shoot me to-morrrow morning, he will do so. + +But, Paddy, I shall, in very truth, have finished my French education +when this is over, and be prepared to return to England and a sober +life. It is true that there might be an accident--you may say the same +every time you call a hansom cab--but, Paddy, if the fun should be +spoiled and this man hit me, then I call upon you, as the oldest +friend I have, to do what you can for my little friend of the Butte, +and to remember that there is no one else in all Christendom who would +give her sixpence if not-- + + Your friend, + Harry. + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + [Being a telegram from Paddy O’Connell to his friend, Henry + Gastonard.] + +You must be mad. Have wired the Embassy. Am coming over.--Paddy. + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + + [A letter from the Rev. Arthur Warrington of Beldon, Suffolk, to Mrs. + Arthur Warrington at Porchester Terrace, Bayswater.] + +My Dear Martha,--I will not say thank God; but, are we responsible for +this unhappy young man’s folly? Should it have pleased the Almighty to +call him I will see Sands and Collier about the estate at Ingershall +immediately. Please let me have telegrams as the evening papers come +in. To think that this should be the end of Henry Gastonard’s fortune, +his son a debauché in Paris, shot down in a vulgar duel about a +married woman, and, I doubt not, precious gold lavished upon her. But +we, dear wife, shall know how to spend that fortune to God’s good +ends. + +I shall, of course, buy a motor-car at once should the worst +follow.--Your devoted husband, + + Arthur. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + + [In which Paddy O’Connell of Glendalough, writes to his sister Clara a + full account of the duel between Henry Gastonard and the Captain + Bernard d’Alençon.] + + Hôtel St. Paul, Paris, + June 7th, 1905. + +Dear Clara,--You will have learned from the newspapers some of the +news I have to tell you, but this will not make you less anxious to +hear it a second time from a family pen. + +I arrived in Paris early on the Saturday morning, and drove to the +Hôtel St. Paul; for, where else would I be driving at all on such a +day? The newspapers gave me a fine account of poor Henry as we went +along, and small hope had I of cheering him alive or talking to +anything better than a corpse. When I arrived at his hotel, they would +have shut the door in my face but for a way I have with them, and for +sure the journalists are here all day and would tear the very bandages +from Harry’s body to photograph the wounds. + +Well, I made my way up to the sick man’s room at last, and there found +the poor fellow stretched upon his bed and looking by no means so +cheerful as I should have wished to see him. By his side there was a +little French girl, the one whom he wrote about last week, and a more +beautiful creature the Lord never created. + +This, I confess, was some surprise to me. I am very well acquainted +with the ladies of Paris, and had made a picture of this particular +lady for myself. Clara, I was as far from the truth as Dublin from +Cork. This is a face that the man Greuze should have painted. And oh, +the airs and graces of her, the little winning ways, and the dignity! +He tells me that she came from the circus; but if he were not on his +back I’d call him a liar. Mimi the Simpleton for sure--why, she has +the sense of twenty in her head, and ’tis your own Paddy who grows red +in the face every time he argues with her. + +Well, the child sprang up upon my entrance, and stood there glaring at +me like a wild cat out of the shows. What French I remember leads me +to the belief that her observations were neither flattering to my +appearance nor my manner--but, God forgive me, I may have +mistranslated it. As for Harry, he just stirred in his sleep and told +me to go away, which so tickled me that I laughed like a boy at the +pantomime. + +“Go away!” says I, “Then ’tis yourself that must be putting me out, +for no other man in Paris can do it.” + +“Why,” says he, “if it isn’t old Paddy.” + +“My boy,” cried I, “my friend--the only one that ever I shall love in +all this world--oh, God forgive you, Harry, for this,” says I. + +“Paddy,” says he, “I thought you were a journalist. They’ve been here +all day, Paddy.” + +“Show me the man that will come here when I am by, and I will tell you +where to bury him.” + +“The old Paddy, every bit of him. Spoiling for a fight, as ever he +was.” + +“There is no more peaceable man in Paris,” says I; “but lucky that +your Captain has gone to the wilds! I’d have shot him, Harry, though +the Parliament itself had been there to prevent me.” + +He laughed again at this, but I saw that he was in pain, or, to be +honest, the little Greuze girl did that same for me, and spoke words +of which I was content to be hearing poorly. ’Tis plain she worships +the ground he treads upon, though there is not much of that same just +now--while as for the boy himself, if there’s any woman in Europe he +cares a button about, ask Paddy O’Connell to drink cold water, and see +that he gets it. + +“Why do you come here? Why do you make this noise?” she asked me--oh, +the impudence of it!--with her pretty eyes blazing like coals and her +cheeks so crimson that a Bishop might have kissed them. “Are you his +friend to do this? Oh, be ashamed of yourself,” says she, “and go away +immediately.” + +’Twas a just rebuke, Clara, and Paddy not the man to be minding it. +Presently, when I had done penance before her, she permitted me to sit +in a chair at the bedside; and, every time I opened my mouth to speak, +she looked so tremendous that I gulped down my words and ate them for +very shame. By and by the doctor came in and asked Harry if I had been +talking, and “never a word” says I, which was the truth to be sure. + +I should tell you that Harry was shot on the collar-bone, and devil a +shirt will he be putting on for a long while to come. ’Tis precious +hard luck, for he was leaving for England next week to get his living +as the Will wants him to do. What’s to come of it all now, God only +knows. If he’s not making five hundred a year by his own exertions +this time next year, he’ll lose his fortune, and that weedy old hack +of a curate in Suffolk come in for the whole of it but a paltry +hundred pounds a year. This must be talked over between us hereafter. +To-day, when the doctor was gone, and the little witch with the pretty +face sent out to do some shopping for him, he told me the story of the +fight, and sorry I am that Paddy O’Connell missed that entertainment. +For it was a fine affair entirely. + +“Why did you go out with the man?” I asked him. + +He answered me as shortly: + +“Curiosity, Paddy.” + +“The cause of half the mischief in the world. Was the woman sorry +about it?” + +“The beautiful Lea? Oh, my dear Paddy, she went to church to pray that +I might shoot him.” + +“There was nothing between you--your solemn word, Harry?” + +“Paddy, am I the man----” + +“I’d like to meet the one who’d tell me that you were.” + +“I have done everything that men do in Paris--why should I have missed +this, Paddy?” + +“Ye were not the man to miss it. Show me the one who says so, and I’m +ready for him.” + +“I wanted to understand why people laugh at what they call an affair +of honour. They all do laugh in England, and yet there are worse ways +of putting a bit upon men’s tongues. When I chose pistols I hardly +knew what I was doing. But I said it and had to stick to it, Paddy.” + +“Of course, ye did. Ye weren’t afraid of him, Harry.” + +“Not as you would understand it--upon my word, no. But a man who has +been up all night in a reeking café, and then sees the sun rise over +Belleville and remembers an appointment for six o’clock in a garden +near Auteuil, that man would be a liar to say he liked it. There was +one mortal hour, Paddy, when I would have given half my fortune to +know what was going to happen. I remember thinking that most +Englishmen would have pooh-poohed the whole affair and fallen back +upon the national cant about scruples. Blame old Villefort, who dosed +me with half the filth they keep at the Taverne Royale--and that old +beggar, Oleander, who drank enough brandy to poison a regiment on the +score of it. + +“We came down from the Butte singing ‘Brunette aux Yeux Doux’ with all +our lungs. I sha’n’t tell you a lie and say that I thought Paris +looked beautiful, or anything of the kind, for it just isn’t, Paddy. +Everything seemed as cold as a November fog. The sun shone +sardonically--I remember seeing maids about the doors of the houses, +and envying them their occupation. A cabby who chaffed us was little +better than an irritating blackguard, who should have been whipped. + +“When we arrived at Count Louvier’s house--you know we fought in his +garden--I remember hearing the bell ring about five hundred times +before they let us in. If anyone had spoken, if someone had made a +joke, I would have been grateful to him then, Paddy--but we just +entered the hall of the house in silence, walked straight through to +the garden, went on down toward the river, and took up our positions +on the borders of a little thicket of fir, without as much as a +monosyllable from any one of them. I didn’t like that--you wouldn’t +have liked it yourself, Paddy.” + +“Ye should have whistled an air,” said I, “laughed and joked yourself. +That puts the iron into them. I remember that I was whistling +‘Finnigan’s Wake’ when I knocked down Peter Morley, that had me up at +the police-court afterwards. Ye should have whistled, Harry!” + +He smiled at the idea of it, and for some while he would not talk +again. When he had rested himself and taken a drink of the stuff the +doctor man gave him--God send me good whisky in such a plight!--he +told me the rest of it. + +“They put a pistol into my hand, Paddy, and it felt just like an iron +bar. When I saw d’Alençon I wasn’t angry with him, but the devil on +two sticks could not have cut an uglier figure than he did. The man +was shooting fire already from his eyes--he couldn’t stand still a +minute, was here and there and everywhere, but always turning back to +look at me, as though he would tear my heart out----” + +“Ye weren’t behind in that, Harry?” asks I. “Ye didn’t wish him the +top of the morning, or anything of that kind?” + +“No, Paddy--but I was sorry to see him so angry. I had done him no +injury--what he has suffered--for I know Lea’s story--is in a measure, +his own fault. Perhaps I had been wiser never to see her at all--I +used to swear I would cut it every time I left her. If Paris were not +the smallest city in the world when you want to avoid anybody, I would +have kept my word. But I think she used to wait for me--hide where she +knew I would come, and make a fool of herself all the time. That’s why +the Captain looked like a human devil when he stood opposite to me +that morning. If he hadn’t hit me with his bullet, I believe he would +have used the butt.” + +“Ay, and a man’s game, too, Harry. ’Tis one I would have had a hand in +myself--but you shouldn’t have missed him, boy--you used to be handy +with a pistol, and you shouldn’t have missed him.” + +He sighed a bit at this, and I saw that I had wounded his vanity. +Presently he said:-- + +“I could have shot him dead, Paddy, if I had wished--but, you see, I +had Lea in my mind all the while, and I couldn’t be angry about it. It +is difficult to make you understand it, but when the Chevalier placed +us on the ground and put the pistol into my hand, I was half afraid to +look at my man at all, his eyes were so queer. I could think of +nothing else, Paddy. I didn’t remember that he might hit me; I forgot +the man altogether; the fight was between me and the ugliest pair of +eyes I have ever seen. When the word came to fire, I turned very +slowly and raised my pistol with a child’s arm--I couldn’t look the +Captain in the face, Paddy.” + +“And ye didn’t try to hit him at all, Harry? Will ye tell me that ye +let the blackguard go empty?” + +“I fired when the Chevalier spoke, but I took no aim, Paddy. The +Captain hung back and looked at me for some minutes before he shot me. +I remember that there is a little wall running at an angle behind the +corner of the wood, and over this I could see the river and a barge. A +woman was steering a great lumber boat, and crying out something to a +man on the towing path--and I kept asking myself when she would +disappear from my sight; if it would be instantly in a sudden +darkness; or slowly, as a picture fades from a sheet. When the crash +came it was just as though a man had hit me with a hammer and then put +a branding iron upon my shoulder. I forgot all about d’Alençon’s +trouble then, and if I had held another pistol in my hand I would have +shot him, rule or no rule. That’s the truth, Paddy; the pain maddened +me--I could have crushed his head in my hands, stamped him under +foot--I no longer cared--I was sorry that there had been no reason for +his challenge.” + +“Shame on you for that. Please God, I’ll shoot him before the week is +out.” + +“No, no, Paddy--I absolutely forbid you to do anything at all.” + +“I tell ye I’ll shoot him--right or wrong, I’ll have a bang at him.” + +He laughed--just the same boyish Harry Gastonard that won my love +twelve years ago at Charterhouse. + +“He’ll choose swords if you challenge him, Paddy.” + +“Then let him choose ’em and be hanged to him.” + +He was about to reply when the little witch that Greuze should have +painted came into the room again--and God forgive me, I told her that +he had not opened his lips since she went out. It was now almost time +for him to have his food--so I went up to my own room to write this +letter. + +Be easy, Clara. The Captain is not in Paris, and there’ll be no +fighting--unless he should return--but of that you shall be the first +to have the news. + +Would my sister have me stand by when my oldest friend is on his back +and the whole French nation dancing for joy of it? + +I’ll do no such thing--shame upon any O’Connell who would. So God +bless you, Clara--and more will I write when next I have a letter for +you.--Your affectionate brother, + + Paddy. + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + + [Being a further instalment of the Story from the pen of Paddy + O’Connell.] + + Hôtel St. Paul, Paris, + June 30th, 1905. + +Dear Clara,--I address this to you from the Hôtel St. Paul, but I +would have you to know that I am these two days at Poissy, which is a +riverside hamlet at the gates of Paris. Harry is here with me, looking +all his old self, and the little witch of a Greuze girl. We fish all +day and catch nothing, and at night we listen to the singing when +there is any. But, oh, my dear Clara, ’tis the oddest folk in the +world which comes to this place, and no people for the back +drawing-room at all. But that is between you and me, and need not be +told to our neighbours at Glendalough. + +Ye should know that the Seine winds about Paris, and is here a pretty +river enough, with a bit of a feathery island and an inn, to which the +Bohemians come when they are not playing at the theatres. Such a +company they are! The prettiest women of Paris, dressed in collars and +straw hats (and not always so much as that upon them), and the +drollest figures of men that I ever clapped eyes upon. They spend the +mornings upon the river bank or in their barges, fishing for gudgeons +which they do not catch; but in the afternoons they go off to make +love in the woods, and come back as brazen as the colleens from a +fair. In the evenings we have dinner and music; and pretty enough it +is to sit out in the moonlight and listen to these merry nightingales +when they are in the mood to amuse us. + +This is the outside of the platter, Clara; but the inside is not so +pleasing by a long way. For one thing, I have discovered that the +little simpleton Mimi is head over ears in love with my friend Harry, +and he is not far short of that with her. And if this was not the +worst of it, what should happen but that he had a visit last night +from the very last person in Paris who ought to be seen with him, and +she none other than the Captain’s wife, Lea d’Alençon. + +Oh, ’tis a pretty business entirely, and enough to drive a sane man +silly. I had believed that he was done with Madame Lea for good (as he +ought to be, for her folly has got him into trouble enough). The weeks +that have passed since the duel have hardly brought her name up +betwixt us. I said that she was back with her husband, who would learn +to treat her better; when what should happen but that she turns up at +dusk last night, in a fine automobile with a nigger man driving, and +is closeted a full hour with Harry to my certain knowledge. To say +that I was angry is but to express my feelings poorly. You will be my +judge in that. + +It would have been about eight when Lea came. Harry had gone up from +the boat to the hotel, and I was helping Mimi to carry up the tea +things, for we had been for a bit of a picnic, and a merry one, +forsooth. I saw the automobile and a veiled woman getting out of it; +but the child was the first to recognise Lea, and she had no pleasure +of the meeting, you may be sure. + +“That is Madame d’Alençon,” says she, as pale as a little ghost when +she said it. + +“Madame who?” asked I, not wishing to believe it. + +“Madame Lea,” cried she. “How could it be anyone else?” + +“Oh, come,” says I, “there’s more than one Madame whom he knows in +Paris.” + +She stamped her foot, just like a wild beast scenting its prey. + +“You know it is Madame d’Alençon, Mr. Paddy. Why do you not prevent +it?” + +“What! Shall I bundle her into the car and send her back to Paris? +Pretty talk if I did that, my dear.” + +“She has come here to beg money of him, Mr. Paddy. You know she would +not come for anything else.” + +“What!” cried I. “Don’t you think she is in love with him?” + +She laughed at this, long and drolly, the laugh of a woman who is +shaken by a passion she cannot express otherwise. + +“Love--love--oh, what is all this talk of love? Go to her and offer +money, and then come back and speak to me of love.” + +“My dear,” says I, “’tis plain you will never be the friend of Madame +Lea, in spite of what she’s done for you.” + +“Done for me, Mr. Paddy! Oh, yes, yes, yes--she tried to prevent me +seeing Monsieur Henry again. I remember that, and the English pension +where I was to be locked up and treated like a school-girl, that she +might be with him--her lover--while I was away.” + +“Her lover! I’ll not have Harry called that.” + +“It is true, true,” she said, “and I--I am nothing when she is here. +Why did he call himself my friend at all? Why did he take me from the +Fête? I was happy then--yes, happy, Mr. Paddy. Why did he not leave +me where I was?” + +She turned away from me and sobbed just for all the world like a grown +woman who has come upon the supreme sorrow of her life. To be sure, +Clara, I was much taken aback, and hardly knew what to say to her. +Never until this moment had I understood how deeply she loved my +friend, Henry Gastonard; but here was all her love written down in +glittering tears which a child would have understood. No longer did I +doubt the story of her virtue in a society where virtue is never much +more than a jest. All that had happened up at the Butte and afterwards +at the Hôtel St. Paul became as clear as the day. Mimi the Simpleton +was ready to die for the devil-may-care English boy. I had guessed it +before, but to-day I was sure of it. + +“Oh, come,” says I, “’tis hearts that are soon mended when two have +the will to do it--and, see here,” says I, “will ye be leaving him to +the black woman who will ruin him, or take a hand in that affair +yourself? Come up with me to the house now and hear what the lady has +to say. I’ll engage that neither of us will be behindhand in the +civilities--and, Mimi,” says I “’tis your duty to go up.” + +Well, she would not hear me, but went off in a tantrum down again +toward the river and the boat. When I entered the house I discovered +Harry to be closeted with Madame Lea in the little sitting-room upon +the first floor, and far from pleased she was to see me, as you will +imagine. A very beautiful, stately woman, as dark as the shadows upon +a crimson rose and as full of passion as a caged Spaniard. I observed +immediately that she had been telling the old story to my friend +Harry, and with no mean success; for he paced up and down like a wild +beast thinking of the country, and seemed to welcome my intrusion as +though a special providence had sent me to watch over him. + +“You know Madame Lea,” says he, with a wave of his hand toward her. + +“If I know her,” says I--and then, “I’ll take leave to ask a word +after Captain d’Alençon and his health.” + +She laughed at this, saying something in French about “these droll +Irishmen;” but she did not inform me that the Captain was well, and, +be sure, I was over-anxious about him. + +“Is he in Paris, Madame?” I asked her. “’Twould be good news that he +was in Paris.” + +“Monsieur d’Alençon is at Chalons,” says she, blazing up suddenly; +“he has been transferred there at his own request.” + +“Then ’tis to Chalons that you’ll be going presently, Madame?” says I. + +She did not reply to this, while Harry looked as foolish as a man can +look when a woman has put a question to him and he has no mind to +answer it. For my part, I was never more at my ease, and I sat there +watching the fair-haired lad and the grown woman, and thinking that +but for my presence in that same hotel, she would carry him to Paris +with her for pity’s sake. + +“Are you fond of the fishing at Poissy, Madame?” I went on. “’Tis +little that they seem to catch here and a long while in the catching +of it. I have taken one gudgeon this day, and my friend two more--but +you will not have come here for the fishing, perhaps?”--I put it to +her. + +She answered me with a commonplace. Harry appeared to be greatly +troubled while I spoke, and presently he could stand it no longer. + +“Madame d’Alençon is in trouble,” he said, “I am sure you do not +understand that, Paddy.” + +“In trouble?” says I, “then that’s the worst news I’ve heard this day. +Would it be about the Captain’s going to Chalons?” + +“Captain d’Alençon has behaved like a blackguard, Paddy.” + +“I won’t doubt it. Let me meet him soon that I may tell him so.” + +“He has gone to Chalons and left this poor lady almost penniless.” + +“Then let her follow him immediately and see that someone else hears +of it.” + +“She cannot follow him, Paddy. You are talking nonsense. We must put +ourselves in her position and try to help her. I’m sure that there is +not a man in Paris, who would be readier to do so than my friend Paddy +O’Connell.” + +I answered this at once-- + +“If it’s to me that she’s come for advice, why here I am as ready with +it as the best of them. For all that, her coming was an imprudence, +Harry, and she’ll allow me to say that she’d have done better to have +stayed away.” + +I said this in English, for I thought that she had no knowledge of a +Christian’s tongue--but here I must have been mistaken, for she blazed +up immediately, and said aloud that I had insulted her. + +“Who is this man?” she asked him. “Why do you permit him to say these +things? Is he your friend? No; a friend would not insult your friends. +I wish to speak to you alone, Harry--have I not the right to ask +that?” + +“Certainly you have, Lea--Paddy does not mean what he says. He will +understand everything better when I tell him about it afterwards. +Come, Paddy (this to me), now do be reasonable for once, and put your +philosophy in your pocket. I am sure you are very sorry for Madame +d’Alençon.” + +“So sorry,” says I, “that if I could meet the Captain this night, I’d +put him in the river to show the good opinion I have of him.” + +They laughed together at this, and then, to change a subject which was +not by way of being too delicate, Harry spoke of dinner, and the lady +was quick enough to say “yes.” No one in this country does much +without eating or drinking before and after they do it; and a better +ornament for a dinner-table than Lea d’Alençon you would not be +finding anywhere. She is a stately, vivacious lady, living chiefly for +the glory of showing herself to the gentlemen of Paris, and of making +love to such of them as captivate her fancy. Here, at this little inn +at Poissy, she cut a fine figure enough, and sat down to the table as +though she were a queen of a mountain kingdom come down from the +heights to dine with pigmies below. We sat and listened to her talk as +humble ministers to an acknowledged wit; all of us, that is, but +little Mimi the Simpleton, and she was silent enough but for one or +two words of repartee that by no means discredited her. + +’Twas as good as the leaping at the Horse Show, Clara, to watch the +woman and the child upon opposite sides of that table, and to see the +love that went flying between them. First, it would be Madame Lea +talking to Harry with the grand air of the woman who finds herself in +the nursery; then my little Mimi making such a grimace behind the +lady’s back that I must hold to the table with both hands to prevent +the explosion that was within me. When Lea asks her quite affably what +she came to Poissy to catch, Mimi answers as readily, “I came to catch +myself”--and when Madame went on to say “That is a new kind of +amusement”--says Mimi, “You are not too old to learn it.” None the +less, I knew the child was all on fire because Harry talked so much to +the other one, and I was not a bit surprised when she ran away to her +own room directly dinner was done, and refused to come near us for the +rest of the evening. + +This would have been about nine o’clock; Madame left us at a quarter +to eleven when Harry had told her for the twentieth time that he was +not returning to Paris, and that she must go back alone. I saw that +his refusal caused her much chagrin, but I will do him the credit to +say that it was just what I had expected of him. When she was gone, +and we sat together for a last pipe before turning in, he asked me +frankly what were his responsibilities toward this woman, and what he +ought to do for her. + +“The man has left her, you see,” says he; “he has made my friendship +for her the excuse, and gone off with himself to Chalons. None but a +jealous Frenchman would have planned quite such a devilish revenge as +that. He doesn’t divorce her, doesn’t talk of a separation; but he +leaves her in Paris without a sixpence, and then practises the +moralities. Confess, my dear Paddy, that there is something +particularly French and subtle in all this. Lea has been accustomed to +all the luxuries. She is a woman who cannot live without them. Poverty +to her is something beyond the bounds of imagination--a shadow-land +too woeful to contemplate. And now d’Alençon thrusts poverty on her. +He leaves her in a house of glass, whence she can see the pleasures to +which she is accustomed, but is forbidden to take part in them. Two or +three chosen servants are there to spy upon her. What alternative has +such a woman if it be not an alternative of dishonour?” + +“Ye speak truly,” says I, “and yet, if I were asked to name the +biggest fool in Paris to-night, ’twould be this same Captain +d’Alençon. The man cannot see further than the end of his nose, and +that, I am sure, is no famous spectacle. Of course, he has no love for +the woman left, and may be trying to drive her to those devices which +he suspects, but cannot prove. Your own course is clear, Harry--you +may help her if you can help her honourably. But you’ll not see her +again, and you’ll deny yourself because you are a man of honour to +begin with, and a lover in the second place.” + +“A lover, Paddy? What do you mean by that?” + +“Just as much as I say, and not a word more. You are in love with +little Mimi upstairs--I’d cry shame upon you if you were not.” + +He was taken aback at this, and did not answer me for quite a long +while. When he spoke, I knew that I had touched his heart-strings, and +that he would deny it no more. + +“If it’s true, Paddy, what then?” he put it to me. + +“Why,” says I, “you’ll leave for London in three days’ time; get +honourable employment, which will save your fortune, and then come +back to Paris to marry her--she, meanwhile, having been at some good +school to soften the manners of her.” + +“Do you think they want softening, Paddy?” + +“I’m sure of it. Put all this talk of play-actresses and opera singers +out of your head and come down to the truth. Mimi will make you a good +wife… but you’ll have to teach her how.” + +“She’d never stop at any school, Paddy.” + +“Try her and see; and, directly it’s done, go back to London and work +for your living.” + +“Ah,” says he, rising abruptly, “it’s a fine old philosopher come out +of Ireland after all. Well, my boy, I’ll ask Mimi in the morning, and +hear what she has to say about it.” + +“And you’ll not see the other woman again?” + +“Not of my own volition, Paddy… upon my honour, no.” + +“Ah,” says I, “and a fine old friend is that same volition when ye +begin to weigh it up and a pretty woman’s in the balance. But I’ll +take what I can get,” says I, “and be thankful it’s no less.” + +Upon which, Clara, we parted; but how the promise is to be carried +out, or what the future of such a man may be, God only knows. Now, at +the very minute of closing this letter, I learn that Mimi La Godiche +has left the hotel early this morning, and is nowhere to be found. +Such a thing was not wholly unexpected by me; but what it may mean to +my friend Harry Gastonard, I prefer not to think. + +Never was a man in such a state of misery and despair. I can do +nothing for him, say nothing, think of nothing. The child has gone, +and there’s an end of it. But God keep her wherever she may be is the +prayer of, your affectionate brother, + + Paddy. + + + + + CHAPTER X. + + [Henry Gastonard writes to Paddy O’Connell a letter concerning his + search for Mimi the Simpleton.] + + Hôtel St. Paul, Paris, + July 15th, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--The calamity of your sudden departure from Paris is in no +way mitigated by the sad news I have to tell you. Mimi is not found, +nor have I any clue to her whereabouts other than a pitiful little +letter from her, posted three days ago at Raincy, a suburb of Paris, +and evidently a sincere expression of her determination not to return +to me. + +That Lea d’Alençon is at the bottom of it all I have not the smallest +doubt. But there are subsidiary reasons, and one of them your own +frankness before Mimi concerning my fortune and my future. The idea +has come to her that I am lost if I remain in Paris. She is madly +jealous of the other woman, and would have me leave France that I may +also be quit of the fascinating Lea. Such is the truth, Paddy; such is +the naïve confession of one whom few would credit with so sure an +instinct or so faithful an affection. + +Meanwhile, as I need not tell you, who stood by me during the dark of +the day, that my efforts to find her and to bring her back are +unceasing, and pursued with all the advantage my fortune can bestow. +Recently I revisited the old haunts at Neuilly, which we re-discovered +together before your sister’s unfortunate illness recalled you from +Paris. The quest of the lion-tamer, this horrible monster of a +Cassadore, was rewarded with success some days ago, when I found him +in a booth at Conflans, and was immediately admitted to his august +presence. But he knows nothing of Mimi, nor is it reasonable to +suppose that even her resolution would carry her again to scenes so +reminiscent of the phantoms of her childhood. + +I say that he knows nothing of Mimi, but this is not to believe that +he would not hear of her gladly, and press her joyfully to his grimy +bosom if any opportunity occurred. A truly heroic figure, vast and +proud and formidable, I found him in a wooden shed behind a crazy +circus, taking a _plat du jour_ of black bread and ancient beef, and +making frequent applications to a green bottle which contained an +unknown but, I doubt not, potent liquor. Upon either side were lions, +which so delight the simple people of the fêtes and fairs about +Paris. They were shut off from the passage in which he sat by huge +beams of timber; but these stood so wide apart that a paw could pass +at half a dozen places--and you, Paddy, will understand how much I +enjoyed that interview. For there were lions at the front of me and +lions at the back of me, and, although some of them seemed half +asleep, there were others very wide awake indeed, and so playful that +I wonder I came away with any flesh upon my bones at all. + +We spoke between the roaring--no pleasant sound at any time, and +doubly fearful when you have a lion within a foot of you. I found +Cassadore quite frank, both about Mimi and his business. The lions, he +admitted, were half-drugged when he put them through their paces. It +was true that the great African brute Salambo had eaten his keeper, +“Sammy,” when he, Cassadore, was away in Paris; but, after all, you +cannot make Christians of lions by burning them with red-hot irons, +nor was the “Sammy” aforesaid quite sober when he entered the cage. In +a voice resounding with dramatic tones, the man described how he had +returned to find his servant eaten to the very neck--“mais, monsieur, +the eyes were wide open and staring, and the head was untouched.” + +Of Mimi the fellow told me much. He had bought her of an old woman at +Orleans. There was no other word for it. He saw the child capering +before a dirty home, and was struck by the readiness and the wit with +which she answered his questions. Assuming her to be a waif and stray +entrusted by callous parents to a mercenary hag, he made a bargain on +the spot, and took Mimi away with him. His further assurance that he +loved her as his own daughter, uttered between lengthy draughts from a +capacious bottle, carried less conviction than his story. He had, so +he said, spent large sums upon her education, and taught her himself +those charming accomplishments which she displayed at the many fêtes +her presence graced. Having in turn sold her to me (for it came to +that), he asked if I thought he had no sense of honour, no finer +feeling than to play the part of a mean kidnapper, taking young women +from respectable homes? This I answered immediately in the +negative--for who would contradict a showman with half a dozen lions +at his back! + +Admit, my dear Paddy, that this quest is not a little pitiful, when +you remember the object of it. Consider what my acquaintances would +say of me if they heard that my latest occupation is to search the +booths about Paris for a child who was capering with a tambourine a +few months ago, and may now be returned to that employment. With these +I myself should not argue. There is a day in every man’s life when he +must stand outside the world’s conventions, break with all common +tradition, and write the page of action for himself. Such a day is +mine--I am indifferent to all else but its issue. + +This spirit, my dear Paddy, is moving me to employ every agency money +can command for the recovery of little Mimi. I have just engaged the +services of Jules Farman, perhaps the cleverest officer in Paris +to-day, and he is with me in this quest. Our latest call was upon the +old woman Marie, who lives in a cottage upon the great high road +between Blois and Orleans. Here we gleaned but little. The child is +the natural daughter of persons unknown. She was left with a sum of +money, and a “mother’s care”--do not laugh, Paddy--was bestowed upon +her. Farman assured me that this hag would not help us, but on the day +following our return to Paris, he carried me suddenly to the suburb of +Raincy and declared that he had a clue. Mimi was travelling with a +rascally showman named Gondré. A hundred franc note would buy her +freedom--that freedom I would have paid not a hundred but ten thousand +francs to ensure. + +We left for Raincy early in the afternoon and visited the show as any +bumpkins ready to gape at aged Pantaloon, or to lay our offerings at +the feet of a rouged and battered Columbine. + +The tents were pitched in a clearing of the wood near the +village--half a dozen of them with sorry spavined hacks grazing round +about, and as fine a collection of rascality in charge as all France +could show you. I will not dwell upon the shame with which I +discovered myself seeking the child in these haunts. I am not easily +moved to excitements, Paddy, but when we approached this place and I +told myself that little Mimi had left me for such a life as this, that +I was about to re-discover her and take her to my house--be sure never +to leave it again--then, believe me, I lived one of the truest hours +of life that I have ever known. + +I say that we walked about the grounds as ordinary bumpkins, but, be +sure, our eyes were seeking Mimi everywhere, and the first +disappointments came when we discovered nothing whatever that would +justify Farman’s optimism. The man Gondré proved to be a veritable +clown of the vulgarest kind--a fellow of small physique, mean eyes and +jaded energies. He stood upon the platform of a booth supposed to +contain an angry panther, who shared a dinner with a white-haired +Circassian, and generally displayed tenderness towards her--but when +we paid our money and went in, we discovered the panther to be nothing +more than a German wolf-hound, while the white-haired Circassian was a +lady from the neighbourhood of la Galette, who had resorted with some +success to the potentialities of common washing soda. + +This did not surprise me, but I was disappointed to find that Farman +was well known to these people, and that I had done better to have +gone there alone. True, every door opened at his coming, but the +suspicion remained that these vulgar wits were being played against +his own, and that they understood perfectly well why he had come to +Raincy. + +From this moment I, myself, despaired of finding Mimi at all. Useless +for Farman to tell me that she was hidden somewhere in the +neighbourhood of the fête and that he would not leave without her. I +began to believe that our coming had been anticipated and Mimi +removed. It is true that a gleam of hope came to me after dinner, when +my friend asked me to go with him to a cottage a little way from the +town and did not hesitate to say that Mimi was there. The place proved +to be a tumble-down shanty in the very heart of the wood, a mere cabin +reeking of filthy odours and indescribably damp. Here we found the +fellow Gondré, and with him a handsome girl, sleek and dark-eyed and +of the gipsy blood. They received us civilly, and said that they +believed that the young woman was discovered and would be handed over +to us. I perceived nothing in their demeanour to awaken suspicion, and +for the first time I really dared to believe that Mimi was found. + +Farman, upon his part, took the affair a little cautiously. I think +that he feared something, both from the lonely situation of the house +and the known reputation of those who owned it. + +When Farman and I were left alone in the room, no light but that of a +coal fire in a broken grate, the doors closed, the silence of the wood +all about us, I detected a certain uneasiness, a readiness to set his +chair closer to mine and to feel for his revolver, which were some +comment upon the gallant reputation he bears in Paris. Unable to hold +his tongue, he recited in low tones the story of the man Gondré, his +known share in a recent story of crime, the assassinations, robberies +and assaults of which the law had failed to convict him--and, as +though this were not enough, he began to blame me for seeking Mimi at +all. + +“She has been bred to this life,” he said, “and nothing will wean her +from it. What can you hope--to make her your mistress? Believe me, she +would not live with you a month. Much better to leave her to these +people and return to London. If she goes with you to-night, she will +leave you again. I know her kind--there are ten thousand of them in +Paris, and not an honest one among them. You are risking your money, +perhaps your life, in this quest. Is the girl worth it, whatever her +looks?” + +It was difficult to answer this--for be sure the man had the logic of +the argument. I could not enter upon the discussion of my reasons, +most certainly could not confess to him the whole truth, that I would +sooner have parted with every shilling of my fortune than have +returned to Paris without Mimi. + +Happily the argument terminated before it had begun--I am quoting from +you, Paddy--by the sudden appearance in the room of the man Gondré, +the gipsy girl, and another young woman apparently of some twenty-five +years of age. + +I have told you that there was little light to speak of in this mean +hovel. A reddening fire, a guttering candle, showed me immediately +that the newcomer was not Mistress Mimi, nor did she resemble her in +any way. To be candid, the girl wore an odd and ungainly appearance, +and I had scarcely blurted out an impatient exclamation when Farman +laughed aloud and asked, not altogether to my astonishment, “Why did +you bring that boy here?” Then I perceived the truth--the so-called +girl was a young actor from a neighbouring booth, and he still wore +the clothes in which he had delighted the bumpkins of the country +side. + +“Why do you bring that boy here?” + +“Mais, monsieur, you are insulting us.” + +“Do you wish me to remember your history, Maître Gondré? Now, come, +no nonsense. Produce the child, and we will make it worth your while.” + +The question was direct and demanded an answer. I realised now the +dangers of our situation. These people understood that we had money +upon us to ransom Mimi if she could be found. They were determined +that we should not leave the cabin with that money upon us if any wit +of theirs, or violence, could extort it from us. To this end the young +actor had been called from a neighbouring booth. I had no doubt that +others were being summoned from other booths, and that our position +must soon become desperate. Meanwhile, the fellow Gondré was +protesting by the honour of all his ancestors that we had insulted +him, doing what he could to detain us and showing his hand most +impudently. + +“If this young woman is not the person you seek, I am sorry,” he +rejoined. “It is not my fault, monsieur. Admit that I have been ready +to oblige you. I am sure the young gentleman will wish to recompense +me for my trouble. Is it not so, monsieur--you will be ready to pay us +for what we have done and for any further information we can bring +you? Let that be understood, and I will undertake to find the girl +within a week. But naturally we are too poor to work for nothing.” + +I was about to make an answer to this when Farman stood up and replied +for me. I could see that the situation alarmed him, and that he was +employing all his wits to extricate us from it. Agreeing apparently +with the man Gondré’s contention, he said that he would speak to me +apart and then make them an offer. This, I think, deceived the company +for an instant, and before they had time to debate it, we were +standing outside in the wood and the door behind us was closed. + +“Run!” he said--“run--or, by God, they will murder us!” + +I did not ask him a single question, did not even care to know why a +man armed with such authority as he possessed should be in danger of +his life in such a place as the woods by Raincy. It was very late by +this time, and the thicket about us black, dark, and still. We took a +path at hazard, and, forcing our way through the brushwood would have +reached the town of Raincy itself and the railway station there, but +we had not gone fifty paces before the men were on our track, many +men, as it appeared by their shouting, and quite open in their pursuit +of us. I had a revolver with me, and I need not tell you that Farman +had his, but it became clear to me that these would be of little +service in such a place. When my companion pulled me from the path and +dived into a thicket at the edge of a considerable copse, I would not +have wagered a sovereign upon our chances, nor admitted any but the +seemingly inevitable conclusion to so sorry an adventure. + +We lay in the thicket for a couple of hours, I suppose. If the +ridiculous nature of the proceeding occurred to me, be sure I was not +willing to admit it. A man does many foolish things in the name of +woman, but is not often ready to write about them. And I do believe, +Paddy, that we came as near to being knocked on the head for a few +francs as any two men that ever set out upon a Quixotic errand and +forgot to count the cost of it. + +More than once I perceived the slouching figure of the man Gondré, as +he thrashed the undergrowth and exhorted his brother ruffians to +diligence. The youth who had disguised himself as a girl came into the +very place where we lay, and almost stepped upon Jules Farman. This +was the finest moment of it all, for, had he discovered us, Farman +would have shot him dead and the rest of the gang swarmed into the +copse in a moment. I think he was himself afraid of the darkness and +not unwilling to escape it. When he had gone, a voice from afar called +him to another covert, and we were left alone. + +I should tell you, Paddy, that all this happened at a distance, +perhaps, of a couple of miles from the town. Had we run for it in the +first instance, other showmen would have emerged from other booths and +reinforced the gang, who would have murdered us first and robbed us +afterwards as cheerfully as they would have gone to the tents to +exploit the “white panther” from the Indies. For this reason, and no +other, Jules Farman chose to go to ground, and I could not but admire +his prudence. When the immediate danger appeared to be abated, he led +me through the wood, not toward the town of Raincy itself, but to the +main eastern railway line, and there, by a stroke of good fortune, we +found a “marchandise” or goods train waiting at a signal cabin, and +instantly boarded it and were taken to Paris. It was five in the +morning when I made the Gare de l’Est--an hour later when I reached my +rooms in the Rue St. Paul and flung myself upon my bed as weary and +disappointed a man as any in Paris. + +For now it is clear to me that the quest of this child is vain, and +that she has determined to separate her lot from mine, cost her or me +what it may.--Dear Paddy, yours as ever, + + Harry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XI. + + [Henry Gastonard informs Paddy O’Connell of his probable return to + London.] + + July 21st, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--I have received your letter dated July 18th, but I cannot +say that I have hastened to reply to it. This is very fit and proper, +for who would dare to reply in haste to a document which contains so +formidable an indictment. + +I am going to the devil, you say, and going, in motor parlance, upon +my fourth speed. The writing is upon the wall, but I have no eyes to +read it. A few brief months shall roll and then my inheritance pass to +the amiable parson at Beldon, and I become a beggar upon the +streets--or in the poorhouse, as the case may be. So be it, my dear +Paddy--for what is written is written, nor shall all the tears blot +out a single line. + +Consider the irony of it. I am to earn five hundred pounds a year by +my own labours. The fortune bequeathed to me by my dear father is not +to help that undertaking. Useless for me to go into the city, to +choose a Hebrew at hazard and to say to him, pay me five hundred per +annum and I will lend you twenty thousand. The Will forbids the trick. +The money must be earned by me, by my own labour and industry, or my +cousin must have my fortune. Poor devil, he wants it badly. I have not +the heart to begrudge him a single penny of it. + +But, Paddy, imagine your friend Henry Gastonard upon an office stool +or seeking half commissions in the purlieus of Throgmorton-street! Of +talents I have none. I could not earn a shilling by writing for the +newspapers, or persuade even an enthusiastic friend to set up a bust +of mine in any hall or cellar in Europe. The world has been to me a +pleasant place. I have drunk of the fountains of Bimini and quaffed +draughts of perpetual youth. To dress and drive, to dine, to dance, to +sing, to sleep--behold my curriculum! I can no more imagine life +without its music, its laughter, its love than I can depict the +Châtelet without its Zulema or the Athénée robbed of the art of +Mademoiselle Yalone. If I have lived in Paris among the Bohemians, it +is because they stand to me for the fullest impersonation of the _joie +de vivre_. I may sink to poverty, pass into the shadows of +obscurity--but to the degradation of the servile state, never, dear +Paddy, upon my honour. + +So your letter leaves behind it but the gratitude of a man who bends +to the truth but is obstinate to the fact. I am answering it by a +confession--and one which will not be very welcome to you. Yesterday +I saw our old friend Lea d’Alençon again and spent many hours in her +company. She is to be divorced, I understand, and Paris amused by a +pretty scandal. You know how little this concerns me. You will be very +sure that my meeting with her was accidental and that I forbore to +seek her out of my own volition--even as I promised you. + +Let me say that it began with a wild dinner given at Charine’s by that +mad voluptuary, Willy Martin, the American. I accepted his invitation +because Paris has bored me very much since Mimi went away, and there +are not enough decent people left in the whole city to keep a +reasonable man from suicide. + +We dined in a room set out to represent a cabin in the mountains. +There were back cloths of perpetual snow and cooling glaciers, distant +views of mountain peaks and wonderful pictures of impossible valleys. +The table was supposed to be a bank of the driven snow, above which a +cascade suspended its frozen waters. For partners of the feast, there +were handmaidens in dominoes--beautiful of course, because Willy +Martin declared them to be so. When I drew a paper from the basin and +discovered that my particular lot was to be cast with a green domino +of some magnificence, then I thought of St. Patrick and of you and +declared myself in luck. Alas, Paddy, I had not been two minutes at +the table when, despite her domino and a most excellent disguise, I +discovered that I had the amorous Lea for a companion and that the +drawing was entirely to her satisfaction. + +It is some weeks, as you know, since I have seen this adorable +creature. To judge by her conversation, she has been on the verge of a +decline because of my neglect. Almost her first words destroyed that +fond illusion of her poverty which helped her to win my sympathies +when she visited me at Poissy. + +I no longer believe her story that d’Alençon left her without a +shilling, although it would appear to be true that his patience is +exhausted and that he is about to take a quite unusual step for a +Frenchman, and to divorce her. This, if the tongue of gossip has not +done her an injury (which is possible), he appears to have the right +to do; and yet it is delightful to hear her protesting her innocence +and declaring that all her fault is a love of the light and a positive +aversion from social darkness. + +“I shall go and live in the East,” she said to me in a languorous +outburst, when the dinner was still young. “I must have sunshine and +music, Harry--all the sober things are hateful to me; I could never be +an obedient wife to any man. Of course, I am sorry for my husband. It +is the privilege of a woman to be sorry for the man she cannot love. +He married me--I did not marry him. What child in a convent ever +marries any man, or is to be held responsible for the womanhood which +comes to her afterwards. Marriage to me was a release from routine and +the lives of the Saints. I had learned to hate the Saints; I would +have kissed the feet of any man who closed that dreadful book to me. +And all the world was opening to my eyes, the great world, immense to +the childish imagination as the heavens, and as full of golden stars. +Do you wonder that I leaped for joy when they told me I was to be +married.” + +I had never heard Lea serious before; but I do believe she was serious +upon this occasion. My promise that if she went to the East she would +hear little even of the “tom-tom” in a harem, and find the prophet’s +limitations trying did not move her a hair’s-breadth. Had she not seen +“The Belle of Teheran” as they staged it at the Bouffes, and did not +that glittering spectacle of sequins and seraphs stand to her for the +whole glory of the Asiatic world? + +“You would be one of four, Lea,” I said to her, “an adorable quarter +of a gloomy _ménage_. It is true that you would be permitted to sleep +upon cushions, and to wash your hands in a fountain, but, my dear +lady, consider the _dernier cri_ in turbans, and reflect. There is no +glamour of the East except in the West. Go to the Bouffes when the +floats are dark, and see what the scenery looks like. Does it remind +you of anything on earth which is not the apotheosis of the mean and +the shabby. To me the East stands for a kind of opera comique, which +is to be suffered only by those who view it from afar. I like to read +of pashas and pagodas, of temple bells and little Burmese maidens; but +when I am among them I think of the fleas. You, Lea, would be calling +for sweet scents and a passage home before you had been in the place +twenty-four hours. As for the aged Vizier who owned you, I doubt if he +would have a whisker left in a week. My compassion would go out to +him.” + +Well, Paddy, she refused to see it, and I perceived that for the +moment some wild scheme of romance is in her head, and may lead her to +new extravagances sufficiently wild and sufficiently foolish to +astonish this Paris which loves the bizarre and the daring. She is not +without rich relatives, and, as she told me to-night, there is an +uncle at Marseilles who is always ready to befriend her. Men are +sometimes very gentle toward a woman whose chief enemy is her own +beauty. Lea will find defenders, whatever may be charged against her; +and it would not astonish me in the least to hear that she had become +a queen of the colony at Cairo or a novice among the Benedictine nuns +at Subiacum. Nothing, indeed, would be too outrageous for the changing +dispositions of a woman who has drunk of the cup of satiety, and +already has found it bitter. + +Willy Martin’s dinner came to an end, I should tell you, in a blaze of +glory, which nearly set the restaurant on fire. A nymph, supposed to +be imprisoned in the ice, but really shut up in a glass case, danced +a wild _pas seul_ upon the table, and overturned the candlesticks into +the lap of little Jane Merlot, from the Opera Comique. When her robe +caught fire--and she could ill spare it--the soda water was employed +to extinguish the flames--a bright idea, and one which set this +rollicking company to other notions not less brilliant. From this +moment, a battle of the corks took the place of that polite talk so +dear to our forefathers. + +I found myself at five o’clock of the morning upon the road to +Versailles in a forty-horse car driven by Lecallo, of the Opera. Lea, +in a green domino, soaked to the hems in aerated waters, was at my +side, and heaven alone knew whither we were going! As for Lecallo, he +drove like the devil possessed; and before I had quite realised the +absurdity of the venture, we stood at the door of the Hôtel de +France, at Chartres, and a pretty crowd of early birds were cheering +us to the echo. + +Such, my dear Paddy, was the first stage of an adventure as ludicrous +as it was lamentable. I give you my word that I would have paid a +hundred sovereigns at any moment of it to have been quit of the +predicament and safely back in my own room at the Hôtel St. Paul. +This sum I would have doubled when Lecallo, with intentions of the +loftiest kind, chose to drive his car on to Tours, and left me in the +Hôtel with one green domino and a crushed opera hat. Now, for a +truth, was my own position both perilous and impossible. It became +infinitely worse when Lea, disdaining all other arts, threw herself +upon her genius for romance and suggested an immediate journey to a +desert island where none should discover us. + +“What has Paris done for us?” she asked me dramatically. + +I answered that it had just given us an excellent dinner and a nymph +in a block of ice. + +“Be serious, my dear Harry,” she said; “did you not tell me last night +that you never wished to see Paris again?” + +“Not until the morning, Lea. At night I never wish to see Paris again +until the morning.” + +“Ah, you jest when I am so much in earnest. Take me away, Harry, take +me from all temptation--to the sea, to the woods--anywhere, if I may +forget what has been, and learn to hope.” + +“But, my dear Lea, does a pretty woman ever cease to hope?” + +“She ceases to hope when the man who should be her friend ceases to +remember. I have been telling myself for the last ten days that the +luckiest day of my life was the one which determined my husband to +divorce me. The supreme injustice demands the supreme sacrifice. I am +now going to blot out ten years of my life and start again from my +girlhood. I shall leave Paris, perhaps leave France. As I do not +intend to deceive myself, there will be no part for religion in this +reformation of a soul. I shall live as all the other good women about +me. Reputation will be nothing to me, for I shall have nothing to win +by reputation. Even my name will not betray me, for I shall be Madame +d’Alençon no more. This is my settled resolution. I am waiting to +hear how far you, the oldest of my friends, approve it.” + +This, my dear Paddy, was the astounding confession this romantic woman +now poured into my amazed ears. Whether to take it seriously, or to +believe it to be the natural sequel to a night of frivolity, I know no +more than the dead. + +For the moment I appeared to be confronted by a sudden purpose, and to +become aware of an aftermath to the harvests of folly. Lea, I said, +had wearied at last of all that Paris had to give her. Love, light, +laughter, music--these revolted her, and she would turn from them. It +might be possible that the tongue of slander had wholly maligned her, +and that at heart she was a virtuous woman, seeking something as yet +lacking to her life. Upon this I felt able to pronounce no settled +opinion. Has not old Georges Oleander written that the one riddle man +may never solve is the riddle of a woman’s confidence? + +“What do you want me to do, Lea?” I asked her baldly. “How can I help +this wonderful scheme of yours? Do you suggest that I buy a desert +island and a camping outfit for two? Or shall it be a caravan and a +month in the forests of Amboise? You have only to say the word.” + +Well, this pleased her immensely. She clapped her hands at the novelty +of the idea, and I could see that the “reformation of the soul” had +gone to the wall for the time being, at any rate. + +“I should like nothing so well,” she said. “A caravan in the +forest--how absolutely delightful. Did not the Chevalier Leblanc have +one last year? You remember--it was in all the papers. A motor +caravan--a little bedroom, a salon, and a kitchen behind it. My dear +Harry, you could not suggest anything I would like half so well. Let +us go back to Paris immediately, that I may order my dresses.” + +“But, Lea, I don’t happen to own a caravan, and it would take some +months to build one. Besides, I made no promise to go with +you--certainly not alone.” + +She looked at me amazed. Here was a thing that Lea d’Alençon could +not for a moment understand. + +“My dear Harry, what do you mean? Shall we take a _sergent de ville_ +with us, then?” + +“But, Lea, consider our reputations. I grant you that this appearance +at Chartres is little to our credit, but, at the worst, we can blame +the car. I don’t think your friends would accept a similar excuse in +the case of a caravan. We could not say that we burst a tyre and were +detained for a whole month in the Forest of Amboise.” + +She was much piqued. Of course, she did not take my words literally, +but they were understood in some way as an anticipation of all she had +been leading up to, and a ready repudiation of it. Her reply intimated +this in plain terms, and also was very far from that flippant response +I had expected. + +“Are my friends’ opinions anything to me, Harry? Will they be anything +when I am a divorced woman? Is it really of no concern to you +whatever, what happens to me afterwards? I do not believe it. Honour +gives a woman claims which love may deny to her. Are you insensible to +them?” + +“You know that I am not, Lea. My friendship for you would do much, but +it would not do it upon a false compulsion of honour. The story of +your life is your own. It would be no kindness to make it mine, nor +should I permit you to do so.” + +“You have never loved me, Harry.” + +“I have often said so, Lea.” + +“Then why do you not go away from me?” + +“Perhaps I shall take you at your word--in a caravan.” + +She laughed a little angrily. I could see that she was greatly +chagrined by our brief talk, but by no means ready to accept it as +final. + +“Would you leave me without a friend in Paris, Harry--must I think +that of you?” + +“You know me better than to think it, Lea.” + +“But you are telling me that you mean to go?” + +“I am answering you as you asked to be answered.” + +“And that is the man--always--always--when the flower is cut from the +tree, it is already a dead flower to him.” + +“Not always, Lea. I have known him to keep it quite a long time--in a +book. But, of course, the particular man was very young. Now, here is +our breakfast coming. Is not that a subject more agreeable to you?” + +She shook her head, and would not admit the fact. The repast was the +dullest I have ever shared with the stately Lea, and even the purchase +of a respectable frock--the best that the city of Chartres could +discover--did not allay her gloom. In truth, my dear Paddy, she has +determined to marry me when her husband divorces her, and is dismayed +to discover that I am not as determined to marry her. For my part, I +know not what to think, and I am wondering if honour may not have +something to say to me after all. Certain it is that her husband’s +jealousy chose me before others for its subject, and chose me without +a shred of justice or reason. They say in Paris that there would have +been a reconciliation but for that mad journey of hers to Poissy and +the inn. You know how little I was responsible for that--you do not +need to be reminded of its circumstances. + +All that has happened to Lea d’Alençon has been of her own seeking. +For this reason my mood impels me to decline to respond to her +sentiment or to be deceived by it. Nor am I yet wholly convinced that +it is real. When we returned to Paris to-night, Lecallo having called +for us unexpectedly at five o’clock of the afternoon, the first decent +person we met, upon quitting the Bois de Boulogne, was the Count of +Marcy, just returned from Dieppe, and upon his way to the Engadine. He +greeted Lea rapturously, and immediately spoke of a little dinner at +the Ritz, and of another couple who were to dine there with him. She +accepted the invitation instantly, and quitted me to go and dress. It +is true that I promised to meet her to-morrow and to give her a “man’s +opinion” upon the whole situation; but that promise will not be +fulfilled. And it will not be fulfilled, Paddy, because Farman has +just brought me the precious news that Mimi has been traced to England +and is now engaged with a troupe of ragamuffins playing in the barns +and booths of my own country. + +So I go to London immediately. The decision is irrevocable. And it may +be that I have seen Lea d’Alençon for the last time. + +I will not say I wish it so, for I have called her my friend; but the +event might be better in the end for her and for--Yours in great good +hope, + + Harry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XII. + + [Henry Gastonard tells of a visit to his cousin, the Rev. Arthur + Warrington, at Lowestoft.] + + Hotel Metropole, Lowestoft, + July 31st, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--The late Douglas Jerrold remarked that he doted upon the +sea--from the beach. It seemed yesterday that the sea doted upon me +when it rolled me like a barrel in my bunk and moved me to appeal to +high heaven for immediate annihilation. The passage across was about +as dirty as a Channel passage can be--and that, as you know, you who +are fond of singing the glories of the deep (when you are on shore) is +a shade which blackest night cannot surpass. + +I made no stay in London save to dine and to sleep at the Carlton. The +hansom which drove me across Trafalgar Square showed me no amazing +novelty, nor was I long enough in the city to find the place much +changed. It is true that there is now a fine bit of life and colour +where once the dingy old Pavilion stood--for I visited the new +building after dinner--and Leicester Square seems less shabby than +formerly; but a man who comes over from Paris is rarely amazed by +anything that London can show him, and admits her later day claims +reluctantly. In one matter alone do I find a real advance, and that is +the newer hotels, which, I venture to think, are just about as good as +any in Europe. + +You did not answer my last letter--possibly because of your +indignation; it may be because of your want of interest. A man who is +playing golf by the seashore (for I am convinced you are there) cares +little for the fact that his neighbour is in a bunker, and less for +the means by which he may extract himself therefrom. Nor do I expect +the Paddy of old time to be changed very much from that Hector who has +washed his hands of me upon more than one occasion, and is quite ready +to do so again when my letters have made him angry enough. You think +that I am playing a fool’s game, Paddy, and your silence bears witness +to the fact. So be it--until we gather scalps together at Portmarnock, +and I play you for your boots, which, most likely, are unpaid for. + +You should know that Jules Farman’s information sent me to London, and +from London pell-mell to the East Coast of England, where I am to find +Mimi the Simpleton among a company of clowns, and to withdraw her +immediately from that humorous if unwashed society. If Farman is to be +believed, the girl left us deliberately at Poissy, met an old comrade +of the Fêtes upon the outskirts of Paris, joined his troupe +immediately; and having acquired the distinction of dancing a Spanish +dance which is not Spanish, and of playing upon a guitar which is no +guitar at all, set out with certain vagrants of the city to amuse the +desperadoes of the outskirts and their obliging families. + +This company appears to have prospered for a little while, and then to +have been drowned, partly by drink and partly by the winds of +adversity. It broke up at Rheims, sent straggling members on to +Brussels, there fell in with an Englishman of enterprise, was +re-organised by him and wafted over to our native country where upon +the sandy shore or the less accommodating shingle it amuses the +prosperous of suburbia and bears witness once more to the smallness of +this terrestrial globe and the fertile resource of its inhabitants. + +Admit with me, my dear Paddy, that there is something wonderfully fine +in this superb independence. Reflect upon the homes you know, the +motherhood there, the gregarious instincts of childhood, the bonds +binding even the most wretched--do this, and then put side by side +with it the life and actions of such a child as Mimi the Simpleton. +She has not known a home these many years. She cannot have the +remotest idea of the meaning of motherhood. The streets of a city have +taught her the great lessons of self-reliance and of self-help. She is +not afraid to be alone. All the terrors which inflict the man of +substance, bills payable and bills due, the rise or fall of values, +doubts concerning the future, the perils of ambition, the bitterness +of loss, these have no meaning for Mimi the Simpleton. Let the sun +shine and she will laugh. Give her bread and coffee and she has the +riches of Crœsus. Take her to a café, where the lights dance and the +fiddles are busy, and you are opening to her the floodgates of +Paradise. Fortune is powerless against armour such as this. What +matters it if the bread be lacking to-day--will not to-morrow be more +generous? Who shall complain that the sun sets in a cloud, when he +will rise in splendour at dawn? + +You may ask me, Paddy, how it comes to be, if this be Mimi’s creed of +life, that I would intrude upon it with a more exacting philosophy or +a friendship that is critical? I shall not attempt to answer these +questions. I am drawn to this child, I know not by what spell. It is +not love, as men commonly employ that word. I do not seek, be sure of +it, to put shame upon her, or to ask her to be the instrument of +passion. But she has become necessary to my life. The vagrancy of the +years has brought me to this, that there is just one other vagrant +upon the road with whom I would share the wigwam, just one other +little comrade who must help me to light the camp fire and to watch by +it when the sun has set. To this end I am pursuing Mimi upon this +Eastern strand. To this selfish purpose I am about to command that she +shall cast off the Spaniards and remember the lessons of yesterday. +She may refuse or she may consent--but I shall pursue the issue if +necessary through the years. + +Accompany me, then, to this “gay” resort; follow me to the sandy shore +of Lowestoft; but particularly, my dear Paddy, to the temporary home +of my cousin, Arthur Warrington, who is here as a _locum tenens_, and +has already fascinated a large number of females and a smaller (a much +smaller) number of pious males. Arthur, I must admit, was not as +pleased as he might have been to see me. The exclamation that he +uttered was not altogether ecclesiastical, nor do I choose to remember +it; but it did not imply welcome, not as you and I understand the +word. When he had recovered the shock, he confessed to me that he +believed me to be dying in Paris, and was naturally much relieved to +find that his alarms were groundless. + +“I think you wrote me to that effect, Arthur,” said I. “If I did not +reply to your letter, pray forgive me.” + +“Oh,” says he, blushing to the roots of his beautiful auburn hair, “I +do not think that I wrote, Henry--I had not your address--but we were +both distressed, greatly distressed, I will say.” + +“Well,” said I, “you seem to have been worrying, Arthur--but say no +more about it; for here I am as sound as a smacksman and as hungry. +What’s more, I have come to stop with you for a week or two if you +will have me, which, if I remember your invitations correctly, is a +pleasure you have been looking forward to for a long time. Now, isn’t +it, Arthur? or am I mistaken?” + +Well, he stammered and stuttered again, and was in the middle of a +parable about the green room and the pink room, when in comes cousin +Martha, who is one of the jolliest little women in Suffolk and as +clever a flirt as ever was yoked to a parson’s cassock. Be sure Martha +had her lord and master down in a minute and was trampling upon him in +two. What! to turn their own flesh and blood into the streets--who +ever heard of such a thing! Of course I must stay with them. And +wouldn’t I be useful, too! She thought of that in a minute. + +“Don’t you know we’re to have a Pageant here,” says she, “of course +you paj, Henry?” + +“Of course,” said I, “anything that you tell me to do is done +immediately, Martha. Shall we paj now or await a more solitary +occasion?” + +She expressed some confusion at this, and hastened to explain that +they were about to have a Pageant at Lowestoft in which they would +celebrate the early arrival of the Danes in England and the glorious +victories of Queen Boadicea. There were to be real Norsemen and real +ships--to say nothing of bloody fights on the foreshore and the +gathering of the clans upon such heights as this land of marsh and +marigolds can command. + +“Arthur is to be a monk,” says she. “Of course he will be a Protestant +monk, but he will wear sandals and shave his hair. I am to play a +British maiden, Harry. I shall wear a bearskin upon my shoulders and +dye my hair red--now don’t you think it will look beautiful?” + +I assured her that nothing could be finer; and “as for the reputation +of the late Mrs. Astley of glorious memory, whose hair was to be +wrapped about her feet whenever she stooped to the earth to do it, +that,” said I, “is already perished.” + +This flattery was by no means unwelcome to cousin Martha. She told me +that they were having great trouble with the townsfolk, who had +entered into the fray almost with too much spirit--especially a local +vendor of wines, who wanted to play a modern monk Roger and to roll +kegs of beer down the hills to the sea. There were many candidates, I +discovered, for the maidens’ parts, especially such maidens as were to +be carried in the arms of the barbarians. Not less popular was the +office of Druid, who would cut the mistletoe provided by the Army and +Navy Stores and generally conduct the sacred rites as tradition and +Christmas have sanctioned them. + +“And what do you do, Arthur?” I asked the parson, “and what, if you +please, is a Protestant monk? Forgive the ignorance which remembers so +little history. Of course it is a showy part, or they would not have +asked you to play it. You were always a bit of an actor, weren’t you, +cousin? Don’t you remember when you came out to us at Bordeaux, that +little Mademoiselle Charcot who----” + +He exclaimed, “Hush, hush!”--it is astonishing how rarely a cleric is +tolerant of reminiscences--and when my cousin little Martha implored +me to tell her the whole story, Arthur silenced her immediately by an +answer to my previous question. + +“A Protestant monk is one who carried the evangels before the days of +the Papacy----” + +“Then against what did he protest, Arthur?” + +“Against the pagan intolerance of his day--just as we protest in our +own time against the pagan intolerance of the social world. I intend +to show the people that their vices are not changed from those of +fifteen hundred years ago----” + +“What a lively business. Do you have a band?” + +“It is not seemly to jest upon such a subject, Henry.” + +“Oh, I know it--pray forgive me. Of course you are quite right. The +old gods are far from done with yet. Venus, I think, still gets an +engagement occasionally, and Janus is often looked in the face by the +morning papers. I admit that there is still something to be said for +bearskins, while caves should be a godsend to the man who has just +come down from Carey-street. Why don’t some of you parsons set us an +example? Sell that thou hast--especially your brewery shares, +Arthur--and live in a cave. I’ll bet you what you like that cousin +Martha in a bearskin would fill your church every Sunday though half +the bishops in England were at the shop opposite.” + +“The shop, Henry! Has Paris taught you to call a church a shop?” + +“In Paris, my dear Arthur, there are no monks. The Government has done +the protesting.” + +“For the good of France, undoubtedly. The pure religion.” + +“Your religion, Arthur--but look here, I’m not out for a theological +argument. Let us talk of the Pageant. What does Martha suggest that I +should play?” + +“Would you like to be a knight in armour, Harry, and buy your own +armour?” + +“That’s a generous proposal, Martha. Did knights in armour come over +with the Danes?” + +“Oh, dear, no--I had forgotten that. Suppose you were a Norseman with +beautiful long hair----” + +“To match yours, Martha? Arthur wouldn’t like that.” + +“But a Norseman was such a splendid creature. You would have to speak +in a guttural voice, Harry, and carry a scimitar.” + +“It sounds well, Martha; but I should prefer the cellarer’s part. I +could look after the wine vats very well. If that’s not it, how would +you like me to play Henry the Eighth on the Field of the Cloth of +Gold? I could get the costumes from Fox’s; and I tell you what, if you +want any humour, I’ll drive on to the course in my motor car.” + +Arthur raised his eyes to heaven at this, while Martha seemed not a +little affronted. They were both very serious about this business, +poor dears, and not a little concerned for its success. To pacify +them, I fell in with the Norseman idea, and then sat down to tea. + +You can have no idea, Paddy, of the meaning of these pageants to +country towns, or of the enthusiasm they excite. People are in and out +of this house every ten minutes to consult the “Master.” Young girls, +who would have blushed to show their ankles yesterday, are popping +themselves in skins and sandals with the glee of children. There is an +eloquent Free Church Minister staying here who preaches twice every +quarter against the theatre, and is now about to appear as a Druid +priest with a sickle. He rehearses his part like any actor at the +Haymarket. Frivolity is immediately resented. When I suggested that a +fleet of motor-boats should bring the Norseman to the shore, just to +contrast the old ideas with the new, shocked looks met me, and an open +protest. The most trivial mistake costs its maker a reproof. I have +just heard Arthur deliver a sound rating to a wretched tailor who +thought that a Dane might very well carry a musket, and produced one +left to him by his great-grandfather. The majesty of the Pageant +brooks no levity. + +It will be apparent to you that I had little opportunity for any +really private talk with my beloved cousin during these first days of +my arrival, nor does there appear any possibility of my finding one +until this mummery is over. For that matter, I am very doubtful of the +utility of such a proceeding, nor do I think that I shall profit by +it. A sportsman would consent to my plan immediately; but Arthur is +not a sportsman. I shall propose to him that we divide the +inheritance, and have done with it; but I know from the outset he will +find some shifty plea upon which he may excuse himself. If he does, I +am what the world calls a ruined man--which is to say, Paddy, that I +must work for my bread like any other decent fellow, and not complain +if the loaf is yesterday’s. + +Sometimes I admit that the change will be stupendous. I have wanted +for nothing, as you know, since I was a little child. My poor father +indulged me in every way, so that now, at the mature age of +twenty-four, I am as blasé as many a man of forty. All that any sane +bachelor can need is to be purchased by seven thousand pounds a year. +I can run a motor-car, keep a small sailing yacht, hire a shoot, +travel. I need no house, for the finest hotels are open to me, with +all their luxuries. From that to abject poverty is to be a swift +descent. Paddy, I shall have a subsistence, but nothing more. The rest +will go to dear cousin Arthur--to the glory of God and the purchase of +a manor-house he has his eye upon. + +Meanwhile, there is always Mimi. Would she come to me, I wonder, if I +were poor? It might be so; in which case one of the Beatitudes would +again be justified, and Harry Gastonard awakened in an instant from +his lethargy. I shall ask her this question when I find her--to-night +or to-morrow, as the case may be, Paddy. + +Meanwhile, waft me your blessing across the emerald seas, and find me, +as always, Your friend, + + Harry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII. + + [The Reverend Arthur Warrington writes in all haste to his Solicitor, + Mr. James Frogg, of Serjeant’s Inn, Strand.] + + St. Philip’s, Lowestoft, + Feast of St. Alphonsus. + +James Frogg, Esq. + +Dear Mr. Frogg,--I am writing in much haste to inform you that my +cousin, Henry Gastonard, has returned from Paris, and has had the +effrontery to come here. + +I trust I am not lacking in charity, nor harder than my fellows, but +the life this young man has led in Paris makes him no fit companion +for my wife, who, I regret to say, appears to have taken a fancy to +him, and insists upon his remaining with us. + +I write, therefore, to ask you if this will imperil in any way my +hopes under the will of Martha’s uncle; are we doing right to have +Henry here, and is there any possibility of the judges construing this +as a consent upon my part to any division of the valuable property? +Please inform me at once that I may convince Mrs. Warrington of her +folly, and put an end to this foolish infatuation.--Dear Mr. Frogg, +yours very faithfully, + + Arthur Warrington. + + + + + CHAPTER XIV. + + [Paddy O’Connell apologises for his silence.] + + The Dormy House, Portmarnock, + August 3d, 1905. + +Dear Harry,--I should have told you before that you did wisely to +leave Paris, and, please God, to see that “iligant faymale” no more. +’Tis many a man that goes to the devil when he might have gone any +other road for the asking of a cheap ticket--and you, I am glad to +see, are now restored to your senses and safely back in the land of +the Sassenach, where I wish you much prosperity. You have wits of your +own, man, and a lively presence. Let me implore you to use them in +some honorable occupation, if it is only to spite that long-legged +beggar of a parson, who would drive the very saints out of heaven +should he by any chance arrive in the neighbourhood of that highly +praised locality. + +Meanwhile, Harry, I am waiting for your news of Mimi. What a droll +little witch she was to be sure--and, man, ’tis lucky for ye that I am +your friend, or the Lord knows where she would have landed me. Seek +her out by all means and restore her to civilisation. Ye’ll never need +to be ashamed of her in any company. There are women who are born to +be the light of men’s lives; and if ever I saw one of the kind, the +little lady whom Greuze should have painted is one of the company. +Find her, I say, and play a gentleman’s part towards her. You’ll never +regret it, my boy. + +I am writing you but a brief letter, for the golfers here have been +playing games upon this old bird and ruffling his plumage excessively. +Yesterday, young Willie Jackson made me a bet of a sovereign that he’d +drive a ball off the face of his watch, and I took him immediately. +Well, he goes out to the tee as cool as a martyr at the stake, pops +his watch down on the sand, sticks a ball on the top of it, and +smashes the whole lot to blazes. You could have heard me laughing two +holes off as I paid the money and chaffed him. + +“’Tis to the watchmaker ye’ll be taking that same,” says I, “and +asking him what’s wrong with the works?”--for there wasn’t a ha’p’orth +of the watch left, not enough to put in a teaspoon. To which he +answered, as impudent as anything: + +“I think not, Paddy; it was a penny watch I bought in Dublin three +days ago.” + +Ye may think that I didn’t show my nose in the club-house any more +that day, Henry. And, as if this wasn’t enough, young Philpots +persuaded me to play him with one of those pneumatic balls to-day, and +a fine game he had with me. The harder I hit it--and you know that +driving is my pride, being able to outdrive any man in Ireland when I +hit one--the harder I hit it the shorter, so to speak, it went, until +some of my finest brassies weren’t travelling twenty yards, and my +cleeks not ten. + +“Be hanged to the ball!” says I at last, “I believe it’s bewitched.” + +“Oh, come,” says young Philpots, “nothing of the kind Paddy; ’tis your +precious bad driving. Now, what did you drink with your dinner last +night?” + +“Not more than half a pint of whisky, and perhaps not so much.” + +“Then your eyesight must be going, Paddy. I’d see a doctor if I were +you when I got back to town.” + +“There’s no better eyes in Ireland,” says I; and I picked the ball up +and put it in my pocket. After that I knocked young Philpots all to +blazes, so I knew it was the ball, and would have said so if the +Archangel Gabriel himself had come along and denied me. When I got +back to the club-house, I took young Martin, the pro., aside, and +asked him a few questions. + +“Why did ye sell me such a thing of a ball as that, Martin?” I asked +him. + +He professed great astonishment. + +“There’s nay a better baa’ made,” says he. + +“Will ye play a round with it yourself, Martin?” + +“Ay, when there’s wind in it.” + +“Wind!” cried I, beginning to understand. + +“True,” says he, “when there’s wind in it; but no’ when a gentleman +has pricked her wi’ a needle before the other gentleman ganged oot.” + +Henry--I saw it in a moment! That young devil of a Philpots had let +all the air out of the ball before I began to play with it. The +story’s all over the place--I’ll never show my face here for a month, +unless it be to pull the noses of the pair of them for the pleasure of +saying good-bye to such jovial companions. My dear Harry, yours as of +old, + + Paddy O’Connell. + + + + + CHAPTER XV. + + [“The Chimes” at Yarmouth, and what Henry Gastonard learned of them.] + + The New Vicarage, Lowestoft, + August 6th, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--Byron told us that: + + + “Christians have burned each other, quite persuaded; + That all the Apostles would have done as they did.” + + +I am not quite sure that my dear cousin, Arthur, would not put me +immediately to the stake were it not for this worldly little wife of +his, who leaps through the hoop of his philosophy like a clown at the +circus, and is never so pleased as when her antics move him to +paroxysms of jealousy. + +Let me, none the less, postpone for the moment a narration of this +particular tragedy, and thank you for your letter. I am sorry to hear +that they let the wind out of your pneumatic golf ball, and so +provoked you to expressions not found in the catechism--but, my dear +Paddy, is not half the world flogging balls so treated, and are not +the fortunate few those who can command a superfluity of that +necessary gas by which mankind achieves success? + +I give you this for consolation. Would to heaven you could console me +as effectually. For, to be candid, Paddy, I am as hard driven by my +doubts as ever a man was in this world. Yesterday I saw Mimi for the +second time. My first visit was paid to her almost immediately after I +had written to you; and a sorry enough pilgrimage it was, so full of +drab shades and mournful harmonies that I write of it with reluctance, +and do not speak of it at all. + +Recollect that I had traced the child to the old town of Yarmouth, and +was determined to seek her there. Of course, my car is here, and +serves me well at these times. A fast journey in the famous “forty,” +which has carried us together upon many a merry venture, brought me to +that fishing village they call Gorleston; then to an even more crabbed +street--the main thoroughfare of Yarmouth to wit. I know nothing of +these places, but the approach to them depressed me greatly, and left +me but ill prepared for the really superb sea-front which a side +street of Yarmouth presently disclosed to me. + +It is inconceivable, Paddy, that such a parade as this should be so +little known to the children of civilisation. Depict a wonderful +strand of the purest golden sand, a gentle sea with many ships in a +narrow street, a wide thoroughfare abutting upon the promenade, and a +mile of houses as a background to it all. Do this, I say, and you will +still have the poorest idea of Yarmouth--for its glory lies in the +booths they have erected upon the sand, and in its entertainments, its +wide piers, its floral halls, its orderly gardens, and superabundant +bandstands. Such a city upon a seashore I have never seen in all my +life. I drove my car to a decent hotel on the front, and I descended +presently, feeling as lost as an African set down suddenly at +Ludgate-circus. + +This would have been about a quarter to eight o’clock of a splendid +summer evening. Thousands of lights were now blazing upon the +promenade, lights large and small, and of all the hues of the rainbow. +Turn your ears where you would, music pleased or offended them. And +what music, Paddy!--now that of a fine military band, again of a +hurdy-gurdy, and upon that the tinny notes of a worn piano, +laboriously thumped by some child of the academies. Nor was this +sufficient, for youths passed raving of Jenny or Sarah, and here and +there a woman screeched some incoherent lines which the music-hall or +the sea beach had taught her. + +I crossed the street, and ventured upon the golden sands. The +barbarity of the scene impressed me strangely. That such an artist, +such a born child of all that is really the fruit of genius as Mimi +the Simpleton, should have sunk to this, inflicted me with an +intolerable melancholy which nothing could relieve. + +Here, Paddy, here I must find Mimi the Simpleton. To this _ultima +thule_ some inspiration of the nomad’s life had wafted her. You can +have little idea of the emotions which followed me to the quest of her +as I threaded the human lanes, and would have closed my ears to their +voices, but could not. + +But I will not weary you with a recital to so little purpose. Let it +be sufficient to say that when I discovered Mimi at last, it was not +upon the lower sands where the meaner booths are set, but in a +considerable wooden structure built almost against the promenade, and +promising at least a better atmosphere and a better company. + +Here a bill at the door informed that “The Chimes” were performing, +and that for the inconsiderable sum of sixpence I might be privileged +to hear the famous singer Wat Urling in his famous song “Bonny Bill,” +and also to witness the gyrations of the Spanish dancer “Alphonsine.” +Other lines accorded notoriety to a certain Jack Bendall, and to a +person by the name of Bertie Idden, who, it appears, had played the +banjo before the crowned heads of Europe, and was still alive to tell +the tale. These promises I read swiftly, and, paying a shilling for +the front row, I passed into the place, and saw Mimi again. + +It was a quaint scene, Paddy. Some fifty square yards were fenced in +by a wooden awning and provided with benches and garden-seats. The +platform at the further end had a torn Union Jack for its emblem, and +a Spanish flag to cross it. Here stood a piano, and two or three +chairs for the performers, of whom there appeared to be five, +including the lady accompanist. All were dressed in quasi-Pierrot +costumes of black and yellow; and Mimi, I observed, wore precisely +similar garments to the men. + +As to the entertainment, it consisted of a part-song sung in three +keys and wofully discordant; but Mimi left the group at the end of it, +and returned shortly afterwards in a black spangled dress and a quiet, +respectable mantilla. + +I took my seat in a garden-chair to the left of the stage, and watched +the child closely. She had not seen me, and I perceived that her whole +soul went out to this business of the dancing. Perhaps it stood to her +for a reflex of Paris in a dismal land. I can imagine her recalling +the balls of the Butte--all the familiar faces of the Quat-Z-Arts--and +believing for the time being that the music was made by Jean Delmas, +and that Chardibert was her partner in the dance. She had no talent +for such a class of entertainment--so much I confess at once. Her +dancing was spirited, but inelegant; she threw herself about with the +uncouth gestures of a child at play. When she sang, it was not in +Spanish, but in that argot of the atelier, which even a Frenchman in +the audience might not have understood. But I understood it, Paddy; +and, as though she were speaking to me alone of all the company, I +watched her intently until her eye caught mine, and she ceased to +dance as suddenly as though a strong man held her ankles to the floor. + +This was for the merest fraction of a minute. A seedy individual in a +long grey overcoat--or rather, an overcoat which had once been +grey--strode forward from his nook behind the piano and addressed her +in rough tones. She answered him with a nod, and continued to dance +immediately, which provoked a whole torrent of bad language, and a +subsequent draught from a substantial flask when the back of the piano +somewhat hid the man from the audience. Mimi, upon her part, now +danced on as though she had never seen me at all. I did not catch her +eye again, not once, until the entertainment was done and the people +had quitted the enclosure. + +Be sure, however, that I had no intention of leaving without seeing +her. That would have been a folly surpassing all. No sooner was the +crowd departed than I walked up to the platform and spoke to her in +the French she understood so well. + +“Bon soir, Mimi. Shall we go and fish for gudgeons at the Châtelet?” + +“_Ah, mes enfants_--it is Monsieur Henry who has come back.” + +“What are you doing in this place, Mimi?” + +“I am dancing, Monsieur Henry.” + +“I see perfectly well; but you are tired of dancing, and are now going +to return to Paris with me.” + +“That is impossible, Monsieur Henry. I have not got a boat.” + +“But I shall buy one. Go and tell these gentlemen that you can dance +no more for them. I shall wait until you have done so.” + +She shrugged her shoulders defiantly. + +“Does Madame d’Alençon send you here, Monsieur Henry?” + +“I will tell you when you have spoken to your friends.” + +She was about to answer me when the greasy man stepped forward and +intervened. He spoke in the jargon of the music halls. + +“’Ere,” he said, cocking a vile cigar in the corner of a huge mouth, +“and what’s all this?” + +“I have come to take this young lady to her friends,” said I. + +“Ho,” cried he, “and ’ave you? Well, a bloomin’ long journey that’s +going to be. ’Ere, you clear out of this--we don’t ’ave none of your +sort ’ere.” + +I stepped up upon the platform and looked him squarely in the face. + +“My man,” said I, “by whose authority did you take this girl from her +home, and when will you show it to the police?” + +He turned a little pale, and took his cigar from his mouth hurriedly. + +“What’s that to you?” he asked. + +“It is everything to me,” said I, “as you will presently discover.” + +“Is she ’ere against ’er will, then? Arst ’er yourself. Ain’t I givin’ +’er advantages? Who says I took ’er from ’er friends--who says it?” + +“I say it, and presently will prove it.” + +“Oh, you do, do yer? Well, my name’s Jack Bendall, and my ’ome’s the +Pav. at Ealing. Now go and prove it--let me see you do it. Why, half +the profession will answer for my character. Who’s going to answer for +yours--and who the deuce are you, all said and done?” + +He did not wait for me to answer, but called Mimi up to him. + +“Do you know this man?” he asked her. + +“Yes, Monsieur; that is Monsieur Henry.” + +“Is ’e related to you?” + +“He is one of my friends--I knew him in Paris.” + +“A--student, I suppose. Just as I thought. Well, now ’e’s going out of +’ere, and right sharp, too.” + +Imagine the fellow’s impudence, Paddy. He strode up to me in a +threatening attitude and laid his hand upon my collar; but not a +second time, for I tripped him before you could count two, and threw +him headlong down among his own stalls. + +“Hands off,” I said when he had picked himself up, “and learn to +behave yourself. I am now going to the police station. You can follow +me there if you like.” + +I did not wait a moment longer, but marched from the place--Mimi +watching me with wide-open eyes, another woman snivelling on the bosom +of her “poor Jack,” and that worthy himself close upon my heels. As it +turned out, my car stood within twenty yards of the place, and the +sight of it with the great flaming headlamps and the gaping crowd +about it sobered the clown immediately. He pushed up to me with a +sidling gesture and spoke his first civil word. + +“No offence meant, guv’nor. Gawd witness I never ’armed the girl. +Don’t be ’asty like. So help me ’eaven, my own daughter ain’t been +treated better. Now, what’s it all about--you ain’t going to do +nothink imprudent, guv’nor?” + +I turned upon him and took him at his word. After all, I had no case +for a police-court, and he might have beaten me hollow there. It was +prudent to temporise, and I did not lose the opportunity. + +“I am the guardian of this child,” said I. “Your honesty is not at +stake if you listen to reason. I don’t hold you responsible for her +appearance here, but I must speak to her immediately. Show me where +that can be done, and we may settle the affair yet.” + +“If that’s all, guv’nor, you can speak to ’er in the show and welcome. +I didn’t know I was talking to a gent like you--though. Gawd’s truth, +I’d pay a fiver to learn that fall.” + +“Oh,” says I, showing him a five-pound note, “no need to try it a +second time. Take the company out and give them supper at my expense. +I suppose that’s your last show to-night?” + +“The last’s at half-past nine. You can ’ave twenty minutes with her. +She said her name was Mimi Oliver and that she came from Bordeaux. Is +it the truth, guv’nor, or a lie?” + +“It’s a lie,” said I. “She left my house in Paris to go to you. Now +leave us together, please; I have much to say to her.” + +He nodded assent, and I went up to the platform again. The show was +quite deserted by this time, and the performers made a hasty supper in +the corner over by the piano. As for Mimi, she sat upon a bench a +little way from the others, dressed in her spangles and wearing that +pretty smile I have never yet been able to fathom as long as I have +known her. Whether she was pleased by my return, or still angry, I +cannot say. But I went up and sat beside her; and then I knew, Paddy, +that nothing but her courage kept her from weeping. + +Of this interview, with its new issue, of all that she confessed to +me, and of my plans for her, a letter to-morrow must tell you. I am +but just in time to catch the post, and, to be plain with you, old +friend, my heart is full of a sadness I cannot define and would write +of to no other. The memory of this interview recalls it powerfully. +Let me then sleep upon it all--and bidding you a hearty good night, +remain--My dear Paddy, your friend, + + Harry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI. + + [Henry Gastonard gives a further account of his meeting with Mimi the + Simpleton.] + + The New Vicarage, Lowestoft, + August 8th, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--I was too seedy to write to you yesterday, nor did my +good cousin’s chatter concerning the things of this world help me to +get better. Arthur is the kind of man who buys in an earthly market +and would realise in a celestial. He began to talk of motor securities +this morning, and did not cease until he was called to the church for +Litany--but he went with thunder on his brow, for little Martha +insisted on shewing me the greenhouses meanwhile, and the man is as +jealous as Othello. + +You will readily imagine that I linger in this house chiefly for the +comedy of it. I believe that Arthur would have told me to go this +morning if pretty Martha had not cut in before him. “Arthur is so +delighted to have you here,” says she, looking hard at him across the +table, “there are so few educated folk in these parts that it is a +real kindness for any friend to come and see him.” You should have +seen the black looks he cast back at her. I do believe the poor man +nearly choked himself with the toast he was eating. + +I shall go over to the hotel at Yarmouth to-morrow, Paddy--later on, +perhaps, from there to Cromer, where Mimi goes with the troupe. So +much tells you in a word that I have not persuaded her to quit the +gentleman of the cockney accent, or to forsake the delights of posing +before an ignorant multitude as the Señorita Alphonsine. What is in +her mind I do not know for any certainty. She understands, she must +understand, that I have no interest in Lea d’Alençon, and never had. +But a jealous woman, more especially when the Butte has taught her to +be jealous, is one of the most incomprehensible of all mysteries, and +such, I begin to fear, will our little friend Mimi remain. + +I talked to her very frankly the other evening, perhaps as frankly as +ever I spoke to her in all my life. + +“You left me at Poissy because Madame Lea came there,” I said--and +then I asked her--“Was that just, Mimi? Could I prevent her coming?” + +To which she answered: + +“You could have prevented it, Monsieur Henry. No woman goes to a man +who does not wish to see her--she writes to him.” + +I laughed at this. How like the Mimi of la Galette. + +“Of course, old Georges Oleander taught you to say that. I remember it +was one of his great, also foolish, sayings. Those were famous days, +Mimi. I wonder what you would have said if I had forbidden you to see +Mr. Barrymore or Count Charles, or any of the friends you used to +know? Suppose I had been jealous, as I had the right to be----” + +“But you, you, Monsieur Henry--you were not my lover; why should you +be jealous?” + +“Mimi,” said I, “we are going to forget the past just as we would +forget a sad book that we have been reading. What is to prevent us? I +shall never see Madame Lea again. If I saw her a thousand times, it +would make no difference. You know that I love you, Mimi. How often +must I say it to make you believe?” + +The words moved her to some emotion. There is no more intelligent face +in Europe than hers, none more beautiful; and I could see that the +child was wrestling with some great temptation, unknown to me, and +unconfessed. + +“It would be folly to speak of it, Monsieur Henry,” she said +presently; “I am not fit to be your wife. You are rich, and we are no +longer at the Maison du bon Tabac. I tried to follow you out into the +world, Monsieur Henry, but I lost you there--and I shall never find +you again.” + +“Mimi,” said I, “there has always been this between us. You call me +rich, but in a few months’ time I may be poorer even than these people +who employ you. Is not that enough for you? Shall I make myself poor +to-morrow because riches keep you from me? Is that your wish, Mimi?” + +“I know the truth,” she said quietly; “your great Irlandais told it to +me. You are rich, and if you work you will remain rich. Do not believe +those who tell you that the poor are happy, Monsieur Henry. That is +what the rich say to defend themselves. Oh, do you think that I can be +happy so far away from France and among these strange people? Would I +not return to-morrow if I could do so?” + +“You shall return, Mimi--we will go together.” + +She laughed drolly, turning the pathos of it with the cleverness a +born actress alone could command. + +“To the Butte,” she cried, “on the high road? We will sup at the Lapin +Agil and breakfast at the Capitol. That’s what I dream of when I dance +before the people--but you are not in my dreams, Monsieur Henry; I +think of a Paris which you have left--I do not see you any longer +among my friends.” + +“Because you yourself have determined that it shall not be so.” + +“No--because you were not born of us; because you are an Englishman +who has work to do in your own country. I am in my own world even in +this poor place. It is not your world--it must never be so.” + + * * * * * + +This was the sum of it, Paddy, often repeated. This child believes +that all my love for the Butte and its people is but a sham affection, +that it will pass, that I am born to riches and position. She is +clever enough to think that a marriage with me would be a false step, +leading neither to her happiness nor to mine. All this fine philosophy +of hers is no sounder than the bloom upon a flower. If I could conjure +up the old house in Paris, people it with the old figures, recall the +old precarious life, the days of poverty, the days of comparative +riches, the empty cupboards, the chiding corks--if I could do this, +and say, “Mimi, come back to me,” she would be in my arms in an +instant. But she is afraid of her new situation; London has chilled +her finest instincts--she can think of me but as the “great Monsieur +Henry, of the Hôtel St. Paul.” And between me and her a great barrier +is fixed. + +How to combat this argument I know not. My threat to shed myself of my +money is both idle and impossible--it is the word one whispers to a +woman in an ecstasy of passion, and repeats with a shamed grin next +morning. I feel, Paddy, that I could not support poverty--and yet here +is poverty staring me already in the face, and promising, like the +Devil in “Faust,” that he will have me some day. To you I put the +problem, for God knows I can make little of it. Is there any way--any +sane way--by which I can win this child’s love and make her my wife? +Would it be a crime to do that? Am I a madman to be thinking of it at +all? Write to me, old friend, and speak in plain terms. The Paddy of +the old time was never ashamed to do that. + +You may address your letter to the vicarage, for little Martha will +see that everything is forwarded. I am tired already of this +lantern-jawed cousin of mine, who nagged his wife for three hours last +night because she would not turn me out, and prayed before breakfast +this morning for charity. I heard them quarrelling; the wall was not +thick enough to keep those dread sounds out--but she silenced him in +the end, though how, I do not know. When next I saw her she was +wearing a bearskin on her shoulders, and her hair was the colour of a +terra-cotta house. They are to have the first dress rehearsal for the +Pageant to-morrow--and Arthur, who has just preached another sermon +against the theatre, is to be there with a megaphone. + +God bless him! He is the poorest creature in Suffolk, though not in +the least aware of the fact.--Dear Paddy, yours dolefully, + + Harry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XVII. + + [Paddy O’Connell lays down the law.] + + Glendalough, + August 12th, 1905. + +Dear Harry,--What I would have you to do is to set about getting your +living. ’Tis honest advice and the best I can give you--though it’s +precious little I do in that line myself, and a poor hand I would be +at the employment if my father--God rest his soul--had not done the +business for me. + +I am little acquainted with the art of money-making, and no wise +adviser in that matter. But I see plainly enough that if you do not +set about earning your living, this parson man will be banking your +fortune and thanking God for it, while you will be next door to a +beggar in the streets, and a mighty unsuccessful one at that. + +Let me ask you what you could bring to the child if you lost your +fortune. This gipsy notion is well enough when a man follows it by +choice; but there is a time of life when you begin to sniff at the +cooking-pot and to ask how many thorns are in your bed before you--and +you will come to that before most of us, by reason of the habits you +have acquired. Indeed, Harry, I am not sure that you understand at all +what this loss of fortune may mean to you, nor do I believe your life +will be worth living when you have lost it. + +You are young, you have a fine presence, people take a liking to the +looks of you, you are by no means wanting in brains. Should you get on +the Stock Exchange you would find clients enough--or, for that matter, +you might turn your Art knowledge to some advantage and see what you +can do in that line. + +Shake your wits together, my boy, and make a start, to-morrow if you +can. I couldn’t do it myself--unless I were taken up by those who +would learn to ride, or golf, or play a decent hand at bridge; but you +can do it, Harry, for you have the brains; and if you love this little +girl out of France, and if your heart is full because of her, you will +lose no time in following my advice and preparing that home she will +be willing enough to occupy. + +Meanwhile, see, for God’s sake, that no harm overtakes her. It’s worse +than wicked to hear of the company she is in. Pay for a change of +employment and do not let her know that you have done it. Your purse +may help to achieve this. Pull the strings of it wide open, Harry, and +put her in some decent way of life, in London for preference, and +where you can watch over her. I have said from the first that the +blood of the Bohemian runs strong in her veins. I doubt that you will +ever tie her to any house or country--but the effort is worth the +making, and you know that you have my good wishes in the matter. + +As for your prudence, your right to marry her or the wisdom of it, you +know that I am a man who said be hanged to convention many years ago. +What a sorry peep-show, what a play of shams and meanness and false +pleasures is this social world we know, and into which we were born! I +tell you that the hut on the mountain side--if there be good whisky +therein and a decent golf course within riding distance--is all the +palace I will ever require; while, as for my friend Harry, if the +great high road and the café at the far end of it are not his goal, +then say that I know nothing of men and less of the sex that does us +all the mischief. + +You will set about earning your living, Harry, and put Mimi to some +decent employment unbeknown to her that you have done it. This is the +wisdom and the wish of your old friend, + + Paddy. + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII. + + [In which we hear something of the Pageant at Lowestoft.] + + The Grand Hotel, Cromer, + August 14th, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--The Pageant at Lowestoft came and went on Saturday +last--the occasion of its first representation--and your faithful +epistler has departed with it under circumstances which should be made +known to you. These were as ridiculous as they were inevitable; but +they have left my good cousin in a sad state of mind, and his little +wife no less agitated. + +I count it nothing less than a tragedy, Paddy, that your friend, Henry +Gastonard, who would no more make love to another man’s wife than he +would steal the spoons from his table, should twice carry a firebrand +into a peaceful house and there extinguish it not at all or but +doubtfully. This, none the less, has been my undeserved fate. I +quitted Lowestoft, leaving my cousin torn by jealousy concerning +Martha and myself. His anger is as absurd as his suspicions; but of +both you shall now hear. + +To begin with, let me say that I had some fine fun with him on Friday +night upon my return from Yarmouth. The talk after dinner chanced to +turn upon the ease or difficulty of making money; and, wishful to +chaff Arthur, I began to speak of my own intentions. To have heard me +you would have said that I had but to lift a finger to make ten +thousand a year. I spoke of this scheme and of that, of the financiers +I knew and the financiers who wished to know me. I mentioned young +Gould casually, and threw in Harry Vanderbilt as though he were a +paper-weight; to all of which Arthur listened entranced. His colour +alternated between that of the departing rainbow and the +newly-imported orange. There were moments when he was at a loss how to +address me at all. + +“Did you say that you were venturing your own capital in these +affairs?” he asked me. The simple fellow, a child would have seen +through the question. + +“Not a penny of it,” said I, filling my glass with the Marsala, old in +bottle, which he buys from a neighbouring grocer for one-and-three; +“not a penny of it, Arthur. You must understand that I am bringing the +new French motor-cab companies to London, and when the Syndicate has +put down two hundred and fifty thousand, there should be some seven or +eight for me as negotiatory vendor to begin with; and if they don’t +pay me twelve or fifteen hundred a year afterwards to look after their +interests, I’m a Dutchman. What I wanted to ask you was just this: Do +you think I am wise to take up such a thing as a motor-cab, or would +you advise me to stick to the flotation of the new submarine company, +in which you know that I have interest? You have great sagacity and +perception, and so I put the question to you frankly.” + +Upon my word, Paddy, the man’s face was a study when I said this, and +it was worth anything to hear him humming and hawing in the very best +pulpit manner before he answered me. + +“A clergyman knows little of financial affairs,” he remarked, coughing +slightly to cover his difficulty. “Undoubtedly, a cab is not a very +dignified conveyance, and er--hem, the future of the motor-car +is--that is--may be--a dusty one. I should consider the whole question +very closely, Henry. There are two sides to it, as to every question.” + +“And to every cab, Arthur. Well, I shall take your advice, for, of +course, if I don’t do something very soon, you will be having my +little lot and driving a four-in-hand to Hurlingham. I don’t mean to +let you do that, Arthur. I shall stick to the money; though, if ever +you want fifty for parochial uses, don’t forget to tell me.” + +He was visibly upset--he is not a man who can hide his feelings. I +believe that if I had said the word, he would have consented to a +compromise on the spot. But I am an obstinate fool, Paddy, and I feel +that I would sooner sleep on the Embankment without a shirt to my back +than part with one shilling to this disciple of the Law and the +Profits who would spend it so ill. + +This badinage was a pretty prelude to what was to come. We were up +early next morning, and the streets all a-blowing and a-growing before +the fishing boats had come in. You do not know Lowestoft, Paddy, but +you will please to understand that there is, beneath the northern +cliff, a very pretty stretch of grass land, whereon golfers and others +disport themselves. Toward this at eleven o’clock in the morning half +the inhabitants and all the visitors wended their way; and here the +great battle between the invading Danes and the inhospitable Britons +was to take place, directed by my cousin Arthur, who carried a +megaphone and took his station upon a watch-tower. As this is not a +horsey locality, the most part of us went afoot, and a fine, +straggling show of hire-purchase assassins we must have looked to any +sane man who had happened upon us at hazard. + +Just imagine the narrow, fishy street of a fishy town packed from end +to end with twentieth-century monks, romping British maidens, Druid +priests, Danes, and Norsemen. Depict a fat grocer waddling along in a +tin-pot helmet and a tunic down to his knees. Create for yourself the +image of a substantial matron in a frock that looks like a--but you +have seen the catalogues of the linen houses and will spare my +blushes. Over all wave the flags and the banners. There are a few +horsemen--six-and-six the first hour, six shillings afterwards--a +great many battle-axes, pikes, and spiked maces. The fishermen, who +stare as we pass by, laugh vulgarly. Some of the youths, who are to do +the fighting, begin already and need the police to separate them. I +observe that the girls are all in a hurry to be carried screaming to +the hills and that they rehearse their parts upon any opportunity, +even the most trifling. + +Such was the beginning of the Pageant at Lowestoft. Never, I suppose, +was Arthur Warrington in better form; it was better than any Criterion +farce to hear him shouting the stage directions from his watch-tower. +Of course, had he been a clever man, he would have engaged some genius +from the theatres to have helped him as to the stage management; but +he is not a clever man, and chaos followed him to the battle-field. +Oh, my dear Paddy, what a joy it was when that bellicose crowd heard +him bawling: “Harps to the mound; all the lyres this side; ancient +Britons, quick march; Danes ashore!” Could energy and a shrill voice +have achieved success, Arthur assuredly would have been crowned there +and then with a laurel; but, alas, what are energy and shrillness when +your Druid priest is invariably in the refreshment tent and your Danes +upset the boat which is bringing them ashore? + +You will remember that little Martha had persuaded me to play the part +of one of these Scandinavian heroes, and a veritable sea-lion she said +I looked when the costumier had finished with me. Though she herself +stood for a British matron, I observed that her dress leaned toward +the soubrette ideal, and that she proposed an early and satisfying +adjournment to the tent wherein ices and other delicacies were vended. +In this she was generally imitated. A more desultory battle, a wilder, +more nonsensical puppet show, I have never seen upon any field of +Europe. Danes playing leap-frog on the sands; Druids chasing each +other, and the ladies--with sickle and artificial mistletoe--warriors +flirting already when they should have been fighting; trumpeters +passing their trumpets round for their neighbours to “have a blow;” +monks talking politics and passing each other the morning papers; fat +men asking “Where do we go?” stout ladies no less at a loss. My dear +Paddy, the hills would have rung with your laughter and the sea given +it back to you in roaring harmonies. + +I will confess that we got something like order when the battle was +done, and that some of the Druidical rites were pretty and imposing. A +dance of “early British maidens,” in the afternoon, left footprints on +the sands of time; but the attempt of a monk to join in the business +came near to ruining it. From this moment onward toward sunset the +affair showed some signs of a degeneration which boded ill for the +later hours. I found myself without part or place in a disorderly +ensemble, and I suggested to Martha that she should be carried off +incontinently to the sea; and that we would go for a little row until +the multitude had recovered its senses. To this she consented very +gracefully, and, a boat being quickly found--for many watermen had +come to the place--I put off in it and soon left the madding crowd +behind us. + +You must admit, Paddy, that there was little harm in this. We rowed in +full view of the shore; as a Norseman it was my business thus to act +in the presence of a British maiden. In a less romantic mood, I +desired to have a little talk with pretty Martha--for none was +possible at her house--and to hear exactly what she thought of my own +affairs and of my cousin’s interest in them. She is a candid little +body and responded immediately to my invitation. I found her no less +merry than eloquent, and, to be honest, she was not born for a +parson’s wife. + +“Arthur thinks he’ll have your fortune,” she said; “he’s buying +motor-cars already with it.” + +“And you encourage him, Martha?” + +“Women always encourage men when they wish to be extravagant in a +proper way. But I don’t believe you’ll part with the money--and, to be +honest, I hope you won’t.” + +“Those are not Arthur’s sentiments.” + +“Would they be mine if they were? No man is the better for a woman +agreeing with him. Of course, I want Arthur to do well in the world, +but that’s no reason why he should do it with your fortune, Harry. As +it is, your father left him five thousand pounds, and he ought to be +satisfied.” + +“Especially in view of the simple life, and all that. Is not Arthur a +bit of a Socialist, Martha?” + +“Yes, he believes in having all his neighbours’ things in common. He +preached about it several times--they don’t like it in the country, +and someone wrote to the Bishop.” + +“Did he suggest that his lordship should divide also?” + +“Now you’re silly, Harry. What I wanted to tell you was that you +really must begin to do something in the world.” + +“I have blown a trumpet this very morning, and nearly cut off a +Saxon’s head by accident. Is not that an achievement?” + +“It is the kind of achievement which sends Arthur buying +motor-cars----” + +“To the glory of God, and the delight of the local repairer. Tell me, +Martha, do you think I could earn any money, if I tried? Is it quite a +mad hope?” + +“You could do so, Harry--you have brains enough. Arthur admits +that--he read your article about East Anglia in the magazine, and is +quite sure you have abilities.” + +“Strange term. I wonder how many men have gone to the devil because +they had abilities?” + +“But you really have them, Harry. That little bust you sent me over +from Paris a year ago was beautiful.” + +“Offer it to an art dealer in Piccadilly and see if he will give you +five shillings for it. That kind of talent is the ruin of most of us. +We touch the hem of Art’s garment, but she doesn’t stop to bless us. +If I had been born a Portuguese Jew, and educated in the Ghetto, I +might begin to speak of abilities. There are few left in the ordinary +way.” + +“But, at least, you might work, Harry.” + +“What man who is in love works?” + +“You! In love! Now, do tell me. Is it true--you aren’t joking, Harry?” + +“I am not joking, Martha. Look at me and see. I am in love with a +little French lady who is dancing on Yarmouth beach. It was she who +kept me away from you last night.” + +“Now, that’s nonsense, and I shall not listen to you.” + +“I beg your pardon--you will listen as long as I go on talking. No +woman shuts her ears to a man’s love story--she couldn’t if she +tried.” + +“But--it--it would be disgraceful, Harry!” + +“Most of the pleasant things in life are disgraceful--from a narrow +point of view. I think you used to dance before you married Arthur.” + +“Oh, I only waltzed--that’s not the kind of dancing I mean.” + +“Let me suggest to you, Martha, that you have not seen the Señorita +Alphonsine. It would be fair to postpone a decision.” + +“Harry, I shall not believe it any more than I believed the story of +the married woman for whom you fought a duel.” + +“That’s kind of you, Martha. A woman who does not believe a story +about another woman is a treasure. She usually knows it is true +because she has seen it with her own ears----” + +“Eyes, Harry----” + +“No, I mean ears. She sees it because she hears it.” + +“Are you going to marry this dancer?” + +“Ah, that’s what I don’t know. She also objected to Madame Lea, and +her ideas about marriage are of the East, eastward. It is a subject +you do not hear much about in a French atelier.” + +“Arthur says that he does not think any Frenchman can be saved--he +read somewhere that even the married men hardly remember the names of +their own wives--that is, in the society of which you speak.” + +“An embarrassing circumstance. He was once in Paris for three days, I +think.” + +“Yes, we had cheap tickets, and saw the Louvre and the Madeleine----” + +“I wonder he did not bring an accent home--and pay duty on it at +Charing Cross.” + +“But he is quite a French scholar, you know. He has read Lafontaine, +and he says that French people can never be as religious as we are, +because the Bible isn’t the same thing when it’s translated.” + +“A fine thought. But tell me, Martha, will you be my best woman if I +marry Mimi?” + +“Mimi--is that her name?” + +“Yes, and a pretty name, too--don’t you think so?” + +“What is the best woman at a wedding, Harry?” + +“The woman who doesn’t run the bride down. Mimi hasn’t a friend in +England and hasn’t a rag to her back. If she will marry me--and God +alone knows whether she will or no--I want to see that she is all +right and wants for nothing.” + +“I’ll do that with pleasure if Arthur will let me.” + +“Oh, Arthur be hanged. If this boat continues to carry us out to sea, +as it is doing, we shall never see Arthur again.” + +“But, Harry--oh, my dear cousin, where are we going?” + +“That’s just what I want to know, Martha. Apparently we are on the way +to the Hook of Holland. Do you know the Dutchmen? A charming people +and some fine old cities.” + +I spoke at random, but, to tell you the truth, Paddy, I never was in +such a stew in my life. There is a tremendous current running down +this narrow strait, and we had been talking so heedlessly that it had +carried us far out to sea before I had thought anything about a course +at all. When the danger became apparent, we must have been a good mile +from the shore, drifting apparently toward the southeast and carried +almost as swiftly as a stick upon a river. And, as if this were not +enough, what should happen but that my right scull, refusing to +respond to my herculean efforts, broke off short at the thowl and left +me with but a stump in my hand. Then, in truth, the lid was off the +casket--then, indeed, I foresaw what was to come, both the peril and +the folly of it. + +Poor little Martha! What a face she wore, and what a devil of a mess +we seemed to be in! We had set off late in the afternoon, and it was +now about the hour of sunset. I looked about me and saw a great watery +plain glowing toward the west with a sheen of melting light; but, cold +and grey as unburnished silver elsewhere. By here and there, a herring +boat worked seaward beyond the banks; there were steamers upon the +horizon, and one which had just passed us making northward, as it +were, to Shields or the Humber. But, of help to be had for the crying, +I saw positively none. As for the town of Lowestoft, it was now but a +fringe of houses above a shimmering horizon. I could not even espy the +masqueraders upon the beach, though there came to us from time to time +a murmur of distant music, and, as it were, the ghost of a human +voice. At last we passed away even from these--the sun sank; the +waters began to beat about us a little ominously and the wind to utter +a warning. + +Now, Paddy, you may imagine how little I liked this situation and how +careful I was that my real opinion concerning it should be kept from +the frightened little woman at the tiller. A sailor, I suppose, would +have made light of the whole affair, arguing that the set of the tide +would change anon and that the same boat which was now being carried +out to sea would presently be carried home again. So plain a fact did +not occur to me even while I had a pair of sculls in my hand; but with +one scull overboard and no particular use for the other I fear it +entered but little into my calculations. At the best I hoped that some +passing ship might pick us up--at the worst that we might drift right +across in safety and take an early boat to Harwich and our homes. But +the latter was a wild dream, as you may suppose--and I had all my work +to do to comfort little Martha and to applaud her bravery. + +“To begin with,” I put it to her, “we cannot go far in these parts and +not spy out a herring-boat. The herring is a homely fish, Martha, and +will naturally suggest Arthur and the fireside.” + +“He will never forgive me,” she said, “never--never--you don’t know +him, Harry. I shall hear of this to my dying day.” + +“Of course you will. He will tell it proudly. An idiot of a man broke +an oar out at sea and was only saved from a watery grave by the pluck +and the resource of a brave woman--isn’t that what Arthur will say?” + +“Think of the scandal in the parish, all the tongues that will be +wagging--think of that!” + +“It will be finer talk than the Pageant. Please write it down Martha, +it may come in useful if I should perpetrate a book.” + +“Don’t, don’t,” she cried, “don’t say it, Harry. I am afraid, horribly +afraid.” + +“Now, that you are not, or you would not confess it, Martha. It is I +who am in a panic. I never was brave in the dark, and this particular +kind of darkness is my abhorrence. I wonder if I flared a box of +matches would it be any good, Martha. Do you think a fishing smack +would understand it?” + +She made some evasive answer--the poor little body, I don’t wonder +that the situation scared her. There we were out in the gathering +darkness, not a light in sight save at distant Lowestoft, the wind +blowing cold as a blast from the hills, the sun gone down in a cloud, +and the sea rising with a mournful cry which would have shamed the +spirits of desolation. What to do, how to act even an old sailor might +have been puzzled to say. My primitive maritime knowledge, obtained +upon the yachts at Trouville, suggested an attempt to keep the head of +the boat towards the swelling breakers and her bows above the crests +of the increasing waves. I sat by Martha’s side, and, employing the +remaining scull as a paddle, tried to achieve so desirable an end. But +not without many a weird evolution which came near to costing us our +lives. + +To be candid, I was within an ace of drowning my cousin’s pretty wife, +and that’s the whole truth of it. If you would give me ten thousand +pounds upon the table, I would not again encounter those grim hours of +helpless battling with monstrous waves and increasing winds blowing +upon us out of the void of the night. + +Such a sense of loneliness and despair I have never experienced. We +seemed to have left the world of men far behind us. Great hollows +opened and threatened to engulf us. We mounted to crests and beheld a +grey horizon capped by mountainous clouds with the moon struggling to +break a golden way amid them. I knew then that long hours had passed; +I doubted that we should ever see the shore again. + +And what does a woman do in moments like these. Well, if little Martha +may speak for her sex, she cries a little, laughs for contrast, +shivers when the cold can no longer be denied, and grows hot with hope +upon the slightest word of encouragement. When I told her that I +espied the light of a fishing-boat, she put both her arms about my +neck and kissed me--when I had to admit that it was sailing away to +the northward she just cried like a child who has met with +disappointment. Nor was that poor creature, her husband, often out of +her thoughts. A woman’s devotion to the man she has married may be +diverted by his own follies, but the right kind of woman goes back +upon it in the hour of danger. So with pretty Martha to-night. She +wept not for herself but for the man’s sorrow--and there I could not +comfort her at all. + +It would have been nearly four o’clock of the morning and full light +when the boat they had sent out from Lowestoft found us at last. We +both got wet to the skin going aboard her, and were wrapped up in +blankets when we arrived at the Vicarage. Shall I say that Arthur +received us with a tragic air? Nothing of the kind; he just blubbered +like a schoolgirl and was down on his marrow-bones--for which I +honoured him--there and then. His demand for explanations came +afterwards. Those were tragic, indeed. “There must be a public account +of this,” he said. I told him not to be a fool, and he retorted by +asking me to leave his house. + +“I do not say,” he was good enough to remark, “that you can command +the elements. Such was the power of the men of old. But at least you +should know better than to leave the beach in full view of the people, +with my wife as your companion, in so mad a folly. For that I shall +never forgive you.” + +“Then you won’t continue to say the Lord’s prayer,” was my retort--and +I left him to think upon it. + +But, naturally, I couldn’t stay here, Paddy--so where should I go but +to Cromer, where “The Chimes” are playing. Be sure that the palms of +these worthies were greased long ago, that the gentleman known as Jack +Bendall has bought a new overcoat, that the lady at the piano is +resplendent in a wonderful gown of satin, and that aromatic cigars of +a Belgian brand are freely smoked by the company. + +Mimi is now a queen among them. + +But I am daring to hope that her sovereignty will be transferred +elsewhere very soon--and that my daring plan will be rewarded by that +success which you, my dear Paddy, would be the first to wish me. So in +high hope find me, + + Your friend, + Harry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XIX. + + [In which we translate a letter from Henry Gastonard of the Maison du + bon Tabac, at Hampstead, to Mimi the Simpleton, at Felixstowe.] + + Maison du bon Tabac, Hampstead, + August 29, 1905. + +Chère Mimi,--Do you remember when Mademoiselle Marcelle taught us to +sing-- + + + “J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière, + J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en aurais pas?” + + +There is a song _ma mie_, which others have been singing this +afternoon in the house which their old comrade Mimi will not enter. +_Ah, mes enfants!_ And what shall I say to them? + +Behold the builder, and ask if he be not punished enough. So much is +admitted by those who have climbed upward to this height as you and I, +_ma mie_, climbed upward in the old days, by the Villa Polichinelle, +under the sails of La Galette, to the little house where Gabriel de +Math had written immortality upon the windows and your old friend +Desmond Barrymore used to sing you to sleep while he painted. + +They came here, Mimi, out of the Paris they love, to bring a message +from the Butte to this savage land. But one is missing who should have +welcomed them--_ah, mes enfants_. + +It is not Paris, this new house of the _bon Tabac_ at Hampstead, but +you might rub your eyes sometimes and believe another story. Here, as +upon our own beloved Butte, there stands the villa with the roses +twined about it; here is the same tangle of a garden that served the +Chevalier for his verses; here we sip the red wine and sing the songs +which Jean Bataille taught us. One voice alone is missing. One who +used to love us will not come to us--and the roses droop, and silence +falls, and we know that we have not forgotten. + +Riches did not build this house, _ma mie_, nor will they support it. +We are all poor as in the splendid days. If we open a little window +and look down to the valley, we see the great city, and try to make +believe that it is the Paris we love. Ah, what a cheat is that, and +how willingly we consent to say, There is the dome of the Invalides, +and there St. Jacques, and there the frowsy houses of the Mich’. +Georges Oleander, the pitiful old mendicant, started the game and is +the busiest to play it--but your old friend Desmond Barrymore makes +one of the conspirators, and he has a little bust of you in clay upon +the table as I write. + +Not Paris, but to those who will that it shall be so, a city of their +desires. For what land is not a home to us when old friends are about +us and there is good wine upon the table, and we may eat a +Chateaubriand aux pommes and hear the Chevalier singing to us, and +laugh at old Georges Oleander when he would beg the money for a new +debauch to-morrow. Fifty francs may be the sum total of our riches--I +doubt that it will be more. Each is poorer than his neighbour, and +proud of the fact. When you come to us, _ma mie_, let your hands be +full of gold, or we shall starve. Let Mimi be the Queen of our +Treasury. + +You will find the house without difficulty, for your new friends will +be aware of its situation when you tell them that it is in the Walk at +Hampstead Heath, near London, and has the verses of Villon--though +they will not have heard of him--upon the façade. Should you remember +our loneliness, take an early train to London, enter a chariot, and +demand to be driven here. As I say, your friends will direct you--and +are you not rich, Mimi? + +This is the message of the Chevalier Honoré de Villefort: Let Mimi +come to us. + +And this the command of Georges Oleander: Let Mimi come to us. + +And this the great hope upon the lips of Desmond Barrymore: Let Mimi +come to us. + +And this the prayer of one whose house is empty when Mimi is not here. + +_Ah, mes enfants._ + + Henry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XX. + + [In which Mimi replies to Monsieur Henry.] + + 11, The Parade, Felixstowe, + Wednesday. + +Ah, cher Monsieur Henry, if I knew how to answer you. + +Why should I go to dream a little while if I must awake to remember. +_Ah, mille noms, faut-il être Parisienne._ + +There must be roses in the heart if we would wear them on the cheek; +but in my heart none, Monsieur Henry; for it has grown empty. + +I hear the Chevalier--but why would he call me to that great city of +shadows? Does Monsieur Barrymore laugh at me when he would have me +believe that he is happy in this England? Shall I think well of +Monsieur Oleander because he also is deceived a little while? Here I +look all day across the sea where they tell me that France is. I am a +child, but they call me a woman. _Ah, mes enfants!_ What pages I have +turned in this great book of sorrow that none may see my tears fall +upon them. + +A little while and the sun will shine, and then there is the great +cold road again and the sad-faced people, and we go away, oh, so far +away towards the dark and the night; and there is no light in the sky +behind us to tell us where the city is; we hear no laughter anywhere; +but the end of the world is beyond, and we voyage with shut lips +toward it. + +I remember such a journey as this; it was long ago when I was so +little, that you, Monsieur Henry, could have put me in your great big +pocket. An old woman led me by the hand away from a great warm house +down to the water and the ships. I remember that it was twilight and +then night, and that I saw my home behind me as a star one sees low +down in the heavens. And then we came to a hut in the wood, and there +were ugly men, and I could not sleep, and when it was day all that I +had known went from my mind, and I remembered nothing but the lonely +road, and the strange faces, and the harsh words I heard. You know how +far I have journeyed since those days. Ah, what palaces we have +visited together, you and I, Monsieur Henry--and how often I have lost +you! Can you wonder that I would rest--even I? + +I dance still with these English friends, and they are very kind to +me. The people here say that my dancing is wicked; but there are many +clergymen, and they love to say “shockink.” I live in a little room +where I can watch the sea, and I go out every morning, long before the +people are up, to float on the waves, and look for the ship which will +carry me back to France. But there is no mermaid here, no fairy swims +with me; I cannot find the silver shell, and I return to my little +house to say it will be never, that I shall see France no more, that +all the world has deserted me. + +Shall I make you sad, Monsieur Henry, to tell you all these things? If +I do, the Chevalier will make you laugh, and that will be the +recompense. Oh, he is droll, the Chevalier. Do you remember when he +loved Madame la Comtesse de Brianville--and would have borrowed twenty +francs to marry her? _Ah, mes enfants_--but those were days! + +And Monsieur Georges. Yes, I would like to see him again, and that +great Monsieur Barrymore who used to sit me on his knee before he +painted my picture. + +And they are all in your Maison du bon Tabac, and there is Paris below +the windows, the Paris you love to dream of, and you sing the songs +that Jean de Bataille made. _Ah, mes enfants_--if I were there!--Your +friend, + + Mimi. + + + + + CHAPTER XXI. + + [Being a telegram from Henry Gastonard to his friend Paddy O’Connell + of Glendalough.] + +Have news of the gravest importance. Please come to London at once to +the Maison du bon Tabac, at Hampstead. I count upon you.--Harry +Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XXII. + + [Being the reply from Paddy O’Connell to Henry Gastonard’s telegram.] + +Impossible to leave before the next train--am catching it.--Paddy. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIII. + + [Paddy O’Connell shares the news with his sister Clara.] + + 4, The Walk, Hampstead, London, N.W., + September 5th, 1905. + +My dear Clara,--’Twas a rough crossing I had, and it found me by no +means unwilling to step from the sea to the land. But I’d be no good +Irishman if I complained of a little rough water between me and the +Sassenach; and so here I am and, God be good to me, in the midst of as +wild a company of men as ever drank wine out of a flower vase or +cooked their beef on a spirit stove. And, faith, they do drink and eat +from the morning until the night, and, after that, from night to the +morning again--as the garden bears witness, for I swear ’tis full +already of the bottles, and beginning to be heaped up at that. + +There was a man at Euston who clapped a false bag over my valise and +stepped into a cab with it; but I saw him just in time, and jumped +into the cab with him. He appeared by no means pleased at this; and +when the driver asked “Where to?” “Why,” says I, “to Scotland Yard.” +You should have seen the fellow alight, leaving me in possession of a +machine to steal bags which might well be a fortune to me. + +But, Clara, I am to tell you of my visit to Hampstead, where Harry +is--and not of any bags at all--which I now proceed to do as well as +these hilarious folks will let me, and as coherently as the madness of +it makes possible. You should know that I found Harry in a little +house on the top of a hill by London, at a place they call Hampstead; +a great, big, bare heath of a wilderness where the folks go to be +happy on Sundays, and which is large enough for the drunken ones to +fall down and sleep convenient. This is the famous Hampstead Heath, +wherefrom, they tell me, you can see the dome of St. Paul’s and +Westminster Abbey, though little of one or the other did I see, but +only a great big hole full of smoke and the roofs of railway stations, +and the factory chimneys sticking up above it. + +The house itself is a bit of a place not much bigger than a cabin on a +bog. Some man, who has a wonderful taste for the arts, painted it the +colour of the great Atlantic Ocean, and there are creepers all over +the face of it, and some poor little roses that are pining for the +country but will get no chance of air yet awhile. As for the interior +of the place, well, there we have Harry’s wit at work, for the rascal +has made it as like his little house in Paris as money and pains could +do; and, as if this were not enough, he has invited over a troop of +the rogues that he used to know, and filled them with good red wine +until there isn’t a man among them who could tell you whether he’s +himself or his neighbour. But here I get ahead of the story, and that, +my dear Clara, will never do. + +I arrived at the house about six o’clock of the evening. No man could +have mistaken the place, for a great tri-colored flag was flying out +of the bedroom window, and a crowd stood before the windows to hear +the Chevalier Villefort singing the French song which has the fine +classic chorus--“Fifine, elle est doloreuse.” When I knocked at the +door, loud enough to shake the door off its hinges, such a shout went +up as should have brought the fire engines to the street. And what a +rushing to the door, what cries of “Entrez--herein--kum een”--what +hands thrust out to drag me along--what a tossing up of my bag--God +help the whisky--what a pandemonium! A rat fallen among terriers would +not have been so shaken to the very roots as your poor Paddy. Faith, I +think that about forty of them were sitting on my chest at a time, +though it proved afterwards that there were but five in the house, +including the little witch that Greuze should have painted, and she +was as wild as any of them, and as ready for the frolic. + +Well, they pulled me into a room that was conveniently furnished with +a piano that had but two or three notes to it, and chairs that had no +proper backs to them; and, seeing that I was hungry and famished after +the journey, they set a bottle of curaçoa and a yard of bread before +me and bade me fall to. + +The place itself was so thick with smoke that I was hard put to it to +say whether I was looking out of the front of my head or the back; and +I was in no way surprised to hear that they had made a night and a day +of it, and proposed to double the term. As for the men, their clothes +would have made the fortune of a circus. Harry himself wore a suit of +travelling checks loud enough to knock down a nigger minstrel. The +long-whiskered beggar-man, Georges Oleander, had an old golfer’s red +coat to his back and a sea-green waistcoat for its own brother; the +lady-killer Villefort, a real Frenchman as you see them in Paris and a +gentleman as well, he wore a frock-coat and a rose like a cabbage in +his buttonhole; while as for the little witch Mimi, she was dressed in +a frock down to her knees and a pair of crimson stockings bright +enough to light the candles. What it all meant--the house, the people, +the noise--your Paddy knew no more than the people in the street. What +was worse, no man among them seemed able to tell him. + +“Finish your breakfast first,” says Harry--it was then about half-past +six o’clock of the afternoon--“and then we can lay the cloth for +dinner. I’ve ordered it from the confectioner’s, and we’re going to +have a real good time. Upon my word, Paddy, you were an old brick to +come--whatever should we have done without you?” + +“Why?” says I, wondering still more, “and what do you propose to do +with me?” + +“Why, to make you sing ‘Finnigan’s Wake’ to begin with, and then the +next best song you can remember. Come, Paddy, no heel-taps--you must +be thirsty, and I wish we had something else but curaçoa. They’ve +drunk all the wine and I’ve sent for some more.” + +“From what I perceive,” says I, “they have already drunk what you’ve +sent for. Is it a wake or a wedding, Harry? You didn’t send for me all +the way from Ireland to join in a smoking-concert. I’ll not believe it +at all.” + +He said “Hush,” and, presently, when the others were fallen to their +games again, he took me out into the bit of a garden, where there was +a fountain and a satyr--though the gentleman had a clay pipe in his +mouth instead of a flute, and someone had sketched the picture of a +broken bottle just where he should have worn his tail. Here we had a +moment’s privacy, and here I began to get at the truth of it. + +“Harry,” asks I, “will ye answer me a plain question--what are all +these tipsy gentlemen doing here, and why have you brought that little +lady among them?” + +Well, he took me by the arm and began to walk me up and down the +narrow path. + +“They’re not tipsy,” says he, “they’re just glad, Paddy. It’s a long +story, my boy, and a good one. But I’ll have to tell it you in two +minutes.” + +“Ay,” says I, “and it’s the story of the child, no doubt.” + +He nodded his head. He’s a fine handsome lad, with a wicked wisp of +brown curls over his handsome forehead, and two clear blue eyes which +should go deep into any woman’s heart. And he never looked handsomer +than he did this night. + +“Her story, of course, Paddy. I have won her by a trick, my boy. Don’t +say now that I was wrong to go to my cousin’s house, for it was little +Martha who put the first notion of it into my head.” + +“Did the parson call you out?” + +“No, he called me in lest the neighbours should see.” + +“Did he complain of his ship coming home--the poor devil of a man?” + +“It was a little awkward, certainly--but it saved me, Paddy. I just +ran over to Cromer to see Mimi, and then came on to London to fit up +this house. What will appeal to her, said I, will be a new Maison du +bon Tabac.” + +“You’ve plenty of it here. ’Twould take a telescope to see across the +room.” + +He was a little cross with me for interrupting him, and, in faith, I +was as curious to hear his story as he to tell it. So I just held my +tongue and let him run on freely. + +“I determined if I could,” he said, “to find Mimi a little house in +London, which would speak to her of the old days in Paris and lead her +to forget that she is among strangers in a strange country. So I +fitted up this place. You see what kind of a place it is, Paddy--just +a replica of the old villa on the Butte, with the very furniture that +we used to laugh at there. Then I sent for my friends, and the good +fellows came at once. How could they keep away?” + +“You paid their fares, Harry?” + +“Yes, and old Georges had an accident with his at the Cabaret of the +Tête Noire--so I had to send it twice. But they came, Paddy, and we +began to live the old life just as we lived it at Montmartre--and then +we wrote to Mimi; we all wrote to her, and we sat down and waited for +her. My God! if you had known what those days of waiting meant to me.” + +He was deeply moved, and my heart went out to him. I have spoken to +you before of his great love for this child--and, to be sure, it is an +honest man’s devotion, full of fine, chivalrous thoughts and so +utterly unselfish that it must bring him to abject poverty by and by. +This, however, was not the time to speak of it. + +“But she came to you, Harry?” said I; “she came to you, man?” + +“God be thanked, she did, Paddy. It was last night--these fellows had +all gone off to dine in Soho at a French café no Christian man has +ever heard of. I was alone in the house--all my spirit had gone, for +Mimi’s letter seemed to say that she would not come. All the prophets +of evil whispered in my ears and promised me misfortunes while I +waited. I lived half a lifetime of poverty, distress, and +disappointment--alone in the dark of the garden looking down upon the +lights of London, and asking if they hid Mimi from my sight. You know +what moods like these can be--how we seem robbed of every shred of +hope, how we say that good fortune will never visit us again--wish +almost that our lives were lived. That was my case for two long +hours--oh, my dear Paddy, may I never live such hours again.” + +“And then,” says I, “then, my dear Harry, you were lifted up to heaven +in a jiffy. Elijah didn’t beat you at the flying.” + +He laughed like a boy at this, while he squeezed my arm as though he +would press all the human kindness out of me and add it to his own +store. Trust a man in love to be a miser with his sympathies. + +“As true as gold, Paddy,” says he, “she came at nine o’clock, just +when I had put pistols in the balance with laudanum, and was watching +the scale. I can hear the wheels rolling on the gravel now--ah, the +roll of the wheels that carry your mistress to you, is there any +sweeter music in life?” + +“Did she come alone, Harry?” + +“The man they call Jack Bendall brought her. I gave him a ten-pound +note for himself and a fiver each for the others of the company. Of +course, I didn’t guess at first that Mimi was in the cab, and my heart +started to beat like a fire-pump. She was ill, I said, gone back to +France perhaps--or even dead. Then, Paddy, I heard her voice! Think of +that, old boy, I heard her voice!” + +“’Twas what was said in the Dublin Courts last week, when Mary +Wentworth went for a divorce from old Mike. She heard a voice in the +parlour--a female voice----” + +“Oh, be serious, Paddy, be serious.” + +“The very words the Judge used. Do you mean to marry her now you’ve +got her here, Harry?” + +“Am I a rogue, Paddy? I’d have married her this morning if the priest +would have done it.” + +“The priest--what priest?” + +“Why, the one from the little French church. Old Georges went to fetch +him, but we’d had so much wine that Georges couldn’t explain himself, +and the priest thought there was someone sick, and came immediately. +When he got there, it was just about half-past five in the morning. +The room was full of bottles and tobacco-smoke, and Villefort was +playing ‘All the little sheep and lambs,’ and singing it as well. When +the good father came in and saw Mimi fast asleep in an armchair and +the rest of us looking as though we had been boiled in old Bordeaux, +he just bolted, Paddy.” + +“Ah,” says I, “it’s astonishing how the ecclesiastical mind revolts at +originality. Ye couldn’t call him back, Harry?” + +“No, I didn’t try. We’re to have a special license now and to be +married in the morning. Mimi’s sent for her clothes, and I’ve got a +frock-coat coming over.” + +“Will you live in this place when it’s done?” + +“Ah, that’s what I don’t know. You see, I had to catch her by a trick, +but I won’t keep her that way, for we have our livings to get. That’s +a task I must set about at once.” + +“You were for setting about it two years ago. I remember you bought a +quire of paper and two nibs, and were for writing the History of the +Palais Royal. You got as far as a sketch of Cardinal Richelieu dining +at the Ritz Hotel, didn’t you?” + +“Yes, Paddy, but it’s a great scheme, and I shall finish it some day.” + +“Some day is the Bohemian’s yesterday. He’s always going to do great +things yesterday. Harry, my boy, you’re taking the devil’s own risk; +there are few men who would countenance you, I suppose.” + +“But you, you, Paddy, you don’t forbid it?” + +“I’ve wished it from the start. It may be the making of you--if it +isn’t the ruin. I’d sooner see you married to this little girl than +dangling at a married woman’s apron-strings as you were in Paris. +Riches don’t go for much if they can’t do better than that for you, +Harry.” + +“Oh, but you’re talking of things that have been. I don’t want to hear +about them--heaven knows, there are sad moments enough.” + +“Why sad moments?” + +“I cannot tell you. It’s just obstinacy. Sometimes I tell myself that +even if I marry Mimi, I shall not keep her with me. I’m afraid of her +own past, afraid of my own future. Consider what gipsy lives we have +led. How are we to go on living them, how am I to hope that she will +settle down to the hum-drum things of a suburban existence? And, of +course, I dare not take her back to Paris; you know how foolish that +would be.” + +“Put the thought out of your head. You would be a madman to play with +it. As for keeping her--well, a man who cannot keep a woman who loves +him isn’t worth his salt. I’ll not hear it. You have no right to be +talking like this--not to-night anyway. Begin to speak of dark things +when the sun is setting on your happiness. You can keep it above the +horizon as Joshua did if you set out to slaughter the heathen who are +the masters of your idleness. Work, Harry--that’s the best friend in a +man’s home.” + +He did not answer me; in truth, he had no chance. The dinner made its +appearance, and we all sat down to it--such a merry company that must +have recalled all the days of the old Kit Kat Club, and of the wild +dogs that frequented the same. For you must know, Clara, that this +Hampstead place has seen the poets Keats and Leigh Hunt, who was +another writing man, and Charles Dickens, to say nothing of the +prize-fighters who had their training quarters in these parts, as +Harry told me over the dinner-table; and I’ll warrant there has been +many such a carouse as we held this night, and with reasons not half +so good. Meat and drink, song and dance--the men breaking up the +chairs and tables; all sorts of music, wine enough to float a man of +war, French ways and manners of it--ay, a night and a morning, too, +for the bride fell fast asleep in the arm-chair just when the sun came +up, and there were three of us on the benches in the garden when they +cried the milk in the streets. Nor will I write this to our shame. We +were children of the highway for the nonce. God knows, there is too +much of brick and mortar in the world. + +You may ask me, Clara, how I, a decent man in my own country, and +respected in County Wicklow--as any clergyman who plays golf will bear +witness--how I can encourage this tipsy life or give moral support to +my old friend, Henry Gastonard, when he is the victim of it. I’ll tell +you in a word. He will go to the devil if he does not marry this +little witch, and the way he has set out to marry her is the only one +by which his journey’s end can be reached. + +Think of the child’s life--she who danced in the booths about Paris, +she who has been a fortune hunter--God help her!--almost since she was +old enough to lisp any words at all. Would such a pretty waif and +stray go to a man who had red plush breeches about him and solid +silver on his table? Would she enter a house of double doors with a +marble staircase beyond? Never, I’ll swear, to her life’s end. He has +won her through her heart, and worthily won her too. + +They were married this morning at ten o’clock at the French Consulate, +and afterwards by the man that keeps the Registry. The rest of us were +half asleep, but we kept it up to the end, and when we left them at +ten o’clock of the night and they were alone together in the house, we +stood by the window a moment to watch him kiss her very tenderly +before we went down the hill to the pit where London lies. She is now +his wife--God bless her pretty face!--though what their future is to +be, whether a fair way in a garden of roses or all the sorrow of the +children of Alsatia is more than any man may dare to say--let alone +your affectionate brother, + + Paddy. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIV. + + [In which Henry Gastonard keeps his promise to Martha Warrington.] + + 4, The Walk, Hampstead, N.W., + September 21st, 1905. + +Dear Martha,--I have owed you a letter for a long time, but really, my +dear cousin, a man whose honeymoon is but a fortnight old has little +time to think of the sun--and his days are brief enough. + +I was sorry to hear that Arthur considers my marriage a “mere scramble +on to the banks after a wild plunge into the vortex of sin.” I hope he +was not eating new bread and butter when he uttered this masterpiece. +Marriage, I remember, was not made much of by St. Paul, and Arthur +used to be a Pauline until he met you. What he is now I have not yet +discovered. You, who have broken the box of sweet spices at his feet, +are right to complain of the holes in his socks--but as a married man +I have no sympathy with you. + +This is dreadful news, too, about your hair. These new dyes are +troublesome tenants, and do not take our hair upon a repairing lease. +It really was very noble of you to dye it so bright a red for the sake +of the Pageant. And now, you say that the dye won’t come out, and that +you must return to Beldon still wearing the brand of Boadicea. Cheer +up, Martha. Have not some of the noblest women in history--chief +amongst them our Elizabeth of blessed memory--dressed auburn locks for +posterity and gloried in their possessions? For my part, had I known +of the fact when writing my skit, “The People of the Pageant,” I would +have mentioned it to your lasting honour. The little book appears to +be getting about--I had no idea that such a trifle could interest so +many. + +But concerning more serious things. I am living, as you wished me to +live, in a box of a cottage upon Hampstead Heath. The place is pretty +enough, and now that we are married I am putting some comfort into it. +This is only to be done secretly and by stealth. Chairs, which were +not there yesternight, are discovered at breakfast time. A new piano +dropped from the heavens, so to speak, and has notes that play. I have +bought a splendid brass bed, and the men rigged it up while Mimi was +out shopping. She suspects me, but says little. I have not told her in +the very word that I am poor; but I have led her to that belief, and +her devotion is the consequence. + +Would it be foolish to tell you, Martha, that I am not wholly happy in +spite of all this? The vaguest fears afflict me. I know not from day +to day what evil is to overtake me, and yet I am conscious of evil. +Perchance it is but the aftermath of golden days, lived in a sunshine +I had never hoped to see. Perhaps it is but a lover’s humour--I cannot +say, and yet it is as real as any thought that ever dwelt with me. + +You must know that old Paddy O’Connell, the wild Irishman with the +thunderous voice and the jet black locks and the magnificent figure, +remains, good friend that he is, in London to “see me through it,” +whatever that may mean. He is lodged at the Jack Straw Castle Inn, on +the very summit of the Heath here, and he is with us the best part of +the day, and often the best part of the night. As Mimi refuses +(because of my poverty) to engage a servant, and is at once +housekeeper, cook and general servant to the establishment, I welcome +Paddy as valet in ordinary, and do not refuse him. At the brushing of +a coat or the carrying of a coal-hod he is immense; while his choice +of wines and cigars is not to be questioned. For the rest, he has a +new scheme of money-making ready for me every day. His last was as +wild as his first--it would do cousin Arthur good to hear of it. + +Paddy thought he had discovered a new furnace and retort for the +making of gas. He wished to put a thousand into the thing and for me +to work it in his interest. The invention, it appears, was run by a +sharp American, who had the machine set up in a mews near +Baker-street, and invited us there to witness his experiments. I went +by appointment, and, of course, Paddy accompanied me. Apparently, the +inventor made gas out of anything you like. He had a small furnace and +a retort with a meter attached. I don’t know much about the business, +but I have a pair of eyes in my head, and I used them carefully while +we witnessed the first experiments. Certainly they were wonderful. The +inventor lighted a fire with a little bundle of sticks and then put +all sorts of things into the furnace--bits of paper, bits of cloth, +rubbish from dust-bins; and all the time the meter showed that gas was +being made. He declared to us on his word of honour that he could make +gas “out of dead cats” if he chose. I went away puzzled, but Paddy was +enchanted. + +“See here,” says he, “is it a fortune to ye or is it not?” + +“My dear Paddy,” said I, “fortunes do not come quite so kindly--I want +to think a bit.” + +“Think be hanged!” says he, “’tis thinking ye have been for five years +or more. Will ye starve or make gas?” + +“Gas,” said I, “does not generally starve, Paddy. There’s a lot of it +about in London.” + +“To the devil with it, Harry. Will ye take the man’s offer or leave +it?” + +“I’ll tell you to-morrow, Paddy, when we have seen him again.” + +He was very angry at this, and would not come to lunch with me. Of +course, I told Mimi all about it, and asked her opinion. She knows +less about gas than I do; but she has a wonderful little head of her +own, and her wisdom often puts me to shame. + +“People cannot make gas out of rubbish, Harry. I am sure of it. Did +you light the fire yourself, or did he?” + +“Oh, he did, Mimi.” + +“Very well; take some wood to-morrow and offer to light it for him.” + +I told her that I would do so, and we changed the subject with a +laugh. She had made a wonderful omelet, but had put sugar instead of +salt into it, and I had to confess that a savoury omelet made with +sugar was a delicacy to captivate the heart of Brillat Savarin. The +afternoon we spent in the lanes on our bicycles, and at night a +mollified Paddy came to dine with us and made no reference to the gas, +though I observed that he took but a moderate quantity of that +commodity with his whisky. + +Ten o’clock had been the hour fixed for our second visit to +Baker-street, and we were there, as the Americans say, on time. I +don’t know whether the inventor took the matter as already settled, +but he wore a fine frock-coat and had a pretty white rose in his +buttonhole. The usual preliminaries being over, he told me that he +proposed to make gas out of a box of child’s bricks, an old volume of +illustrated newspapers, and a woman’s discarded shawl. I listened +patiently, and did not interfere until the moment he was about to +light the fire; when I stepped forward and produced the bundle of +sticks with which Mimi had provided me. + +“Look here,” said I, “if you expect me to put any money into this, I +must light the fire to-day.” + +Well, Martha, if a thunderbolt had hit him the man could not have +looked more surprised. And yet his _sang-froid_ did not desert him; he +pretended to acquiesce with the best of good grace. + +“It is immaterial to me,” he said; “you will find the furnace a little +damp--so many queer things get into it. By all means try, and I will +get a pair of bellows to help you.” + +He was out of the room in a jiffy, and we heard him running down the +stairs. For my part I made no attempt whatever to light his fire. + +“Paddy,” said I, “he will return with those bellows on the kalends of +March. I’ll give you fifty pounds if he comes back to-day.” + +Paddy would not hear of it. + +“What!” cried he, “d’ye mean to say we have met with a swindler?” + +“Undoubtedly, and a very impudent one.” + +“I’ll never believe it. Ye do the man an injustice; ’tis a lie, I +say!” + +“Very well, Paddy; send out for some lunch and the morning newspapers. +We can soon prove it one way or the other.” + +Poor man, he was in a fearful state, for there is no more trusting +soul in all Ireland to-day than Paddy O’Connell. I need not tell you, +Martha, that the man never came back. The secret of his furnace was +the secret of the bundle of sticks with which he lighted his fire. +These were chemically prepared, and generated the gas which caused the +meter to register. + +And so, alas, poor Paddy! There was no more sorrowful man in Hampstead +than my good friend that night. If he made no actual reference to the +evanescent subject of gas, I observed that he took plain water with +his whisky and uttered certain pious aphorisms concerning the +wickedness of this world in general and of its merchants in +particular. Forty-eight hours afterwards he had another scheme +prepared. I am to set up in London as an art connoisseur--to advise +the dealers concerning old pictures and the public concerning new +ones. This, he says, will bring me a decent income, at any rate, and +assure me the friendship of millionaires. + +“And who knows,” he asks me triumphantly, “that one of ’em won’t take +a fancy to you and make you a partner in his affairs? ’Tis a thing +that has happened, and not so wonderful. Ye have Mimi to keep, and ye +may have the children. Will ye be sitting idle while she starves, +Harry? Shame on ye for the thought.” + +To which I can make no response, Martha. Idleness has caught me in its +iron grip, and I am spellbound. The sunny days pass so swiftly. There +is a crown of tousled hair upon my pillow when I wake; I see the one +face in all the world that should be there when I go to my sleep at +night. Mimi herself appears to live in a kind of wonderland. Sometimes +she dreams through long spells of silence; there are other hours when +the old life stirs in her blood and all the riot and merriment of the +Butte must claim her. Again and again I have spoken to her of her +childhood, but can awaken no new memories. A wood, and a lonely road, +and a woman’s terrible face--such are her impressions. To speak of +them is to recall those phantoms of fear which have haunted me from +the beginning and are not unknown to her. I repeat that they may be +the creations of happiness itself, for what is left for me to desire +but this possession of all that I have sought--this peace which +passeth understanding? + +Convey, I beg of you, to cousin Arthur such impressions of my +affection as will suit his mood. His sermon on the “Damnable Errors of +Modernism” I should have thought a little advanced for the simple +fisherfolk at Lowestoft. As for the holiday-makers, they must be hard +put to it sometimes to discover something new--so I suppose they went +in. The main thing is, did you play to capacity; I mean, in ordinary +parlance, had you a good collection? + +It would be cruel to hear that the damnable heresies aforesaid were +assessed by Lowestoft at a sum of seven-and-six sterling--the amount +in the plate upon the last occasion when it was put before--Your +affectionate Cousin, + + Harry. + + + + + CHAPTER XXV. + + [Containing certain instructions to M. Jules Farman, ex-agent of + police at 4 (bis), Rue du Quatre Septembre, Paris.] + + 4, The Walk, Hampstead, London, N.W., + September 28th, 1905. + +Dear Monsieur Farman,--The inquiries set up for me by the French +Consul, of which I spoke to you in a recent letter, appear to have +been without fruit. I am, therefore, craving your kind services once +more in my interest and begging your diligence. + +It is known to you that I have married Mademoiselle Mimi, who cost us +so pretty an adventure at Raincy together; but the circumstance of my +marriage and my wife’s own solicitude make it more necessary than ever +that I should be put in possession of all the facts which inquiry and +patience may disclose concerning her birth and parentage. I know no +one in Paris to whom I would as soon commit my interests as to you, +and I hereby beg of you to accept the service and to spare no expense +to further it. From what the Consul has been so good as to tell me, +your inquiries will be best pursued in the neighbourhood of Orleans, +and especially at the house of the old woman Marie, if she be still +living and capable of answering any questions at all. + +There is another circumstance--so shadowy that I mention it with +hesitation, but so full of remote possibility that I have no right to +withhold it. For some days now, I have had the idea that this little +house of mine in London is being watched. Possibly my fears are +altogether groundless. We have led an eccentric life in this place and +have carried here some of the habits and practices with which Paris +made us familiar. These may have provoked the curiosity of the +neighbours or of others who have heard of them by rumour. Be that as +it may, my wife has been much alarmed upon more than one occasion, and +I am not without my fears that we are upon the threshold of a greater +mystery than any which has yet attended her adventurous life. + +I may add that there is just one man in Paris who, in my wife’s +judgment, should have been sought out by us before but has escaped our +observation and eluded our reckoning. He is a burly ruffian who +frequents the old Café of the Assassins, and he is often to be found +there nowadays. They know him by the name of Jean-le-Mont, a title by +which you will readily discover him. + +I commend this man to your notice as one who might be able to help you. +Meanwhile, accept the assurance of my profound consideration.--And +permit me to remain, + + Yours very faithfully, + Henry Gastonard. + +I enclose a draft for a hundred pounds. You are to draw upon me +immediately for any further sums you may require. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVI. + + [Madame Mimi writes a letter to Paddy O’Connell.] + + The Hotel Metropole, Brighton, + Sunday. + +Dear Great Big Monsieur Paddy,--I cannot very much write the English +as now, but I shall have to say to you what is not proper. Why do you +tell me the untrue things about my husband--that he is the poor man +and no more shall have any of the moneys? Is it, Monsieur Paddy, +because the men always think they are good when they tell the untruth +to the lady? But I know, and I am angry, very angry with you. You +shall never tell me untrue things again--_jamais de ma vie_. + +I would tell you that we have gone away from the Hampstead to the +border of the sea. If Harry had not the moneys he could not have led +me here in the big motor-car--so big, Monsieur Paddy, that we could +have put you in it as well. And we have come to the hotel, and I am so +frightened of the people and I think I shall run away. But Harry says +no--and I remain, for I could not be, oh, not for a little single +hour, away from the place where _mon mari_ dwells. So I stay, but am +very sad--dear friend, if you would understand how sad I am! + +Why do the men come to my house and watch me? I do not say to my +husband half the things I know, for that shall make him afraid also. +Is it, Monsieur Paddy, that someone hates me for being his wife? Shall +you think that Madame Lea sends the men? She is not the woman who may +forget him--how well I remember it, and how often I tell it by myself +when no one is in the apartment with me. She will not forget--that +clever, wicked Madame Lea who love all the men for moneys but not any +at all for the love. + +It was because I have been afraid that my husband brought me to the +border of the sea. We have put on all our clothes and are very +beautiful. I must not sing as I walk to and fro, and if the music +makes me want to dance I must hold myself down upon my _banc_. All the +afternoons the _monde_ goes up and down in a carriage--such _gros +monsieurs_ with fur round their necks, and the English lady who is so +sad and makes her shoulders bare before she sits down to dinner. + +I like the sun and I like the sea--the great big wild sea, where +across so far is my beloved France. I am very happy with my husband, +but, oh, so much afraid, that I wake in the night and lay my head upon +his breast and cry myself because he is there and I am his wife. Ah, +Monsieur Paddy, how unhappy to be no one--never to have known that you +were a little child and that you had a home. I am that, and I am +ashamed because it has been so--that I am not as the others, and that +my husband shall never be proud of me because of what I was when I +left my father’s house. + +Will you not write to me, my dear Monsieur Paddy, and tell me how +wrong I am? Do not refuse Mimi the Simpleton. She is very simple +still, dear Monsieur Paddy, and she have no right to believe that her +happiness is not the dream which will pass away. + +Why did you go from us to your desert country? Why did you leave us? +It was not kind, Monsieur--and you have been our friend. All the +others is gone away--the Chevalier, the wicked Monsieur Oleander, the +kind Monsieur Barrymore. They have taken my husband’s money and gone +away--ah, _quel drole du monde!_ + +_Mais vous_,--Well, I shall forgive you, for you will come back to me. +And you will write the letter to say that I am wicked and that I must +not be afraid. And please to tell me that it is not Madame Lea, and +that my husband will never see her--never as long as we both shall +live. + + Your devoted, + Mimi Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVII. + + [Paddy O’Connell replies to Mimi’s letter.] + + The Headland Hotel, Portrush, Ireland, + October 2nd, 1905. + +Dear Mimi,--Your pretty letter came to me in confidence, my dear, or I +would have answered you with a telegram. Though, to be sure, what a +man puts in a telegram is private enough, neither he nor anyone else +being able to made head nor tail of it sometimes. What I wanted to say +to you was just this--that you are a foolish little girl to write to +me as you did, though there’s no one I’d sooner hear from, and no one +whose letters I’d be readier to answer. + +What’s all this nonsense about the men that watch you, Mimi? Don’t the +men always watch a pretty woman anyway? I’ll not flatter you at all, +but if it’s the watching that you’re after, come over to this golfing +country, and you shall have five and fifty men on the first tee to see +you off, and as many of the women behind them to declare you’d be +pretty if it wasn’t for your “faytures.” So have done with your +nonsense! I’ll be writing Harry this very day and giving him a word of +my mind about all that you tell me. He’s made strange friends in his +days of seedtime, and they’re above the ground now at the harvest. +That’s the way we men have ’em, my dear. We sow friendships in our +youth and often enough reap thistles in our old age. + +Harry was wise to take you away, and I hope he’ll keep you in the same +place. There’s nothing like change, though precious little of that +same comes the way of Paddy O’Connell. To me the world is all the +same, my dear--just a great grass field with a lot of sand-pits +therein, and your Paddy in one of them for a certainty. + +What d’ye think the fellows here had the impudence to do this morning? +Why, to follow me and old Colonel Willis when we were playing a round +of the golf. He’s a very wicked habit of using bad language, which I +have no mind to be listening to, and when I saw a crowd about the +first tee, I asked them what they supposed they had come out to see. +And what do you think they answered me? “Why,” says one of them, “we +haven’t come here to see--we’ve come here to listen.” Be hanged to +their impudence. + +There’s one point in your letter which I haven’t spoken of, Mimi, and +I speak of it now unwillingly. ’Twould be about the Lea woman. Be sure +that Harry will see no more of her. I say it, and Paddy O’Connell +makes no mistakes in a matter of this kind. He’s done with her--he +wished to be done with her a year ago, but she wouldn’t let him. And +ask yourself this, my dear--when a man has got the woman he wants, is +he likely to want the woman he hasn’t got? Think no more of it, I say. +Be off with him to all the places where there’s music to be heard and +bright people to be seen, and let me hear of the brave little girl I +used to know in Paris, and will never forget. + +So here’s my love to you wrapped up in a bit of a letter and posted in +the great Irish country. ’Tis no great spirit I’m writing in, but +you’d never understand all the trouble that comes to a man who’s +taking three on the greens where he ought to take two, and can never +hold a hand at the cards without somebody insulting him. To the devil +with them all! They put two aces of hearts in the pack of cards I +played Bridge with last night, and me not discovering it until the +second rubber. Would ye wonder that I walked out of the window and +banged it after me. + +I write to Harry by this post. If he shouldn’t show you the letter, +don’t pretend to know what’s in it. + +But it’s wisdom, my dear, and that’s a rare commodity in these +days.--God bless you--and, + + Paddy O’Connell. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVIII. + + [The Same Author addresses Henry Gastonard at the Hotel Metropole, + Brighton.] + + The Headland Hotel, Portrush, Ireland, + October 2nd, 1905. + +Dear Harry,--What’s all this now about your trouble at home and the +men that are looking after you? Is it dreams, or are spirits about? I +hear from your angel of a wife that some nonsense has come into both +your heads. And I haven’t the patience to hear it--so there’s the +truth. + +Now, you have got to be up and doing, and acting the man’s part. +Remember, you have made as odd a marriage--but as wise a one--as any +man that ever put a ring in his waistcoat pocket, and couldn’t find it +there when the parson asked him. Mimi is a little wild animal that you +took from the prairie--as soft as silk, as gentle to your hand; but, +man, with the blood of the prairie in her veins. Remember this every +day you get up from her side--she’s the daughter of savages, and her +birthright will cry out for a hearing sometimes. + +What are all these fears of hers? Are they not the alarm of the +gazelle which sniffs a lion on the sky line, and would be moving? What +are the mad outbreaks you speak of--the frenzied desire for change and +movement? Are they not born of the same impulse which sends a wild +pony scampering through the forest and keeps him at it until he’s +exhausted? Be very patient with her. The man who would keep a wild +bird well should not begrudge the money he spends for a decent +cage--and a large one to boot. + +To be plain with you, Harry, I’d be less troubled about your good +little wife if I had a better story to tell of her husband. You say +that you are planning a scheme which will surprise me presently. Did +you ever hear tell of the South Sea Bubble where a rogue made a +fortune by advertising a business “presently to be disclosed?” Paddy +O’Connell is not the one to be putting his hopes for you in any +company like that. Be up and doing; do you realise that in a few +months you’ll have no more than a bank clerk, and with a power of +spending which would shame the Jam of Rorypore? + +Did I tell you that I had a letter from America which gave me some +concern for a few days? A fellow wrote me that he had discovered a +gold mine, and, being an old friend of my father’s, had put me down at +the beginning for fifty shares. “These,” says the man, “are now worth +about a thousand apiece, and there is gold banked against your name in +New York to that amount.” All that I had to do was to send him a +cheque for five hundred and forty pounds, the unpaid call on the +shares. Bedad, I’d have done it but for McCarthy, the solicitor, who’s +the finest nose in Ireland for scenting out a “do,” and was on the rat +before he’d got half way out of his hole. + +“Why,” says he, “this is the gold brick over again.” + +“What brick?” asks I, astonished. + +“The gold brick,” says he; “if you go out there, he’ll show you a lump +of gold as big as a Kerry flint, and there’ll be lead inside of the +same.” + +“You’ve no trust in humanity,” says I--and “Devil a bit,” says he--so +I’m keeping my money, though I’ve heard of a little scheme for +shipping Irish horses to the gold-fields of Alaska, which should be +worth something if worked by honest men. Ay, and that’s the rub. +Henry, my boy, where do the honest men hide themselves these days? I’d +sooner look for an old ball in a bunker full of stones than try to +find one of the same. + +You must be coming to Ireland and bringing Mimi with you. We’ll show +her the wild man’s country together, and, perhaps, be teaching her the +golf. ’Tis true that neither of us can play, but, my dear boy, the +best teachers in the world are those who know nothing themselves, as +you’ll observe both in the realms of art and literature, to say +nothing of those of sport. Bring the child over and let’s cheer her up +awhile. I’ll warrant there’ll be men enough to watch her; but she +won’t be afraid of them, devil a bit.--Your friend, as ever, + + Paddy. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIX. + + [Henry Gastonard makes an urgent appeal to Jules Farman, of the Rue du + Quatre Septembre, Paris.] + + 4, The Walk, Hampstead, + October 11th, 1905. + +Dear M. Farman,--Your response to my urgent telegram that you should +leave Paris and come to me immediately, brings the reply that you +cannot leave until to-morrow. I am therefore writing you this letter +with what composure I can in the face of this dreadful event, that you +may be in possession of all the facts before you leave Paris, and able +to deal with them there, if they are of service to you. + +It was at nine o’clock last Sunday night that I first discovered the +crime which had been committed in my house. I had been absent, perhaps +the best part of an hour, making a call upon a friend who desired to +consult me upon a French picture he purchased recently. We returned +from Brighton upon the previous afternoon, my wife apparently having +overcome those hallucinations which have troubled her for some weeks +past, and being quite reconciled to the prospect of a continued +residence at Hampstead. She was in no way unhappy at the thought of +being alone, nor did I have any scruples about leaving her. My +suspicions were first awakened when I discovered that my friend had +not written to me at all, and that the letter which I received from +him was a clever but undoubted forgery. + +You may imagine with what haste I went back to Hampstead. I had left +my wife at the piano in the sitting-room, where, the weather being +chilly, a bright fire burned; but I perceived immediately I approached +the house that it was in darkness, although a glimmer upon the blind +still spoke of the firelight. This alarmed me greatly. I tried to open +the front door with my latchkey, but found that the bolt had been +slipped. A loud knock and ring obtained no answer. I was now seriously +alarmed, as you may suppose, and being determined to obtain instant +admittance to the house, I smashed the large pane of glass in the +sitting-room, and entered without further delay. + +I have told you that I left my wife in this room, seated at the piano +in the further corner near the French window by which you pass out to +the garden. That she had been called away without warning was proved +by the fact that one of the candles still guttered in its socket, +though too faintly to give any light, and that the sheet of music lay +upon the floor, indicating that she had been turning the very page +when the summons came to her. Save for the fact that the fire burned +low and that the electric light was switched off, there was nothing +else in this place to excite suspicion. I called my wife loudly by +name, going to the window and hoping to find her in the garden. She +did not answer me. I returned to the hall, and immediately discovered +the body of the man. + +Some of the newspapers, I remember, say that he was a Spaniard. I +should pronounce him nothing of the kind, but one of your own +countrymen who had lived long in the South. When I found him he was +quite dead, and had fallen forward upon a wicker seat at the foot of +the stairs. To this, perhaps, he had staggered after the blow was +struck. I could not at the first detect any mark upon his body, nor +did I wish to believe that he was dead; but, running out into the +street to give the alarm, I sent one of my neighbours for the police, +another for a doctor. The latter told us the worst immediately. The +man had been struck down by a heavy implement; his skull had been +fractured, and he was dead. + +It is not my intention, in such a letter as this, to dwell upon my own +state of mind at such a moment, or to relate to you the trivial +incidents of such a momentous hour. My wife’s disappearance, the +evidence of a conflict in the hall, the wild tales told by the +neighbours, were but the first fruits of a tragedy which paralysed my +faculties. To all their questions I could give only the vaguest +answers. I told them that I knew nothing of the wretched man who had +been struck down in my house; I could give them no clue as to the +purpose of his visit. I had never seen him before, did not know him, +could not imagine any business which should bring him to my house. + +To the police I confessed Madame Mimi’s story of men who watched her +and of vague fears which had haunted her. They pressed me for +particulars more minute, and I could not answer them. Nor did I +perceive their drift then as I perceive it now. They believe, +incredible as the supposition is, that the murdered man had been one +of my wife’s lovers in Paris, that he visited her secretly, and that +for some reason at present undisclosed she has murdered him. + +I must tell you the plain truth: I can keep nothing from you. London +speaks of little else than this appalling crime; nor am I sure that +the voice of popular opinion does not agree with the cruel assumptions +of those officially in charge of this case. + +I have, my dear Farman, been associated with you in much that concerns +my private life, and always in the cause of one dear to me and to whom +my happiness is for ever linked. You will imagine my situation this +day in England. I am alone in my house, and there is a hue and cry in +the streets for the woman I love more than anything on earth. I can +say nothing to which the world will listen in her defence. My letter +to the newspapers is printed by some, by others withheld as +indiscreet. The police themselves but repeat a parrot’s tale--“The man +came to the house; he was my wife’s lover; he was killed by her, +aided, it may be, by some of the disreputable friends she knew in +Paris and who are now hiding her for their own ends.” + +Admit, my friend, the preposterous nature of this assumption. You have +known the child that the Butte called Mimi La Godiche. Is not her +whole story a refutation of this calumny most base? Did she not guard +her virtue in a circle where the very name of virtue has long been +forgotten? Were not her gentleness, her charity, her forbearance the +wonder even of the outcasts among whom she was thrown? And this child +is now charged with a lover and with his murder! Oh, monstrous, I say! +most monstrous and damnable, as I will presently prove to them. + +In a common way, I have now no right to speak of fortune; but I have +been saving of my resources, and still possess a few thousand pounds +of my own, every penny of which goes to the purpose of my wife’s +vindication. If others fail, I will find her. If these vigilant police +cannot track her down, I will do so, going by night and day to my task +until the truth is known and justice accomplished. Be you my friend in +this, I beg of you. By all that is of old association and friendship, +stand by me now and bring your magnificent resources to my aid. + +I should tell you that the murdered man was apparently forty years of +age, small of stature, with a trimmed black beard and a wealth of +black hair slightly speckled with grey. He was very well dressed, +apparently a man of the world--but there is nothing on the body to +tell us who he was nor any clue as yet to his identity. Cross to +London, I beg of you, and help us to identify him. Our work will begin +when that is done; it cannot begin before. + +So I repeat, come without delay to a man whose friends stand apart +from him but whose faith is unshaken. + + Henry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XXX. + + [Jules Farman sends to Henry Gastonard some account of his + stewardship.] + + The----Inn, Hampstead, + October 16th, 1905. + +Dear Sir,--I am sending this by a trusty hand to the New Travellers’ +Club in Piccadilly as your esteemed instructions command me. + +I have to-day viewed the body of the murdered man and am glad to tell +you that I was immediately able to identify him. He is the Count +d’Antoine, who had an apartment in the Rue Boissiers at Paris, and is +far from being unknown to our best society. + +I had the honour to be employed by the Count some three years ago upon +a mission whose particulars do not concern us. He was of an old family +of the Antoines, of Picardy, a well-known shot and horseman, and by no +means an idle member of the Jockey Club. During recent years his +fortunes have been at a low ebb, but he made friendships which served +him well, particularly that of the Marquis de Saint Faur, who will be +desolated to hear this grievous news. + +I will say at once that I am utterly unable to imagine any cause of +association between Madame Gastonard and this poor gentleman. He was +not a frequenter of the artistic world; had, to my knowledge, no +interest in books and pictures; had set foot in Montmartre perhaps +twice in the whole course of his life. This I am able to tell you +because I found it necessary to go into the details of his career +somewhat closely when I had the honour to act for him. + +I am compelled, Monsieur, to address you very plainly, and to speak at +this moment as I would hesitate to do at any other. The assumption +upon the part of the police in London that Count Antoine had been at +one time the lover of Madame Gastonard is not supported by any +evidence, and is to me entirely incredible. I shall refuse to give +serious consideration to such a supposition until I am compelled to do +so by testimony I cannot refuse. And I would beg you not to bestow +upon it a second thought. + +We are therefore confronted by this perplexing fact: That a man, +distinguished in French society, but knowing nothing of London, goes +over to England to see a lady of whom he had no previous knowledge; +that he visits her in a remote quarter of the city when she is alone; +that he is followed there by others and murdered in her very presence. +To this there can be but one explanation. The Count d’Antoine was the +instrument of some secret embassy; he desired to see Madame alone; but +his purpose was known to others, who followed him, and defeated it at +the last moment. Let us analyse the more material evidence for this. + +And first, the desire to see Madame alone. Is it possible to believe +that the Count’s arrival at the moment of your absence could have been +coincidence--especially when your own habits are remembered, and the +rare occasions when you quit your house after nightfall? More probable +in every way is the assumption that he had watched the house for some +days, waited patiently for his opportunity, and availed himself +immediately of your absence. + +None the less, the fact is significant--for this is done, observe, not +by a low fellow, possibly a blackmailer or a beggar, but by a French +gentleman of position, one justly esteemed for his honourable actions, +and quite incapable of any dishonour in this purpose. Here our +difficulties begin; but here also I think that we begin to see the +light. + +Of this it will be time enough to speak when that light shines a +little brighter, and is strong enough to lead us to some surer ground. +My duty at the moment is to place the evidence before you in its +simplest form, and to deduce therefrom such an hypothesis as may be +both reasonably possible and no less serviceable to us. And here I ask +you to observe that the Count d’Antoine would not have approached +Madame as he did unless the disclosure which he had to make must be +embarrassing to her or to others. The alternative is the assumption +that he was her lover--an alternative so grotesque that I do not +permit it so much as to appear in my reckoning. + +No, Monsieur; the case is not one of those elementary studies of human +folly or of human passion, with which the police of France are so +often called upon to deal. It is the story of a man who carried a +secret from France to London, who was followed thither by others who +shared that secret with him, and determined either to prevent its +disclosure or themselves to profit by it. Such unknown men shadowed +the Count--it is possible that they watched the house as he watched +it, and were themselves about to do what he would have done but for +this tragic interruption. The question remains: Was their object that +of blackmail, or did they act for some unknown persons who had +determined to guard at any cost this imagined secret? + +It is true, Monsieur, that the crime itself gives no clue to such a +study of intention. At the first blush I might argue that the +disappearance of Madame, who, I do not doubt, has been forcibly +abducted from your house, points to the fact that blackmail is the +issue; but we are not to forget that an alternative presents itself, +and that these men having committed this crime, must for very safety’s +sake also silence the solitary witness of it. So they abduct Madame, +and hold her as a hostage either until they gain a place of safety or +have purchased her silence in another way. + +Of these alternatives, it is my sincere hope that the former +approximates to the truth rather than to the latter. Men whose one +desire is gain will resort to extreme measures reluctantly. I should +fear less from the avowed criminals of Paris, who have a precious +secret to sell, than from others whose projects may be more daring. +Such evidence as I can collect helps me to the belief that it is with +the criminals of Paris that I have to deal. + +Permit me to recapitulate this evidence as briefly as may be. + +And firstly, that of your neighbour, Captain Esmond, the officer of +Marine who witnessed the Count’s arrival at your house. This he +declares to have been within ten minutes of your departure--so proving +that the Count was aware of your absence and desired immediately to +avail himself of an unexpected opportunity. + +Secondly, the evidence of the cabman Williams, who testifies that a +small covered motor-car waited the third part of an hour or more at +the corner of the street near by the great house, Bell Moor, and +passed him later on near Swiss Cottage station, going at a great pace +in the direction of Regent’s Park. + +Thirdly, the evidence of the boy, Harry Carter, who spoke to the +driver of the car and obtained an answer--he believes in the French +tongue, but is unable to say; so ignorant of any other tongue is he. + +Fourthly, the evidence of the servant girl, Cecily Rayner, who +declares that she saw a man climbing over the garden wall of No. 4 +about the hour of this crime, and that she mentioned the matter to her +mistress, who immediately went out to the garden but discovered the +house to be in darkness and heard no sound of any kind. + +This, Monsieur, is our evidence. To me the conclusions are very +natural: + +1--That the Count was murdered almost immediately he entered your +house. + +2--That the assassin entered by the way of the garden, passed through +your sitting-room, and struck the unhappy man while he was actually in +conversation with Madame. + +3--That this crime was so swift, so brutal, and so remorseless that +your wife fell in a faint--and so lying was carried immediately to the +carriage without being able to offer any resistance whatever. + +4--That the assassin was either in the service of the Count, or so +situated as to be in possession of his plans and intentions, and thus +able to forestall them. + +Such, Monsieur, is the result of the work I have had the honour to do +for you. I confess with regret that we have dug but a poor foundation, +and that the corner-stone of our house is yet to be laid. This task +must be accomplished not in London but in Paris. I leave to-night by +the boat train from Charing Cross and beg you to accompany me. + +For in Paris alone, Monsieur, shall we discover why the Count +d’Antoine visited Madame Gastonard, and what was the secret, so +precious to him and to others, which he could disclose to her alone. + +I have the honour to be, Monsieur, + + Your obedient servant, + Jules Henry Farman. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXI. + + [Henry Gastonard sends Paddy O’Connell some account of his labours in + Paris.] + + Hôtel St. Paul, Paris, + October 19th, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--Your letter speaks of a good heart and a true friendship. +In your own words, God bless you for it. + +I cannot tell you what I have suffered during these terrible days. +There are few to whom I would speak of it. Sometimes I wish to God +that I could wake no more. The world moves about me as a rushing sea +of which I am afraid. I fear for my very reason. + +Consider it all and bear with me. I was the happiest man in Europe +before this trouble came. Nothing in life but Mimi mattered then. Oh, +Paddy, if I could tell you what it was to have her always with me--to +wake each day and find her head upon my pillow, to sleep with her +white arms about my neck. None of us knew her a little bit in the old +days. But, Paddy, I learned to know her; I learned the truth which few +men learn--the secret was mine--the sweetness of it past belief. + +And to say she is gone from me! If she were dead, the bitterness of +the truth could not be more poignant. I think of every city as her +prison; I pass no house in Paris that I do not say, If Mimi were +there! A thousand suppositions of life and death torment me every day. +Does she know what I suffer? Is it not possible that she will send a +message to me? Day answers nothing--the nights are silent. I can but +wait and pray. + +You say that you arrived in London upon the morning after my +departure. I do not ask you to come to me in Paris, because I know not +whether Paris will be my home to-morrow, or some other city to which +destiny may lead me. Be sure that I am prepared for anything. I work +with Jules Farman literally from the rising of the sun until midnight. +We have visited more dens in Paris than I would have numbered for all +the slums of France. And we know no more than the meanest servant of +the police, who writes his theories in five folios, where my wife is +hidden, or what this stupendous mystery may be. + +You will have read my letter in the English papers, and I have little +to add to it to-day. It was my purpose to remove the cowardly +suspicions which hover about the name of one of the purest of women, +and this I believe that I have done. Is it not monstrous to see how +ready the world is to doubt a woman’s honour, how willing to +anticipate her guilt. No reason governs the tongue of scandal, nor +does justice curb it. Here was a pretty French girl--she is immoral, +says slander. A man visits her--a man she has never seen before--he is +her lover, says the multitude. He is foully murdered in her house--she +must be the murderess. An English police, never clever when any gift +of subtlety is demanded, will accept no story but the one which +ministers to its love of the commonplace. A French police, readier to +look further afield, still believes that the Count was Mimi’s lover. +And I am alone against these. My love can but speak in a voice which +the clamour of conviction would drown. Ah, Paddy, if I could but call +these slanderers one by one before me; could compel them to answer me; +could wring a cry of justice from their throats. For I alone knew what +Mimi was, and alone I must defend her. + +I have told you that we visited many of the dens upon the further side +of the Butte. Our reward is some story of the disappearance of the +notorious ruffian, Jean-le-Mont, and of his aforetime accomplice +Bar-le-Duc the apache. This was learned at the old Café des Assassins +when we visited it the second time. If we risked much, you will +believe how little any thought of personal danger deterred us. Indeed, +I do truly believe that a ruffian there was within an ace of drawing a +pistol upon us both--but Farman is the master of such men as these, +and I am never afraid in his company. + +I should tell you that it was mid-day when we visited the Café and +found no one in charge but a very pretty and very ragged little French +girl sitting before a charcoal stove in the outer room. She knew Jules +Farman well, and asked him pointedly why he came there a second time +in as many days. When he answered her evasively she ran away to tell +someone else, who proved to be a dirty and unwashed ruffian, by name +Rogers--for he was an Englishman long known to the English police and +well watched by the French. This fellow was already drunk--a bottle of +spirits stood by the side of his filthy bed; a revolver lay close to +his hand. Had he been sober, there would have been civility enough; +but in his mad state he flourished his pistol wildly upon our entrance +and would have shot us for a word. In the end Farman frightened him +thoroughly, and he told us somewhat abjectly to follow the giant +Jean-le-Mont and to put our questions to him. + +It is possible that this is a clue; it may be mere coincidence. You +will not have forgotten my letter to you in which I told you of the +robbery at the Quat-Z-Arts ball, of Mimi’s recovery of my gold +cigarette-case from this very ruffian, and of his subsequent threats +against her. But I find it hard to believe that a monster, whose one +ambition of the day is to steal money for his drink to-morrow should +remember so pitiful an incident, much less the name of one of the +thousand friendless girls who haunt the Butte and its vicinity. + +In this Jules Farman agrees with me--but he asks the pertinent +question, Is it not possible that this fellow may be the agent of +others unknown, and that all he has done has been done for money which +comes to him from this undiscovered source? I hope that it may be so. +The police of London are searching Soho and other haunts of Frenchmen +for any news of him--the police here are not less diligent. + +You will not be angry with me, Paddy, for speaking of another matter, +and one of which you will hear with little pleasure. Yesterday I had a +letter from Lea d’Alençon inviting me to her house, and assuring me +that Monsieur le Capitaine was heartily ashamed of his treatment of +me. There has been, I understand, something resembling a +reconciliation between the pair, though God knows how long a woman +will be content to be the amiable companion of a man who prefers to go +to bed at eleven o’clock at night and considers a dinner at +Armenonville as the first instalment of his purgatory. I shall not go +to her house, be sure--nor could I contemplate such an infamy as any +renewal of this acquaintanceship would imply. None the less, I am +troubled--for she speaks in a postscript of her ability to help me, +and declares that my happiness may depend upon a prompt response to +her invitation. + +You say that you are in London awaiting my return. I can give you no +definite news of this, but I could wish it rather sooner than later. +Everything here reminds me of Mimi and the happy days. I visited the +old Maison du bon Tabac the other day and spent an hour in its empty +rooms. Not a scrawl upon its shabby walls, not a broken pane in its +windows but spoke to me of my little wife and the golden days which +are no more. And just as it is tumbling into decay, so, Paddy, is the +house of my own life falling. I see the great city of Paris below +me--it speaks of eternal things and of the darkness which is eternal. +The green woods rise beyond, and I remember that they gave me Mimi in +the days of the springtime, even as their falling leaves may hide her +to-day from my sight. + +All that is here, the voice once musical of Paris, the glare of her +lights, the rolling traffic in the streets, the unceasing business of +pleasure--all this has no meaning for me. I pass by as a man who has +no place in such a pageant, who must walk apart until the end. Even +the memory of the golden days has become an evil thing. I shut the old +pictures from my eyes, but they rise up to mock me. Ah, Paddy, the day +is dark indeed, when a man’s youth stands to him for an evil memory, +and he would blot the yesterday of life from the book he has written. + +Write to me often, old friend. Remember how very much I am alone. If +circumstances seem to promise a continued stay here, I will beg you to +come to me. Meanwhile, find me, as always, dear Paddy, + + Your friend, + Harry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXII. + + [In which Paddy O’Connell advised his friend Harry to pay a visit.] + + Jack Straw’s Castle, Hampstead, + October 21st, 1905. + +Dear Harry,--I have no telegram from you this morning, and am +remaining here. Be good enough to wire upon receipt of this to say if +you would sooner have me in Paris or London--for ’tis little I care +where, so long as I may be of service to you. + +Your letter to the daily papers has done a power of good. I had no +idea that any friend of mine could write with so much feeling and good +sense, and I congratulate you upon it. The town, I am told, continues +to talk of little else--but you have given the affair a new turn, and +the newspaper editors have more than they can do with the letters that +come to them. + +Now, my boy, I am going to speak very plainly to you. Had you asked me +a month ago whether you should go to Madame Lea’s house, I would have +turned my back upon you for the question, and put it out of your power +to ask me another for many a long day. + +But this is not my advice this morning. There is something lying at +the back of my head which may be common sense or may be a fool’s +burden; but it is crying to me all the time that a woman may be the +heart of this mystery, and to a woman you may well go for that news +which no man is able to give you. + +I say, go to this Lea d’Alençon and hear what she has to tell you. +When your dear wife is found, ’twill be Paddy O’Connell who will make +his advice good and relieve you of the burden of it. Go to her, and +ask her plainly what is the meaning of the postscript to her letter. +She’ll tell you in five minutes. There never yet was a woman born who +could keep good or bad news from the man who meant to have it from +her. + +I shall say no more, lest I should put thoughts into your mind and +inspire you with a hope that has no justification in the facts. One +thing I do ask you to believe, and it is this: that if your wife is +alive and well, and I believe her to be both, we shall have a message +from her before many days have run. ’Tis a poor sort of a house which +can keep a clever woman from speaking out of its windows when she has +the mind to be eloquent--and Mimi is no singing bird to be content +with a spoonful of canary seed. We shall hear from her, I say, and the +news will be good news. So go to visit Madame with a light heart--and +be sure you carry yourself well before her--for a woman tells little +to a coward, and this lady may have much to tell. + +I would have you to know that your cousin Martha stands with me in +this opinion, and is all for your going to Madame Lea. “’Tis a woman’s +story,” says she, “and a woman must tell it.” I find the little body +mightily concerned about the whole business, and as full of ideas as a +pod of peas. She has been to Hampstead almost every day since I was +here, and we have ransacked your home together for the clues we did +not discover. A livelier companion I would never wish to find, and, +being Arthur’s wife, I forgive her much--even her calling me a fool +for wanting to put an advertisement in the papers advising Mimi that +you are in Paris. + +As for Cousin Arthur, there’s a man that has found some heart at last. +I’ll do him the justice to believe that his sympathy is gratis, and +not a return for the seven thousand a year of your money which he +hopes to get in the springtime, and thereafter to preach the Sermon on +the Mount from the neighbourhood of Park-lane. I have here by me, as I +write, a copy of Taylor’s “Holy Living” and a new edition of Smiles’ +“Self Help,” which he has just sent down to you. There is also a slip +of texts underlined, with which I take leave not to trouble you. It is +well meant, and it would be sinful for us to mock him because he wears +a Roman collar and is a little less human than the rest of us. + +Don’t fail to let me have the news. The best part of my own is told by +the newspapers before I can breathe a word of it. They have made a +profitable business of this mystery, and there is not a drawing-room, +a club, or a kitchen which does not discuss it every day and all the +days. For you, yourself, I find the warmest sympathy--and it is +possible that you have already done something to earn the same for +your dear wife. God bless her, wherever she is, and send her back to +us before our hearts are broken.--Your friend, + + Paddy O’Connell. + +P.S.--I have just sent a telegram to an editor man asking him what the +devil he means by an article in his paper this morning suggesting that +Mimi is shielding somebody, and that’s why the police cannot trace +her. It is necessary to be discreet and patient, but if he doesn’t +contradict it to-morrow, I’ll go down and break every bone in his +body, just to show my good opinion of him. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIII. + + [The Reverend Arthur Warrington thanks Paddy O’Connell for services + rendered.] + + The Red Farm, Beldon, Suffolk, + Eve of the Feast of St. Raphael. + +Dear Mr. O’Connell,--I am much obliged by your letter and packages +containing the little books you were unfortunately unable to deliver +to my poor cousin. I thank you also for your friendliness towards Mrs. +Warrington during her mission or charity to the great Metropolis. + +That there is no further news concerning this unhappy affair +distresses me greatly. The wages of sin are dreadful indeed; leading, +it would appear, beyond the promises of Holy Writ to these awful +mysteries this twentieth century brings before us. I have no doubt +that poor Harry meant well when he married this girl; but I cannot +forget that he was not blessed by Holy Church, and that he is now +reaping the fruit of his indifference. + +A home broken up, this dreadful suspicion hovering about his poor +wife’s name--oh, my dear sir, what moral lessons do not these things +convey. Let us offer him what consolation we can, remembering with the +poet Shakespeare that--murder, though it have no tongue, will speak +with most miraculous organ. + +I pray God that these assassins will be brought to justice +speedily.--And am, with renewed thanks, my dear sir, + + Yours faithfully, + Arthur Warrington. + +P.S.--Would you be good enough to remind Mrs. Warrington, who in her +distress may have overlooked so trifling a detail of the domestic +curriculum, that the patterns of the chintz did not reach me from +Smallgroves, and that she would do well to see the people about it +while she is in London? + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIV. + + [Henry Gastonard tells Paddy O’Connell of his visit to Madame Lea.] + + Hôtel St. Paul, Paris, + October 24th, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--I had called upon Madame Lea before your letter reached +me. This was done at Jules Farman’s request, for, be sure, that which +you were thinking was not forgotten by a man so able. + +I found Madame alone in a handsome apartment in the Avenue Kleber. She +is not changed a wit, is the same beautiful languorous creature that +we knew of old time. + +I told you in my last letter that there is some talk of a +reconciliation between her and her husband. This I do not believe, +preferring the view that the Captain’s affections are temporarily +engaged elsewhere. A man who is kind toward his own failings generally +has some charity to spare for those of his wife. Possibly, the man is +merely a philosopher--I do not make myself his judge. + +It is sufficient to say that Madame received me with great cordiality, +impressed upon me the fact that we were alone and bade me open my +heart to her. If I did not do this, be sure that my attitude was by no +means irresponsive. I had come to her house to learn if Madame Lea had +a secret, and, learning that, to obtain it from her if that were +possible. A false word would have ruined all. I realised that Mimi’s +very life might depend upon success or failure; nor was I unaware that +my own happiness might be won or lost in that very room. + +We begin with a talk that was commonplace enough--her health and mine, +my departure from Paris, the absurdities of our last meeting--and so +to Mimi and my marriage by a natural sequence which diplomacy +demanded. I found her eloquent immediately when Mimi’s name was +mentioned. A woman will discuss a man’s love affair readily enough; +there is no surer passport to his confidence, perhaps to his heart. +And Lea d’Alençon, you will remember, speaks with little fluency upon +any other subject. + +Imagine, Paddy, a considerable apartment furnished with all the +precarious grace of the Louis XV. period--but flauntingly modern and +garish in its tone. Say that the walls are panelled in silk of a deep +golden hue; put long mirrors wherever there are niches for them; place +clocks of many kinds upon the tables and in the angles--Cupids marking +the hour of the day; the Hesperides shouldering the golden apple; +“Father Time treading Gaea beneath his giant feet”--all the baubles +which are sold in the Rue de la Paix, and others which came God knows +whence. + +The furniture itself was bought, I believe, at the last Exhibition. It +is fine but new, oh, so new!--and Lea’s gown of white and gold brocade +is caught up by it as a flower of bizarre magnificence suitable to so +bright a bed. As for Madame, her eyes are as black as ever, her hair +as splendid--but I think the sun has pencilled that pallid face and +that the years have not forgotten her. Not until I spoke of my +marriage did she betray her wonted energy--not until that moment did +the natural woman reveal itself. + +“Why did you not tell me that you were in love with the girl when +first I saw you?” she asked. “I would have helped you, Henry--is not a +woman always willing to help a man in love?” + +“That, my dear lady,” said I, “is an abstruse speculation. And I am in +no mood for argument. Do you not know what the papers are saying of my +wife?” + +She posed languidly and watched me with some cunning. + +“I am forgetting how to read English,” she said, “and, Henry, you have +forgotten how to teach me.” + +This I passed by. Were Lea d’Alençon upon the scaffold, she would +open a flirtation with the executioner. + +“The news is in your own journals,” I said, “and why not? Does Paris +wish to forget one whose picture had no second in last year’s Salon? +But I see that she does--and, Lea, you know the story as well as I do. +Let us abandon the preliminaries, God knows I have little heart to +begin at all.” + +She shivered slightly, I knew not why; and for some while her thoughts +appeared to be voyaging afar. Presently she recollected herself and +addressed me seriously. + +“Did you know the Count d’Antoine?” + +“Absolutely, no.” + +“Never met him while you were in Paris?” + +“Never once--but remember my life. The Butte knows little of +society--if there is any democracy in this world, it is that of the +atelier and the conservatoire. At the Hôtel St. Paul I was merely an +English gentleman seeing Paris. Why should I meet the Count +d’Antoine----” + +“But your wife----” + +“Would you say that she knew him?” + +She paused and bit her lip. I could imagine that her thoughts were +travelling again. From this moment, I cannot tell you why, I began to +suspect her. And, Paddy, remember what suspicion meant to me, the +hopes and fears of it, the straw upon the stream of a woman’s caprice, +the light upon the crest, to lose which were a torture. + +“Would you say that Mimi knew the Count, Lea?” + +She smiled now--a wan smile, not of jest, but of her own endeavour to +deceive. + +“There were few pretty women whom the Count did not know----” + +“Then you were among the number?” + +“I met him twice at the house of the American, Madame Martin, and +again at the Austrian Embassy. A very handsome man, one of those who +bewitch women with the notion that they have a thousand stories, but +would never tell them. Oh, yes, I knew the Count.” + +“And you believe it possible that Mimi knew him?” + +“Everything is possible in Paris--did she not frequent the gardens?” + +“It is a lie--she knows the West as a tourist from my own country. Her +home was on the mountain.” + +“You say so, Henry--oh, forgive me, I am trying to help you. If she +did not know the Count, why did he go to her house?” + +“The question I am here to ask you, Lea.” + +“To ask me--am I a sorceress, Henry?” + +“In so far as a sorceress is usually cleverer than her kind, yes.” + +“Then you think--oh, but it is impossible, it is ridiculous.” + +She laughed aloud, forcing herself to the mood as an instrument may be +forced by cleverness to a note of discord foreign to it. I perceived +now that she had brought me to her house for curiosity’s sake--not to +tell me what she knew, but to ascertain the extent of my own +suspicions. The discovery maddened me. I could have caught her arms, +and thrust her down, and compelled her to confess. The torture she put +upon me was as deliberate as the insult--and yet I suffered both for +Mimi’s sake. + +“It is ridiculous,” she repeated, “the same folly which sends a man to +a woman when his trouble is a woman. I knew the Count; knew him as I +have told you. Would he speak of every chit the atelier or the cabaret +discovered for him? It is madness, Monsieur Henry. You know that I +cannot help you.” + +“And yet you invite me to your house?” + +“To offer you my sympathy, my friendship--to hear you tell me why you +did this thing; you, who could have a thousand friends among your own +people, to seek one out of the great caravanserai of irresponsibles, +to prate of her virtue, to fight for her, to marry her--is not a +woman’s curiosity justly provoked?” + +“And for curiosity’s sake you sent for me to-day--pardon me. I shall +answer that question for you. There was something beyond curiosity, +Madame d’Alençon, there was fear.” + +She opened her eyes in wild alarm at this. I had seen her angry +before, but never as she was angry now. There is something of the +tigress in every passionate woman--a good deal of it in Lea +d’Alençon. For a moment I could almost contemplate a second +tragedy--and I do believe, Paddy, had there been a weapon to her hand, +she would have struck me. + +“Fear!” she cried, raising herself upon a frail arm, and making no +attempt to modulate the shrill echo of her alarm. “Of what, then, am I +afraid, Monsieur Gastonard?” + +“You are afraid of discovery, Madame d’Alençon.” + +She laid her head back upon the cushions, and laughed defiantly. I can +give you no better account of her speech and actions than to say that +they were those of an enraged woman whose breeding has no reserves of +self control. A washerwoman complaining at the tub, a virago at the +doors of a tavern had not been a spectacle less repulsive. + +“Discovery, Monsieur Gastonard; a precious word, discovery! Are you +mad? Must I say that you have lost your reason? Discovery of whom, of +what--of the fact that all the world knows, that you married a +_noctambule_, and have been whining ever since for sympathy; that your +Jezebel is as old in her vices as she is young in years; that you were +the dupe, the victim of the _canaille_ of the Butte--must I say +this?--or shall I order you from my house; call my servants to protect +me? Shall I do that, Monsieur Gastonard?” + +I kept my temper; the stake was, beyond all belief, momentous to me. A +false step would have put me outside her door; and remember how +premature I had been, how much the unwise agent of my own unwarranted +impulses. + +“You are very angry with me,” I said; and added, “perhaps with reason. +Of course, I should not have put it in that way, though it is a method +which others will not hesitate to adopt----” + +She turned at this--quickly, as one alarmed, and called to reason by +something which hitherto had escaped her reasoning. + +“Others, Monsieur Gastonard?” + +“Certainly--others. There is my friend, Jules Farman, of the Secret +Police. He knows much that neither of us might wish him to know. And +please do not forget that there are circumstances of this crime which +have set the whole world by the ears. There is not a policeman in +Paris or in London who will not move heaven and earth to get at the +truth. So we are all concerned in the matter--and if anyone of us has +been foolish, said or done something which might implicate us, now is +the time to set it right. I put this to you as a friend. Tell me why +you sent for me to-day, and if the confession is to your disadvantage, +I will accept your confidence as an atonement.” + +There never was, Paddy, such a wild arrow shot in all this world +before, and never will be again, I do believe. Nothing but a dogged +faith in my own convictions could have bent such a bow. This woman had +sent for me; her manner sufficiently declared her embarrassment. +Unless she had something to offer me, my visit must end in her +discomfiture. Lea d’Alençon is not the woman to bring such an affront +upon herself. This I perceived, and in my mad desire for the truth +could have knelt at her very feet, and implored her to aid me. She +knew--the key was locked in the safe of her intrigues. My God! What a +torture to say as much, and to realise my own impotence! + +Well, the shot was fired, and the target touched. She had listened to +me with her eyes wide open, and her mouth pursed up, as though anger +were held at bay a little while by reflection. When she spoke, her +voice had lost its shrill timbre of protest, and all its pleasing +qualities been regained. + +“We are all foolish sometimes, Monsieur Gastonard. I was foolish when +I counted you among the number of my friends. Let us not speak of it. +You say that I brought you to my house because I know something. Very +well; I do know something, and you shall know it--the dead Count was +your wife’s lover; that is what I know, Monsieur Gastonard.” + +“It is a lie,” said I. And I leaned back in my chair, and watched her +critically. “So poor a lie that so clever a woman as Madame Lea should +not have told it.” + +She turned her eyes away from me, and continued her infamous story, +unabashed and unashamed. + +“It is a lie,” I repeated--but her words held me to my chair as though +an unknown hand caught me by the throat. “Why do you tell me so +foolish a lie, Madame Lea?” + +She rose and came across to me. The spell of her mendacity was broken. + +“I tell it because I loved you,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes, it is the +truth, and no lie. I loved you, and you left me for this creature, +this _canaille_, this girl of the fêtes and the circus. Shall I keep +the truth from you now? She murdered the Count when he had no more +money, and his presence was an embarrassment. Do not his friends know +it--did not the Marquis de Saint Faur shut his door upon him for that +very reason?” + +“I will ask the Marquis,” said I. But I could hardly speak the word +for trembling. + +“Yes, yes,” she said, “ask him--but you will have far to go, for he is +at Corfu, upon his yacht.” + +“I beg your pardon; he returned to Paris last night.” + +It was as though I had struck her in the face. She stood there as some +marble figure of distress, motionless, with a fixed and unchanging +smile upon her lips. + +“The Marquis has returned?” + +“As I say--last night. I am going now to his house.” + +I turned upon my heel, and left her. She had not moved from the place +when I passed out. I could see that a word would have unsealed her +lips and cast her, a mendicant for pity, at my feet. But I went +straight on to the hall and the street, and calling the first cab +which came to my view, I ordered the man to drive me to the house of +Monsieur le Marquis de Saint Faur. + +He was not within--he is to see me to-night. + +Ah, Paddy, If I could but know what he will say--if I could but be +sure that this foul lie will pass no human lips again! + +The heart has gone out of me--I must watch and wait through the long +night-- + + Your friend, + Harry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXV. + + [We meet the Marquis de Saint Faur and another old friend.] + + Hôtel St. Paul, Paris, + October 25th, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--I am keeping my promise, and, at much inconvenience, +hastening to let you know, both what was done last night, and what is +proposed to be done to-day. That you have no news I gather from your +silence. Had there been but a single ray of light, I know with what +speed your kindness would have winged it on to Paris. An empty +letter-bag chills my hope with its intimation of despair and +hopelessness. + +Oh, I cannot get away from it, Paddy--asleep or awake, the question +rolls in my ears with a sound of drums. She is alive--she is dead. A +thousand arguments push reason and patience aside, now bidding me +accuse, now reproach her--anon chanting an office of black conspiracy, +again deluding me with fair promises. For would not Mimi, of all +people in the world, have found a way, if any door were open to her +cleverness? What trick, I ask, what mendacity keeps her silent? Has an +unknown assassin dared a second crime, that the first may be covered? +And why, and why--why did this come to me in the springtime of my +happiness? What mockery of my destiny sent it to my door at such a +time? + +I have seen the Marquis de Saint Faur, and he has told me that Lea’s +story is a black lie. The arrows of a base calumny rarely stick, +Paddy, but they prick and bruise, and often leave a scar. I am ashamed +of having gone to his house, and yet not ashamed. His manner perplexed +me utterly--we make nothing of him, and yet we may not dismiss him. Is +it not becoming a mystery beyond all hope, all thought? + +I am convinced of one thing, and it is this, that Lea d’Alençon never +intended me to hear the Marquis’s name. It escaped her lips by +accident, at a moment of stress, when the lie meant all to her, and +the man who would deny it was, as she believed, beyond the confines of +appeal. An accident of speech, a chance word uttered by Jules Farman, +informed me of St. Faur’s unexpected return to Paris, and last night I +called upon him at his hotel. + +This was at nine o’clock. Despite the season, the famous corridor of +the Ritz Hôtel showed me many familiar faces. I heard the American +tongue, with its shrill suggestion of dominance; passed by notorious +“affairs” and discovered the Marquis at last, one of four at a little +table, and two of them as well dressed and elegant women as I have +ever seen in this famous place. + +The Marquis himself is all that his ancestors might have been before +the “grand manner” perished in France. Tall and stately, with a +bearing dignified beyond words, his bow is not to be matched off the +boards of the Theatre Français; while his reception of me was that of +a great nobleman who has been unwelcomely disturbed but would utter no +complaint. In his hand he held the card upon which I had scribbled the +words--“concerning Monsieur le Comte d’Antoine.” But I had looked to +see him in a private room, and my apologies were expressed with all +the earnestness I could command. + +“Mr. Gastonard,” he asked me, “must this be urgent?” + +“It shall be when Monsieur le Marquis may please--but no words will +express my gratitude if it may be soon.” + +“I have an apartment here,” he went on, “will you do me the honour to +come at eleven o’clock to-night?” + +I said that I would do so, and turned away. He had named me aloud, +however, and one of the women--of singular beauty and much sweetness +of manner--uttered an audible exclamation, and stared, I thought, more +directly than good manners permitted. At the door the porter, who +knows me well, told me that the Marquis was staying in the house. + +“And the ladies with him?” I asked. + +“They are the Princess Hélène of Ilidze and her cousin, Monsieur.” + +There was nothing to call for remark here, and I went out and paced +the boulevards until the appointed hour arrived. In the old days, +Paddy, nothing gave me more delight than to walk alone in Paris when +the lights were blazing and the cafés black with people and all +the boulevards alive with the hum of leisure and frivolity. What a +scene unmatched, I used to think it; what drolleries one witnessed; +comedies fed upon sugar and water; tragedies brooding upon black +coffee and a twopenny cigar--everywhere the fiddlers thrashing +unoffending catgut; women talking against time--men against their +sweet persuasiveness--waiters playing the acrobat--fat proprietors of +restaurants perspiring and beaming at their doors--what a scene and +what a people! + +And the Jehu on his box and the turbulent sea of crashing traffic +coming whence God alone knew--the ferocious cries of peaceable +men--the glittering pavements--the spreading aureoles of monstrous +lights--theatre flares as triumphal arches of shimmering fire--great +wide windows to bewitch you with their merry revelations--the throat +of Paris grown hoarse but weary--ah, I say, what scenes and what a +people! And yet I could pass them by to-night without a thought, +believe that they mocked me, cry upon the happiness and the laughter +of others, say that the music was discordant, the women so many +Jezebels, the men a company of chattering fools, the whole city a +pandemonium whence I would willingly escape. So does trouble war upon +us, so is this land fair or a wilderness, as fortune shall dictate. + +The Marquis was in his room when I returned at eleven o’clock. He wore +a black smoking-cap and had lighted a cigar. You know the rooms upon +the first floor of the Ritz, little arbours, as it were, cut out of +those vast walls, but arbours furnished as the old châteaux were, and +often borrowing the treasures of châteaux for their ornaments. The +apartment was lighted by a single reading-lamp, placed upon a table at +the Marquis’s side. Whisky and soda and tumblers stood to hand. He was +alone and I perceived at once that he received me not unwillingly and +with some curiosity. + +“You are here to speak of my poor friend the Count d’Antoine,” he +said. “I know your name, Mr. Gastonard, and the story of these recent +days. Be good enough to sit down. I regret that I should have been +compelled to defer the hour of our meeting, but the reasons were +self-evident. There are the cigarettes, if you will smoke.” + +He lighted one himself, standing with his back towards me, but +scanning my face, as I could see, in the mirror above the +chimney-piece. Fear of my own quick tongue bade me imitate him and +smoke--for there is no weapon of discreet speech so sure as a +cigarette in the mouth. When he had seated himself, I stated my +purpose very frankly. + +“Yes,” I said, “it would be about the Count d’Antoine. He was very +well known to you, Marquis--I may say that he was your friend.” + +“Most willingly--one of the oldest of my friends and one of the most +esteemed.” + +“Then my second question needs no apology. I have been told that my +wife was his mistress. Is that story true or is it false?” + +He did not answer me immediately. Perhaps my own pitiful state alarmed +him, for I could not master my distress. It was there for all the +world to spy upon--a man’s heart stripped for others to revile. + +“Is the story true or false, Monsieur le Marquis? Pardon my +insistence--your answer means more to me than I can tell you.” + +Again a little spell of silence, and that impenetrable mask upon an +immobile face to defy me. Oh, my God, why did he not speak? Did honour +forbid, or the truth? + +“I understand you very well, Mr. Gastonard,” he said at last, “and I +think that I may reply as you would wish--” + +“You think, Monsieur?” + +He waved the objection aside a little masterfully. + +“Who can answer for a man’s secrets--much less for a woman’s? I +believe that my friend the Count had never seen Madame Gastonard until +he visited her in London.” + +“Thank God for that--thank God!” + +“He had never mentioned her name to me--so much I remember perfectly. +And I think he would have done so if the facts were as you suppose.” + +“I suppose nothing, Marquis. A woman sent me here--Madame Lea +d’Alençon.” + +“Madame d’Alençon--ha!” + +He smiled quietly, but a phase of anger succeeded the smile, and upon +that a glance of mistrust. + +“Madame d’Alençon--what does she know of my poor friend?” + +“She met him at the house of Madame Martin, the American. This story +of an intrigue reached me first from her lips--she sent me to you +believing that you were at Corfu upon your yacht. I had learned by +accident of your altered plans--and so I came to you.” + +He nodded his head, staring down into the blazing fire of logs which +had been kindled upon my entry. + +“You did very well,” he exclaimed, “very well to come to me. The Count +was more than my friend--he was almost a brother to me.” + +“Then you know why he went to England?” + +He did not look up, but his very attitude revealed something to me. +This was a question he would willingly have been spared. + +“I--what should I know of it?” + +“Pardon me--you were intimate friends, and the supposition is not +illogical. Then you knew nothing, Monsieur?” + +“Of what happened, nothing. Had it been otherwise, the police would +have heard from me the same day.” + +“And you hazard nothing, Monsieur le Marquis?” + +He smoked quietly for a little while--but answered me eventually by an +evasion. + +“You are asking me many questions--may I put one or two to you?” + +“I shall answer everything, Marquis.” + +“They will be embarrassing questions, but they are not put without a +purpose.” + +“That is understood.” + +“You first met Madame Gastonard at one of the Fêtes about Paris, I +think?” + +“At the Fête de Neuilly.” + +“And were attracted by something in her appearance or manner? Would it +be very difficult to tell me a little intimately of that, Mr. +Gastonard?” + +“By no means. I was attracted firstly by her originality, and then by +my belief that she was not born amongst these people. A Louis Quinze +clock is beautiful at Fontainebleau, but you pass it quickly where +there are hundreds like it. In the Rue de Pigalle one would remark it +immediately. I saw that she had not been born to such an environment. +Her voice had the timbre of birth. There were gestures, phrases, a +manner which cried loudly for a truer story. I stayed to talk to her, +as one might rest to pick a rose in a swamp. That was the oddest +thing, Marquis--the advantage remained with her. No one to my +knowledge has ever patronised Mimi the Simpleton.” + +“Why did they give her that name?” + +“I can but surmise. She lived in her dreams apart from them. Their +world was not her world. She walked through it with skirts lifted, +upon the tiptoe of her birthright. To me it always seemed that her +mind strove ceaselessly to recall something which illness or terror +had blotted from its recollection. She was a born leader of the +people--she ruled by right of blood--the most ignorant were conscious +of it.” + +“And she could give you no account of her past?” + +“So meagre an account that its pursuit were hopeless. She remembered +an old woman named Marie, the great white road from Blois to Orleans, +voices in a wood--and then the Showman’s booth. The ‘beforetime’ lay +in the golden mists of childhood. She believes that it was a happy +time--this memory of a burden as of happiness has come through the +mists and has never been laid down. Oh, yes, Mimi was happy in her +childhood, I have no doubt of it.” + +“You pursued your inquiries none the less, Mr. Gastonard?” + +“I have spent thousands of pounds in the quest----” + +“And nothing further has been learned?” + +“Nothing has been learned.” + +He nodded his head, and for quite a long while said no word. He was +standing up when next he spoke and he looked me fairly in the face. + +“Mr. Gastonard,” he exclaimed, “I sent the Comte d’Antoine to +England.” + +“You, Monsieur!” + +“As I say, I sent him to England, to see Madame Gastonard, and, if +possible, to persuade her to pay a brief visit to Paris.” + +“Monsieur--Monsieur!” + +“For a purpose of an honourable, I will say, in fact, of a noble +character; but one I cannot reveal even to you.” + +“Then you know her story, Marquis?” + +“I believe that I know it--but as belief which is not certainty might +work an inconceivable mischief, my lips are sealed.” + +“But--but----” + +My astonishment did not move him. He continued in an inflexible tone. + +“I sent the Comte d’Antoine to England to verify certain facts which +had come to my knowledge. He was murdered in your house; but how or +why he was murdered you have my word that I do not know.” + +“You can imagine no reason--think of no possible agent?” + +“Of none, or his name would have been known to the police these many +days.” + +“Then I am not to say that the Count’s errand concerned others?” + +“By no means could it possibly have concerned any human being other +than the person who prompted it.” + +“Not an errand where money was the issue?” + +“Absolutely not--I can tell you no more; I am not permitted to tell +you more.” + +“Having told me sufficient to make me the most miserable man in Paris! +Are we not now become conspirators in this, Marquis? Are not our +interests common interests?” + +“In a measure, yes--I see that you suffer much.” + +“Marquis,” I said quietly, “I would give half the years of my life to +see my wife to-night.” + +“A sentiment most honourable. Should it be possible for me to further +it, count upon my warm endeavour.” + +“Meanwhile, you are unable to help me?” + +“I am quite unable, Mr. Gastonard.” + +I did not press the point. Here was a man of honour of the old type; +my knowledge of such men told me that I might question him for a +century and learn nothing if honour sealed his lips. Perhaps some +shadow of a wonderful truth already crossed my path, but made it the +blacker because of these events. Of one fact I had no doubt. He was as +ignorant as I of the story of the Count’s death and of Mimi’s +abduction from my house. + +“I am quite unable to help you at present,” he repeated, “and it is +very probable that I shall be leaving Paris to-morrow upon the voyage +of which you have heard. Before I go, let me say that you have my good +wishes, my warmest wishes for your success. Good night, Mr. Gastonard; +do not hesitate to write to me--or to come to me, if that be +advisable. And be sure of my interest whatever happens.” + +I thanked him, plainly perceiving that he wished to terminate the +interview and that any further question would be unwelcome to him. It +was after midnight when I went out to meet a chill night, with a +drizzle of hostile rain which drove the people from the boulevards and +sent the loafers to the baser cafés. For my part, although there were +cabs at the doors of the Ritz, I determined to walk to my hotel. So +many strange thoughts came to me, so many hopes, so many fears have +been my portion, that I have learned to dread the constraint of rooms +and turn to the liberty of streets and the darkness. Here, under God’s +sky, be there a heaven of stars or a veil of cloud, I may still +believe that my little wife is looking upward, that her eyes are +cleaving the night as mine, and that the same prayer which I breathe +is also upon her lips. + +Ah, Paddy, will it ever be that I shall wake again to find her +pillowed head upon my arm, to know that I have won her love and will +keep it to the end? If Paris would but answer me that--the mocking +crowds, the darkened canopy of night, the unknown voices which torment +me! Shall to-morrow be as yesterday and all the morrows after? Oh, God +forbid!--I cannot lose her; I will not cease to hope that even as she +came to me in this city of my youth, so shall Paris surrender her now +in the hour of my need.--Your friend, + + Harry Gastonard. + +I had closed this letter, but must open it again. Jules Farman brings +me a strange piece of news. It may mean much or little. He followed +me, it seems, to the Ritz last night believing that I also had been +followed now for some days in Paris. He had waited some twenty minutes +in the Place Vendome, when a man passed whom he recognised. It was our +old friend the famous ruffian Jean-le-Mont, from the old Café of the +Assassins. The man lingered a little while outside the Ritz, and then +went on toward the Boulevards. + +Now, what does this mean--what does your wisdom make of it? Jules +Farman will say nothing. He has been very silent these last few days. +Is it possible that our first ideas are to be justified? I begin to +believe so, even if the light be dim and the path uncertain. Tell me +what you think and do not fail to write to me. I am very lonely, +Paddy. There is not a man in all the world so wistful of sympathy as +your friend Harry to-night. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVI. + + [Paddy O’Connell writes a brief letter from Jack Straw’s Castle at + Hampstead.] + + Jack Straw’s Castle, Hampstead, + October 27, 1905. + +Dear Harry,--I’ve no mind to be writing letters on a Friday, but as we +can’t blot that same day out of the week, anyway, and there’s good +luck to come in this world as well as bad, here goes for a trial of +it. + +I am still fixed upon this wild heath, though God knows why. You tell +me neither to come nor to go, so here I am for the middle course, as +the car-driver said when he put me into the canal for fear of spoiling +the banks with his wheels. Little Martha I see every day, and we’ve +had more than one lunch and dinner at the foreign cafés down West, on +the off-chance that we might do some good to you--though this is not a +matter that should be named to her preaching man of a husband. What a +poor thing he is, to be sure--preaching on a text of St. Paul about +marriage directly her back is turned, and giving it out to the flock +that celibacy is the blessed state! She’ll give him celibacy when she +gets home! Faith, I’d like to be there when his ears are boxed. + +Your letter speaks of no good spirit, my boy, and I’m not wondering at +it. But you’ll be good enough to believe this--that if any harm had +happened to Mimi, your wife, the news of it would have come home to +you before this time. She’s well, and she’s kept away from you by some +villain or the other who would profit by her story later on. That’s my +certain belief, and nothing will shake it. A girl as clever as Mimi +the Simpleton is not going to stay in any cage while her wit can +squeeze through the bars thereof; and we’ll be hearing from her, with +any luck, before the year is very much older. + +So I say to you, cheer up. Hope’s a good friend, even if he does treat +us uncivilly sometimes. Many the time, after taking ten in a bunker, +have I forsworn the pastime of golf, and resolved, by my father’s +name, to take to hoeing turnips. But here I am, at a sixteen handicap +still, and willing to back my luck against the company should occasion +offer. + +I would tell you that we put the advertisement offering your thousand +pounds for news of Mimi in all the papers, and have had perhaps a +thousand answers. This London is a funny place, and as many rogues as +fools in it. Sometimes I think that half the world’s gone mad. Is our +dear little girl a wild animal that people should be writing to you as +they are writing? Every crank with a bee in his bonnet, every +wide-eyed lunatic who thinks his sister passed somebody like Mimi in +the streets is spoiling good paper and pestering us. And then the +newspapers themselves, still at it with their theories, and the great +doctors of learning, and the scholars from the colleges, and the +lunatics that have escaped out of Bedlam, all large in print with +their stories of what happened, and their advice gratis to the rest of +the company. ’Tis a very pandemonium of suggestion, and not one idea +worth a silver threepenny among the whole of them. + +Meanwhile, Harry, my boy, will you be letting Paddy O’Connell know +what he can do for you? ’Tis no pleasant holiday-time--ten days for +eleven guineas--that I’m spending in these parts. + +Picture your friend walking on the lonely heath, and hunted about by +vulgar men in buttons if he so much as drives a golf ball into a +perambulator. This is my occupation--and when I’m tired of it, there +are the horse-riders to be seen on the tan, and the motor-cars, which +the police are fining. + +As for the horsemen, we’ve no such riding in Ireland, and wonderful it +is to see, especially the elderly gentlemen on the six-and-sixpenny +nags, who take a little horse exercise for the liver’s sake. One of +them fell off by the pond yesterday, and I caught his steeplechaser +for him. Such a sorry nag never came out of a knacker’s yard in +Ireland; but the man himself was shivering like a half-drowned dog +when he came up, and sovereigns would not have persuaded him to mount +again. + +“Did ye see that?” he asks me; “did ye see him buck?” + +“Why,” says I, “not exactly. But if you’ll get up and make him do it +again, I’ll tell you what it is.” + +He was very angry at this, and wouldn’t hear of it. + +“I’m not a jockey,” says he. “Do you suppose I’m going to ride a +buck-jumper? Wait till I get back--I’ll tell Boulder what I think of +him!” + +“Just clap your hands,” says I to this, “and the old horse will run +home by himself. ’Tis a fine afternoon for walking, and good for the +spirits. I would be taking the second hour first next time you go out. +’Tis cheaper in the long run.” + +You can see any amount of these fellows on this “blasted heath,” +Harry, but not much else that I know of. And I am staying here because +my old friend asked that same of me; and, if he wishes it, I’ll remain +until they wake me and afterwards. As for the little house, the +curious folk still come to stare at the place, and Sunday finds them +loafing about half the day, just as though there were to be another +bad business for their amusement, and a wrong done to them should it +not happen. Yesterday one of them pushed his nose so far into the +garden that for a halfpenny I would have punched it. + +He turned out to be a French waiter from a little hotel in Soho, and +had much intelligence of his own; so I fell to some agreeable talk +with him, and was much struck with his remark that the real way to get +at the truth would be by offering money to one of the gang to turn +King’s evidence. To be sure, we’d have to learn the name of the fellow +first--but that’s to be done, I am persuaded--and if you would hear +the Frenchmen for yourself write to Monsieur Jean Rabasseur at the +Café Bousson, Soho. A man of some intellect who might be useful to +us. + +Meanwhile, for the sake of all that’s charitable, either summon me to +Paris or send me back to Ireland. Your letters speak of a poor spirit; +and if there is one man in this land of Sassenachs who could cheer you +up, ’tis that same rogue Paddy O’Connell. So send for me and have done +with it. Martha leaves London to-morrow, and then I’ll be lonely +indeed. “I must go back to my dear husband,” says she; and when I +offered to send for him to London, ’twas just “Heaven forbid, Mr. +O’Connell! would you spoil my holiday?” + +So you see, women are much the same all the world over; and, if ever I +would marry a wife, I’ll look her up and down first, and ask myself +some questions. Is she the kind to go in double harness, and how will +she run without blinkers? Is it my money she’s after, or the beautiful +face I see in the glass? Be sure, I’ll be hard to convince. ’Tis +rarely a husband’s face the women see in that same mirror; and lucky +for the husbands that they have no gift of second sight--all of which +goes to the making of that incurable old bachelor--Your friend, + + Paddy. + +P.S.--There was a letter came to-day from the office of the “Daily +Bulletin.” I’m sending it on. You’ll see it’s marked “urgent,” so +don’t answer it until you get it. Meanwhile, the others are going to +the waste-paper basket, especially the bills, which have an ugly look, +and should not be left lying about any house to annoy a man. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVII. + + [In which we hear of Henry Gastonard at the Pavilion Henry Quatre in + the town of St. Germain by Paris.] + + Pavilion Henry Quatre, St Germain, By Paris, + November 5th, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--I have very great news for you, and I hardly know how to +tell it. This must be the excuse for my silence these many days. Oh, +my dear old chap, if you knew what it all meant to me! But I will try +to tell you soberly, though God knows how much my impatience tempts me +to heroics. + +You have been to St. Germain in my motor, and will not have forgotten +it. Don’t you remember that great forest plateau above the river; how +the old car groaned to climb the height, and what a lovely view we had +from the very terrace before the windows? + +That was in the “witching month of summer.” I remember that we set out +after a dinner at Bernotti’s, which you thought execrable, and a +supper, _chez Maxim_, which won upon your fancy. We were a _partie +carrée_ in the car, and you were not a little alarmed lest news of +the escapade, and of two young and amiable ladies from the Chatelet +should ever reach the secluded shades of Glendalough. + +Those, my dear Paddy, were the roses of yesteryear. We gathered them +upon the velvet sward of youth, the vine leaves in our hair, and the +garlands of eternal hope about our brows. You, I remember, were all +for a fortune your uncle was about to leave you, and a chateau at +Bougival--I for a gold medal at the salon and a niche in the eternal +temple. Let us draw the veil upon such a treacherous jade. Did not old +John O’Connell leave every shilling to the priests--bad cess to him, +and is not the very bust I then worked upon become a corner-stone in +the house of my abasement? + +I am once again at St. Germain, Paddy, and the changed season of the +year speaks eloquently for me. What a rare day of autumn, what a +chill, bleak night, with a voice to whisper of winter! Here is the +very same terrace, magnificent as of yore--that terrace upon a +glorious height wherefrom you look down to the valley of the shining +river, away across the desolate plain of poplars, whereupon humanity +plays its Lilliputian _rôle_ upon a mighty field, and beyond which +Paris herself is but a blur upon a far horizon. But it is a silent +terrace, Paddy, and the “monde” has deserted it. No gay music of +fiddles now; no majesty of womanhood; no rustling silks and floating +chiffon, and “Monsieur” to glance to the right of him and to the left +of him ere sitting at the table of his guilt. Even the “teuf teuf” is +silent, and the very stables cry desolation to you. The sun gave and +the sun has taken away; and for want of that little sunbeam the +chiffoned elves are hidden, and the world of laughter has fled the +woods. + +But I hear you resenting this philosophy and asking for the news. Let +an excuse of prolixity be that of the day and of the hour. It is +Sunday, and but two parties at this famous house. I linger here +because the events of these latter days forbid me to tear myself away. +Would you have it otherwise as the circumstances go? Was it not on +Friday that Jules Farman came to me, whispered a word in my ear that +quickened my pulse as wine, and even hinted that the end was near? A +more reticent man does not exist--there is no greater pessimist in all +the service. And _he_ came to me and told me--_he_ permitted me to +hope--_he_ encouraged me to believe the best. Do you wonder that I +behaved like a fool for three good hours, and did not cease so to +behave until he threatened to leave me behind and to do the work--if +work were to be done--himself? + +There are some private affairs, Paddy, which are better for the wisdom +of an old friend’s tongue--and this is one of them. I was in a poor +way when Farman came to me and had begun to say that the Marquis de +Saint Faur would never reveal what he knew of the Count d’Antoine’s +visit to London. More than that, I imagined that the purpose of the +visit could throw no light upon its dreadful sequel. Here was a French +gentleman, of the older fashion, who told me plainly that he kept a +secret from me, but begged me to believe that his reticence was both +wise and honourable. And I must believe him; I must carry the +assurance that he knew, and that his knowledge must be hidden from me. + +A torture truly--for what burden is so heavy to a man in doubt as the +silence of another who could speak? I perceived that the Marquis would +never speak; and, driven to the belief that my little wife had not +left England at all, was upon the point of keeping my promise to you +when Farman came with his amazing story, and all the castles of +despair were demolished in an instant. + +This was at five o’clock of the afternoon of Friday. There had been a +day of wonderful sunshine for the month of November, and many people +in the streets. I lunched with that pleasant fellow, the Chevalier +Honoré de Villefort, at the Madrid, and went with him afterwards to +the house of the famous painter, Delmormet, who has a studio for +portraits in the Avenue de Malakoff. A promise to Villefort that we +would go up to the Butte together to dine, and then make a tour of the +old cafés, was not fulfilled, for I had no sooner come in sight of +the Hôtel St. Paul than I remarked a large motor-car standing at the +door, and leaped to the conclusion that it had come for me. In this I +was not mistaken. Jules Farman himself waited in my room, and +instantly informed me of the truth. + +“Madame Gastonard is at Bougival--in an old house near the river,” he +said. + +I looked at him, but did not answer. The room and all things in it +were spinning before me as a gyroscope. The temptation to laugh was +almost uncontrollable. + +“What do you say, Farman?” + +“That Madame Gastonard is at Bougival, and that we must go there +immediately.” + +I walked across to the buffet and filled a wineglass with brandy. It +was odd to hear my own heart beating, odd to be lifted in an instant, +as it were, upon the wings of light to a very heaven of gratitude and +thanksgiving--and yet my prudence saved me. Doubt whispered loudly in +my ear. I could laugh for excitement and yet curse the fate which made +me doubt. Even Jules Farman was powerless against that native caution +which has saved me so many days. + +“Why do you believe this, Farman?” + +“Monsieur,” he said very simply, “the man Jean-le-Mont has told us +something.” + +“He has told you something--yes--but what? Speak, man, for God’s sake! +Is your heart of marble that you play with me like this?” + +He seemed astonished. He is officialdom personified. What are men and +women to him but names to be docketed, identities to be established, +the persons of the drama which can move him to no excitements. + +“It is a long story,” he said next, “and we have little time. If you +are ready, we will go to Bougival.” + +I did not answer him immediately. The voice of prudence cried to me to +make haste. Good God, that I should delay, I who would have gone +through fire and water for Mimi’s sake! And he reproached me, this +smooth-faced servant of bureaucracy who had done his work so well. + +“I am ready, Farman--let us go,” I said--for he delayed now. + +He pointed to my thin overcoat. + +“Not without our furs, monsieur; the night will be cold.” + +The rebuke was just, and I perceived that he was heavily clad, though +in other respects the same reticent, unobtrusive creature we have +always known. When all was ready, he gave a direction to the driver to +go to Asnières--a suburb to the northwest of Paris--and taking his +seat beside me in the tonneau, we made the journey without a single +word spoken between us. + +And what could I say to him? What treasure of my inmost thoughts +should I lay bare at such an hour? My love? Impossible to speak of +that. My gratitude? He was well aware of it. The doubts lingering, the +spectres of incredulity? They sat by his side too, for his very +reservations betrayed him. Enough for me to say, Mimi is at Bougival; +I am going to her; I shall find her to-night; to-morrow she will awake +upon my heart. Were we not flying towards her?--streets and boulevards +devoured us with an appetite of distance insatiable; houses and shops, +cafés and restaurants--so many stars of light to guide us; intervals +of blackness; bridges above and rivers below; trains crashing upon +iron girders; trams humming toward the city--all the panorama of the +flight as though shown upon a cloth. And afterwards the open country. +Streets emaciated; factories at intervals; red blasts of light against +a black sky; the fresher air of fields and parks; and beyond all, one +clear star upon an imagined horizon--the star of our faith and +purpose. + +I have never been more grateful to a motor-car in my life, and may +never be as grateful again. Here was a machine of steel whose soul +sent out a sympathetic message to my own. “I know, know, know,” the +voice of it seemed to say. A horse bending to the whip could not have +answered more readily to the fevered cries of a despairing master. We +covered the ground as upon some magic carpet stretched out at my +desire. When the flight ended, when the voice from the heart of steel +was no longer heard, I noticed that we stood before a little café in +the narrow street of an inconsiderable town. And I was as one awakened +from a nightmare of sleep. Was she here; was this the house? The omens +said, no. I glanced at the café and perceived two old friends +standing at its doorway. They were the mendicant Georges Oleander and +the merry Chevalier Honoré de Villefort--whom I had but just left in +Paris. + +“We are here to dine with the Chevalier,” Farman whispered to me as we +descended; “please to remember that. We are returning at eleven +o’clock. I wish no other suggestion to be made. It is very important.” + +I nodded my head to him, and we entered the house together. A zeal, +burning to a point almost beyond endurance, bade me welcome this +respite, as a man may welcome an inn upon a journey to the house of +his pleasures. The café, I observed, was one frequented by the +students; a shabby little place, with a damp, stained frieze of faded +gilt to speak of ancient glories. The occupants of it were a dozen +students, poets, painters, and the riff-raff of the schools. Dinner +had been set for us in a mock _cabinet particulier_--but a sorry +imitation of the genuine article. Here, anon, we were joined by +Desmond Barrymore, and immediately he had entered, the _patron_ +himself served up the first course of a dinner whose menu might have +been in Chinese, for all I remember of it. + +Imagine my feelings, Paddy, as I sat at this rude table with the old +friends who have fought so many battles--and cracked so many +bottles--of Bohemia in my company. Not many months ago, Barrymore and +I were fighting for little Mimi’s very life in the Lapin Agil on the +Butte. I left Paris, and he came across the sea to witness my +marriage. Again a few weeks roll on, and he is here as a silent +witness of my despair. The others, good fellows that they were, could +but act a mean part on such a night. Ah, for the old times when no man +cared a sou for the morrow, and sufficient for the day was the evening +thereof. This thought tempted me sometimes. We may well dread a gift +of happiness, for shall there not be an aftermath of sorrow, whatever +our fortune? + +It was not hidden from me that Jules Farman had called upon these good +comrades of mine to share his confidence. They were excited, but not +eloquent. Recalling old days of the games, I found them in that mood +which overtakes a man when he is about to run or row a race, and +believes that he will win it. They talked at rare intervals, drank +much wine, evaded my questions, and rarely looked me in the face. + +When dinner was over, we went into the outer room and joined the +Bohemians there. This I understood to be part of the stratagem, and I +made no comment upon it; and, for that matter, the scene was droll +enough. The artist--especially the French artist--in Suburbia is a +wild creature, as you know well; nor were these men exceptions. We +discovered them in all attitudes, some sprawling at the tables, some +billing and cooing in far secluded corners. The man at the piano had a +girl upon his knees, and cuddled her while he played. The shadowgraph +which they acted presently would have brought the police into any +establishment in London. But here it seemed innocent enough. After +all, the spirit of the play goes for much. + +Depict a far from clean sheet drawn across one end of this mean room, +and a shadow-play cast upon it. There is a sick man shown, and he is +_in extremis_. Appear a doctor, who pulls out the fellow’s tongue with +a pair of pliers, and rams it in again with a motor tyre lever. +Medicine is administered to the moribund creature as a horse is +drenched with drugs. The relatives gather round the bed, and begin to +divide up the man’s property between them. But they are reckoning +without their host. The wonderful drug acts upon the sick man with +amazing and miraculous results. He sits up in bed, waves the throng +off, spurns his wife aside, leaps from his couch, and embraces the +pretty nurse ecstatically. This is the whole cure; and those who were +the spectators have now become the imitators, inspired by the _mens +sana_. The artists embrace all the pretty girls near them. Somebody +puts out the electric light, and in the darkness we hear squeals and +giggles. Thus genius amuses itself--thus, the story of the youth of +to-day, whom Fame will acclaim at maturity to-morrow. + +Just as a man upon his way to a _rendezvous_, where the opportunity of +a lifetime awaits him, may be amused by the _gamins_ of the pavement, +so did this absurdity of the café engross me. It was something to +lean back in my chair and to tell myself that I was a prisoner there +for Mimi’s sake. Later on, when the appointed hour came, I would go to +her and tell her how I had waited. And prudence said that Jules Farman +delayed because our very success depended on his cleverness. + +Strangers at the café--would not that rumour be bruited abroad +quickly enough. I imagined also that he waited for some man to come or +go, was watching patiently as we sat, and numbering the very minutes +as the old wooden clock above the doorway numbered them. Nor in this +was I mistaken. At eleven o’clock precisely he rose, and we followed +him from the place without a word. The great car stood already at the +door; we entered it, and were whirled away as it might seem toward +Paris, but in reality toward St. Germain and the chateau of Bougival +below the heights. + +Now, this was not a long journey, but to my impatience nigh +intolerable. I knew nothing of the road we followed; the night was so +black that the sharpest eyes could make little either of the route or +its environment. I can only tell you that we perceived the lights of +St. Germain at last, and had no sooner set our course toward them than +we turned from the high road and entered upon a narrow track which was +little better than a waggon-way. This we followed, perhaps for the +half of a mile, then the River Seine came to our view, and at the same +moment the car stopped, and I knew that this was our destination. + +There is no moon before midnight this month, and we had fallen upon a +black, dark night. My busy eyes could follow the silver shimmer upon +the still water of the river, but little else of the scene about. It +is true that a glint of light at the far side of a meadow seemed to +tell of a house there, though of what nature I could not hazard. +Farman himself carried many anxieties, and he entered the wood at the +roadside, and remained there some minutes alone before we had his +confidence. When he returned, he gathered us about him, and began to +speak in a low voice. + +“Madame Gastonard,” he said, “has been in that house for three days. +She was taken there by a man named Bedotte and the old woman Marie +from Orleans. I have reason to believe that both of them are in the +house to-night. The others were the man Jean-le-Mont and the showman +Gondré. The former is now in our pay, and the latter has been +arrested at Asnières to-night. We shall find the man Bedotte +dangerous, but I do not think he will trouble us very much. If there +should be others with him, whose names I do not know, I may have to +ask you gentlemen to give me some help. Be pleased to take these--and +to use them if I bid you.” + +He went to the car, and produced three revolvers from it. Old Georges +Oleander’s protest that he was more likely to shoot one of us than any +other caused a smile even at such a time. But we gave him a heavy +knobbed stick in place of the pistol, and so set out in single file +across a marshy meadow toward the house. My own place was upon +Farman’s heels, and I would have given much for another word with him. +But he walked fast and resolutely, and did not stop until a hound +began to bay and another to answer from a house upon the further side +of the river. Then he stopped and listened. + +“I had not thought of a dog,” he said quietly; “we must remember him, +gentlemen.” + +The Chevalier assented with a jest, Georges Oleander, I thought, a +little dolefully. As for me, I did not lift my eyes from the lamp +which shone across the fields as an omen of salvation. Mimi was there, +harboured in that mean house. Men so vile that no man could name them +truly were her jailors, and she stood alone among them. Incredible! +and this was Farman’s story--the word of a man who had never lied to +me. Oh, think of it all, Paddy, and try to follow my footsteps toward +the house. Be patient if the record is not to be set down without +emotion. + +I had supposed that we should approach the place covertly and a +tip-toe. Such, however, was not to the mind of this amazing Jules +Farman. He crossed the meadow as bold as any pedestrian out for the +air on the Champs Elysées, and with less concern. As the villa took +shape against the curtain of the sky, I made it out to be little more +than a modern cottage set in a narrow garden which sloped toward the +river. There was no other house in sight, nor any outstanding object +to relieve the sense of isolation and security. But the river at the +back was plainly in our favour, and I judged that the common at the +front could conceal no sentinel. So perhaps I began to understand why +Farman went so resolutely, and did not halt until we were but fifty +paces from the door. + +“Monsieur Gastonard,” he said quietly, “you will please to use force +should the occasion arise. I am hoping that it will not arise, and +that our visit to the café will have been useful to us. If you +please, gentlemen.” + +He waited for them to go on, smiling, I thought, for a brief instant +at old Oleander’s hesitation. When they had opened the garden +gate--whereby they paused a little while--the hound ceased to bay, and +as hounds will, at a resolute approach, began to fawn upon them. They +were lost to our view, and with no further delay, Farman walked toward +the villa and knocked three times upon its door. + +It would be impossible, Paddy, to tell you of my own sensations during +these instants of waiting. Depict me standing in the miserable patch +of formal garden, at the door of a paltry red brick villa, listening, +as I have never listened in all my life, trembling, I do believe, in +the very excitement of my hope. More than once the temptation to cry +out almost overpowered me. I must tell her that I had come--must let +Mimi know that I waited for her. I could have beaten down twenty doors +in my rage against delay, smashed the glass of the window to atoms, +and razed the very building to the ground. Upon the other side was +this imperturbable Farman, as quiet, as cat-like as ever, listening +with bent ear, betraying no emotion; seemingly convinced already of +his success. And I must obey him faithfully, wait as he waited, crush +my impatience in hands of iron. Oh, I say, it was intolerable, and yet +it was the truth! + +No one answered to our bold knock; the silence became almost +insupportable. A minute we waited, two minutes, and still there was no +sound but that of our own quick breathing. As for the lamp which +burned so brightly, we could see it plainly, standing upon the table +of the front room and the single ornament of that bare apartment. For +the rest, there was no carpet on the floor, no ornament, no +picture--but just the room itself and the bare wooden table and the +lamp standing upon it. This we might have looked for, but not for the +mystery of the silence, the absolute stillness which met us--so that +one could have heard a watch ticking in the hand. Were the men warned, +then? Had they fled the place? My heart sank low at the thought--and +yet it was a thought that crept upon me. + +I had spoken no word to Farman since we entered the garden of the +house, but this new turn was not to be borne, and I could suffer it no +longer. A hurried whisper asked him what he made of it--and, a little +to my surprise, he answered me aloud. + +“They are asleep,” he said quietly; “we must wake them”--and he +knocked so loudly that the hound began to bay again, and I could hear +the voice of Oleander cursing him. Plainly, we had no further need of +concealment. + +“Who is asleep?” I asked a little brutally. “Did you not tell me that +Madame Gastonard was here?” + +“I believed so,” he answered as quietly. + +“You believed so--well?” + +“I shall tell you presently.” + +His answer told me that he, with all his discernment, could make +little of the situation. My own advice had been to force the window of +the room, and this he now proceeded to do--but first he lighted a +little lantern and laid his pistol on the sill. A disingenuous catch +gave way at the first attempt, and we climbed through immediately, and +went straight toward the inner door. Here for an instant Farman stood +irresolute. + +“There may be some danger,” he said--and then he asked me--“are you +quite prepared?” + +I whispered that I was, and he flung the door wide open, searching the +hall beyond with the faint rays from a policeman’s lantern. There were +signs of habitation here such as we might have expected--a felt hat +upon a cane-seated chair, a basket such as women take to market, a +stick so heavy that it was almost a bludgeon, an old mackintosh +hanging upon a nail driven into the wall. The floor was uncarpeted and +showed mud from clumsy boots--at the far end the door of the kitchen +stood open, and a flicker of firelight from the grate still flashed +upon its plastered walls. Thither now we went cautiously. But the +place was tenantless--though a kettle still sang upon the hob and some +dishes stood unwashed upon the table. + +I often think, Paddy, that nothing is so sure a test of a man’s nerves +as a house of unknown perils, which we must search room by room. I am +afraid of little in this world. It is no mere boast--for these things +are purely physical--but I possess some presence of mind beyond +ordinary, and a contempt for many of the situations of danger which +tradition has glorified. And yet I swear to you, the sweat ran down my +face like rain while I stood by Farman’s side in that shabby kitchen +and asked him, what next? + +No longer did I believe that Mimi was here--and yet I was forbidden to +say that she was not here. The evidence of recent occupation, the +shreds of coarse food, the empty bottles lying pell-mell in the +scullery, a woman’s tattered bonnet flung to a corner, a little jug of +milk set apart with a few dry biscuits--these were the witnesses to +Farman’s good faith and witnesses no logic could shake. + +As he had spoken, so the truth--that my dear wife had been the captive +of these ruffians in this very house, that she might even be a captive +still or worse than a captive. For now I shall tell you that an +overmastering fear of the worst took possession of me and would not be +quieted. I cared nothing for the men or the danger of their presence. +Every step, long dragged out and heavy, was as a step toward a +dreadful secret. The upper stories of the house became in an instant +the chambers of the terrible truth. And above all was the torture of +the thought that we had come too late, and but for those useless hours +at St. Germain might have saved her. This latter brought me to the +nadir of despair. Even Farman took pity upon me. + +“I begin to think that Madame is not here,” he said quietly. “Let us +go upstairs--we shall not be long in doubt.” + +I looked him full in the face, and did not spare him the question. + +“Is she alive, Farman?” + +“Why should they kill her? The blackmailer never kills--he has not the +courage.” + +I could but shrug my shoulders. + +“Then their object has been blackmail?” + +“It could be nothing else, Monsieur.” + +I admitted his reasoning, but it did little to console me. If there +were peril of our proceeding this must be the moment of it. For we had +to climb the narrow stairway, ignorant of those who were above, and +powerless to shield ourselves from their attack. + +How it came that I was up on the first floor before Jules Farman I am +not able to tell you. I remember only that I stood on a dark landing +listening to my own heavy breathing, and unable to distinguish other +sounds. What light there was came astreak through a narrow window high +above us. I could make out the shapes of doors, but they were shut and +meaningless. The floor was but a black patch until a warm ray of light +shone down upon it from my companion’s lantern and instantly declared +its secret. + +An old woman lay there--a shrivelled, white-faced hag of a woman, +whose clothes were little more than a bundle of rags, whose hand still +clutched the heavy stick with which, perchance, she had been struck +down. And this Jezebel had gone to her account. The mask of death is +sometimes unmistakable. It was unmistakable on Friday night when I +came face to face with the old woman, Marie of Orleans, upon the +landing of the house at Bougival. + +I say that it was a dreadful discovery, and yet, God knows, my +thoughts in the instant of it were less of this stricken huddled body +upon the floor than of the events which had preceded the murder. There +is always awe of death, Paddy, however humble the subject, however +callous the discoverer. And at the dark of the night in a lonely house +with mystery whispering all about, the awe is manifold. Here we were, +stooping to put our hands upon the dead woman’s heart, listening as we +did so for any sounds from the secret rooms, and yet, perchance +thinking of our own safety all the while. Who had been the instruments +of our vengeance upon this mumbling hag? Must we unearth them +presently, strike them down as they had struck her, spend the precious +hours in such a butcher’s task? + +For my part, I thought that any instant might bring the ruffians upon +us. It was a trial intolerable to watch the closed doors and wait for +them to open. Why did the men delay? And Mimi--my God, why was she +silent? Then a better instinct began to say that she was not here, and +this gave me courage. Let me know the fact for a truth, and I cared +not how many villains were harboured here. + +We opened the doors one by one, Farman carrying his lantern. I had a +revolver at the cock. But I shall tell you at once that we discovered +nothing. There were beds in two of the rooms, and a third had a paltry +_ameublement_ which spoke of a gentler occupation. But in the main the +house remained the same hard and chilling villa that we had imagined +it to be--and I vow that there was something beyond all words +melancholy in that secret which lay at the heart of it. An empty, +barren house and a dead woman’s body upon the stairs. So much for +Bougival--so much for all our plotting and our planning and our bold +emprise. + +The men who had done this thing had been warned. They had fled the +neighbourhood, cheated us, and perchance the police. Even Farman +admitted as much when he called us together and deigned, for the first +time, to share a confidence. + +“Gentlemen,” he said, “I cannot blame myself. The man Bedotte was here +an hour ago--I knew that Madame Gastonard was here at sunset. You see +what has happened--there has been a quarrel, and this woman has been +killed. I would have come to Bougival sooner if it had been safe to +come--but I was afraid for Madame Gastonard while the showman Gondré +was here. We set a trap for him and he has been taken at Asnières +to-night. The other man, Bedotte, has not been sober for many days. +That is why I came to the house as I did; but, believe me, if what I +surmise be true, nothing has been lost by delay, and we shall have +good news of Madame to-morrow. I am now to leave the police to do +their own business here and to advise Monsieur Lepine of ours. We may +return immediately to Paris, for our work is done.” + +And so, Paddy, we left this melancholy house and returned to the car. +I can still see the villa, the lamp shining from the lonely room, and +the river bathed in moonlight--for the moon was up by this time and +all the scene made glorious. It was something, at least, to know that +my beloved wife had escaped that mean temple of death, perchance had +known nothing of its secrets. None the less, I clung to the +neighbourhood as to some place which should minister to my sentiment, +and, determining to stay the night at St. Germain, returned thither +with my companions. They, be sure, were not the men to decline such +hospitality, and they sat up with me until dawn, offering a thousand +explanations of Farman’s conduct, and justifying it in no way. + +What was this man keeping back from us? Why did he, who had served me +so faithfully many a day, serve me so ill to-night? Recollect that I +had but the shabbiest of facts from him. He had told me merely that my +wife had been abducted from her house by those who had known her as +Mimi La Godiche at Montmartre, and who believed that they could profit +by the knowledge. And upon this a talk of blackmail--yet not a word +that would enlighten me, no names, no histories--nothing but the +intimation. This we said again and again as we sat in my room at the +Pavilion Hotel and waited for the day. Circumstance had deluded us. We +could make nothing of it. + + * * * * * + +I had nothing from Farman yesterday, but to-day there came a little +note in which, evading other issues, he tells me that the man Bedotte +has been traced to Rheims, and is evidently making for Brussels; but +that the police are close upon his track, and an immediate arrest is +expected. “As for Madame,” he says, “the opinion is growing that she +escaped from the house and need no longer be sought among these +people.” But of this he will write me further at a later hour. + +And so you see, Paddy, that I am tied to this hotel in as great a +state of doubt and perplexity, of hope and longing, as ever mortal +suffered. I know not what to decide, what to believe. Inconceivable, +indeed, that Mimi should not have gone straight to Paris, if this tale +of escape were true. A telegram assures me that nothing is known of +her, either at the Hôtel St. Paul or at Montmartre; and had you in +England any news, I doubt not it would have come to me before this. +What, then, am I to say? That she has not wished to return to me? God +forbid any such thought. + +I will send you another letter in the morning, as soon as the event +permits. Should anything happen in London, let nothing delay a +telegram. Of the trivial affairs, there is a request here from the +editor of the “Daily Bulletin” that I will write a second letter for +him. It would serve no purpose, and I have said so. His desire to see +me privately dictates the wish that you shall be my ambassador. Quit +the game of golf and the perambulators and spend a quiet hour in +Fleet-street. The power of the press is a wonderful thing, I assure +you, but the journalist at lunch by no means terrifying. Ask the good +fellow to meet you at the Savoy, and I do not think the state of +parties will forbid. + +How odd it seems to be writing like this. I feel it not at all. The +shadows crowd upon me. If I could but say, Let there be light! + + Yours, dear Paddy, + Henry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVIII. + + [The Reverend Arthur Warrington rebukes his wife, Martha Warrington, + upon a trivial account.] + + The Red Farm, Baldon, Suffolk, + Sunday within the Octave of All Saints. + +Dear Martha,--Your continued stay with my cousins at Cambridge does +not seem a great compliment to your husband. John is a very estimable +man, it is true; but I ask you if it is discreet or prudent that a +clergyman’s wife should associate with one who is not ashamed to +attend the horse races at Newmarket, and has declared from a public +platform that the Anti-Field Sports’ League is a society of +charlatans. + +I had expected you to return and tell me more of this dreadful affair +in which our cousin Henry is implicated. Is it kind to protract my +anxieties? If it indeed be true that his unhappy wife has fled, then I +think that the future need give us little anxiety. I say, God forbid +that any harm should have overtaken the poor creature; but the human +destinies are not in our hands, and we must humbly bow to them. To-day +I wrote to Mr. Frogg, suggesting that we had some right to an +inventory of the property. The great house at Fawlands, now let to +Lord Lesborough, contains priceless furniture bought by Henry’s +father, my uncle, and of this a valuation should be made. It is +possible that by judicious economy and some practice of +self-denial--in which I shall invite your cordial help--we might be +able to live there ourselves when the present tenancy is terminated. +But I shall permit no worldly ambitions to hamper my sacred calling, +and in this course I must be guided by the Bishop. There is a See to +be founded presently at Bury St. Edmunds, and there should be four +residentiary canonries as a minimum. Here your brother’s influence +with the Lord Chancellor may help us, and I should not hesitate to +give a series of dinners in London to promote so worthy an aim. After +all, rich men owe something to society, to do their duty in that state +into which they were born; and we should be strangely forgetful of our +privileges if we were merely to husband this money which the Lord has +put into our keeping. + +Would you not like to be a canon’s wife, Martha? Remember that a +Deanery may lie beyond, or even a Bishopric. I will not permit myself +to think of these things. To-morrow I should have an answer from Mr. +Frogg, and also, I hope, a letter announcing your return. These +sporting people, surely, are no fit companions for a clergyman’s wife! + + Your devoted husband, + Arthur. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIX. + + [We hear of Paddy O’Connell in a letter to Martha Warrington at + Cambridge.] + +Dear Mrs. Warrington,--I am careful, you see, not to say “Martha,” +lest this letter should fall into your husband’s hands--bad cess to +him! and he be making a fool of himself, as you say that he would. So +it shall just be “Mrs. Warrington,” though laughing up my sleeve I am +all the time, and you the same, I do not doubt. + +Well, my dear, I am having the blazes of a time in this wilderness of +a place, and all for my friend’s sake; though, God knows what use I am +to him any more than the policeman at the corner, who has had many a +good glass of my whisky, and would like many another. Harry says ’tis +to Paris I am to go presently, though what for the old gentleman +himself would be hard put to it to guess. The last news I have from +him speaks of the dreadful things we read in the papers this morning. +It would be clear that the little witch is gone from the people that +have had charge of her, and that this wicked story of wrong and +mystery is no clearer to us than ever it was. But so far as it goes, +we must be content with it; for I would no more doubt her than I would +doubt my sister Clara, and whatever she has done has been done for the +best--of that I am sure. + +Did it never occur to you that this pretty child may have a history +out of the ordinary? It has been in my mind since the first day of our +meeting, and as more in my mind than ever to-day. Who was her father? +but, more important to ask, what was her mother’s name? Did you never +hear tell of the airs and graces of her, the pretty ways that were +strange in a showman’s tent, and the dignity which no man ever +humbled? We may have lost good manners in this twentieth century, Mrs. +Warrington, but we haven’t lost the good sense which tells us whether +our fathers were gentlemen or villains, and this is an instinct we’ll +keep yet awhile. + +I say that Mimi Gastonard is the daughter neither of a showman nor a +peasant, and if my surmise is not correct, put Paddy O’Connell down +with the fools. + +To speak of things better understood, I don’t wonder to hear that you +were annoyed about the horse-racing. ’Tis no consolation to have +missed those same great races, the Cæsarewitch and Cambridgeshire, +and you so near to the course. Your cousin John evidently knows a good +thing, and his win upon the double event must have gladdened your +heart. But I’m sorry to hear that he put but a sovereign apiece on for +you, and he might well have made it a tenner. Man is a curious animal, +and always niggardly about his own kills. I shall tell Mr. John that +same if ever I meet him. + +Well, Martha, I miss the piquet we used to play on quiet afternoons, +and that’s a certainty. This god-forsaken Hampstead puts pistols in my +hands every evening, and takes them out again when the sun shines in +the morning. Just to think that the riding has begun in Ireland, and +me, Paddy O’Connell, doomed to a six-shilling hack and a gallop as far +as your arms can reach. Yesterday, in Harry’s interest, I lunched with +a newspaper man at the Savoy Hotel, and was much disappointed to find +that he drank water. “’Tis a little gas one needs in politics,” says +I, “and champagne’s the stuff;” but he would have none of it. I should +tell you that he has big notions of Harry’s literary gifts, and wants +some more letters out of him. I told him a story or two about the +parish priest of Glendalough, who, when the Bishop told him that golf +was sending men to the devil fast, replied that he wondered at it, for +they did it mostly on sloe gin. After this, he asked me to write a +series of papers on “a humorist in the mountains of Ireland.” But I +declined immediately. “’Twould be over the heads of your people,” says +I, “and that’s where all good Catholics should be in this life or the +next.” + +I expect to go to Paris to-morrow or the day after, and will write you +when I get there. There is a parcel of books at the house, sent to you +by your husband; but you don’t seem to have opened them. Will I +forward them on or give them to the heathen? Advise me by return. + +And with kind regards, please find me, yours, as per last, + + Paddy O’Connell. + +There was a curate man got hold of me in Hampstead, and took me to a +Christian Endeavour meeting. He persuaded me to put on the boxing +gloves, and one of his flock gave me a precious black eye. ’Twas a +Christian endeavour surely, and cost me a bandage. So I’m only seeing +half of this letter, which you can tell your husband if it should fall +into his hands. + + + + + CHAPTER XL. + + [A Brief Note from Jules Farman in Paris to Henry Gastonard at St. + Germain.] + + 4 (bis), Rue du Quatre Septembre, + November 8th, 1905. + +Monsieur,--I am very well able to understand your displeasure, and +regret that it should have been incurred. Permit me to assure you that +I have not deserved it. The circumstances of this unhappy case concern +so many others, there are so many threads to this tangled skein that I +crave your indulgence if all does not march as you would wish it. + +You heard from me yesterday the welcome tidings both of Madame’s +safety and of her content. When the moment comes--and it is hourly +expected--I feel that you will be the first to acquit me of the +deception which has been practised. Madame believes that you are on +your way from England, and will arrive in Paris, it may be to-day, it +may be to-morrow. When you are with her, I doubt not that you will +readily understand both our desire for delay and her continued +residence. This story, believe me, is put forward for the best of +reasons--reasons, I repeat, which you cannot fail to approve. + +But something, Monsieur, may be told by me in the meanwhile, and that +I do not hesitate to write. It is now clear that Madame Gastonard was +placed as a child at the Convent of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart at +Feonville, near Orleans. A childish frolic carried her from the +gardens of the old house to the woods upon the road to Blois, where +she fell into the evil hands of the murdered woman, Marie Bordon, and +was by her sold to the travelling showman, Gondré. So, passed from +hand to hand, she becomes the servant of these rogues, and is lucky to +find a home at last with that honest man Cassadore. Her story until +the moment of her entry into the Convent School will be told to you by +others, I trust, before many days are passed. + +I have directed, Monsieur, that this message shall reach you at St. +Germain, believing that your continued stay in that town is both wise +and convenient. In the meantime, dear sir, be assured of the loyal +service of, + + Your devoted, + Jules Henry Farman. + + + + + CHAPTER XLI. + + [In which Henry Gastonard receives a summons from the Marquis de Saint + Faur.] + + Château of Bougival, + November 8th, 1905. + +Dear Mr. Gastonard,--The obligation of silence which recent events +have imposed upon me is the more deserving of apology as it is the +less possible of explanation. + +May I beg of you to believe that all which has been done, or +contemplated, is such as would appeal to any man of honour, and +particularly to one who has shown such gifts of prudence and +self-restraint as you have done these latter days? + +The story of Madame Gastonard’s infancy is not one which may be +written circumstantially even for you, Monsieur. But the pages which +are missing will be supplied by your knowledge and experience of the +world and of men, and will not be regretted because of that knowledge. +Great names are implicated, and particularly the name of a noble +woman, who has suffered much, and yet must suffer. I beg you, in the +name of womanhood, to bear this fact in mind from the beginning. + +For the rest, I am content that your judgment shall decide what is to +be told to the world and what concealed. The rest is your own--an +inheritance of a destiny once decreed and irrevocable. + +Do me the honour, I beg of you, to come to the Château de Bougival +without delay, there to hear from Madame Gastonard’s own lips both the +story of these recent days as she alone may tell it, and that other +story, which will be told for the first time to any man by, Yours, +with cordial esteem, + + Gaspard de Saint Faur. + + + + + CHAPTER XLII. + + [Paddy O’Connell hears that he may leave London, and is invited to + take the first train to Paris.] + + Château de Bougival, near Paris, + November 15th, 1905. + +Dear Paddy,--Please to pack that monstrous bag of yours, and to come +to us immediately. You will get a train from Paris to St. Germain, and +I will send a motor there to meet you. But be sure to wire, for Mimi +says you are more likely to send your telegram from this house than +from London. + +Oh, Paddy, Paddy--what a day, what news, what happiness! I am here in +this old château, and Mimi is at my feet while I write to you. We +have before us the great park of Bougival; there is warm sunshine +though the month is November; the trees are bare and leafless, but +they show us the shining river, and it shall wing our message to the +friends who love us. For thirty-six hours I have hardly let Mimi +escape from my arms, but to-day she bids me write to you; and I obey, +even as she who watches me with such a story of love and gratitude in +her childish eyes. + +I have found her--the dreadful days will come no more; already we have +learned to believe that yesterday was not, and that to-day is eternal. +So much is to be told immediately; but of the rest your own perception +shall tell you, and you alone, when you come to Bougival. And you will +come without delay. Trains shall be too slow for you; the sea shall +provoke you; the inventions of man imprison those kindly thoughts you +would speed to us. As you stood beside us in the hour of darkness, so +now will you stand with us in the light--the first and best and +biggest-hearted of our friends. So I repeat, let nothing prevent you, +but come, for we weary for you. + +It was on Wednesday afternoon that I received a letter from the +Marquis de Saint Faur inviting me to this place. There was little in +it that would interest you beyond the invitation which it contained, +and you may imagine with what haste I set out at its commands. Oh, be +sure, I had some dim perception of the truth, or I would not have been +content to rest in that lonely hotel, as I did, and to suffer +patiently the mysteries which crowded upon me. Mimi was well, I said, +and had the best of reasons for her silence. + +To-day I know it was the truth. If you ever come to understand, +Paddy--in which case you will be the one man in all Europe who will +share the great truth with me--then your own shrewd common-sense will +have written the story for you. My lips are sealed; I am content that +they should be sealed. For is not Mimi at my feet while I write, and +may not I stoop to kiss her rosy cheeks when I will? + +I set out for Bougival on Wednesday night, then, and in 20 minutes was +at its gates. To my inquiry whether the Marquis owned the Château, +the people about gave an evasive answer. Some seemed to think that he +did; others spoke of a foreign tenancy, chiefly by that beautiful but +notorious woman the Princess Hélène of Ilidze, and her cousin the +Duchess de Bourg. Both these ladies had been with Saint Faur when I +met him at the Ritz Hotel in Paris; and from all that gossip says, it +was no surprise to me that one of them, at any rate, should be found +at Bougival. But of this I had little time to speculate, for I set out +for the Château within half an hour of receiving the Marquis’s +letter, and was at the gates exactly at seven o’clock on Wednesday +evening. + +I knew that it was seven o’clock, for bells chimed as my car raced up +the long avenue from the lodge, and the great clock above the stables +was still telling the hour when a butler opened the door to me and +invited me within. That the servants expected me it was not possible +to doubt. Neither my name nor my business was asked, but being +conducted directly into the great hall of the château, footmen +relieved me of my wraps and assured me that Monsieur le Marquis should +at once be informed of my arrival. And so they left me in that stately +place; and for the first time since the letter came to me, I could ask +myself the meaning both of it and of this bewildering sequel. + +Imagine a vast apartment, Paddy, domed above and built almost entirely +of marble. There were mosaics in gold for the frieze and paintings +above, such paintings as Vernet made for the ceilings of the Louvre, +but skilfully adapted to a vast and ornate concavity. A wide staircase +glowing with a crimson carpet boasts five caryatides to bear its +burdens. The chimney is a masterpiece by an unknown artist--a colossal +structure protruding centaurs far into the room and pillared with +jasper and chalcedony. Above there is a great picture of Turenne, the +Turenne of the fables and the wars, mounted and riding as a +Marshal-General of France. Other portraits also of soldiers adorn the +place, but there is one of the Empress Josephine, painted, I imagine, +during the stormy days of St. Cloud, and cleverly reflective of that +turbulent time, which is a masterpiece beyond all question. As to the +furniture, it is sparse but very beautiful. I note a clock with the +Graces which could not be bettered at Fontainebleau. A massive bureau +is in the finest style of that magnificent Boulle whom posterity has +imitated and derided. A brief glance says that this apartment stands +as an atrium to a house of princes. The manner of it, the size of it, +that indefinable atmosphere which the ages create could never mislead. +I am in the house of an aristocrat, and he has summoned me to find +Mimi there. + +So much is plain from the beginning, but the event which carried my +beloved wife to such a place, which sealed her lips while she resided +there, and brings me to her as a very suppliant, is dwelt upon almost +with reluctance, stands, it may be, almost as a shadow beyond. I seem +to know, and yet I do not know. You, Paddy, with your powers of swift +perception, will not fail to understand me. You will read already in +this book of an amazing destiny. + +I say that they left me in this splendid hall, and that for many +minutes I had no companion there. The house itself spoke both of +occupation and of ceremony. I perceived footmen about the table in the +dining-room, whose door opened to the right of the great fireplace +where the logs blazed brightly. The landing above echoed the voices of +maids, and, upon that, another voice which caused my heart to leap as +though one had spoken to me from the grave. When a chime of bells +echoed musically in the heights of the dome, I understood that they +were ringing the dressing-bell, and remembered with some consternation +that I had come to the château “as I was.” But the thought passed +away as swiftly as car and train could carry me. + +If anything disturbed my serenity, it was the absence of the Marquis. +He knew of my arrival, and should, I thought, have welcomed me the +sooner. But the minutes passed, and still he did not come; and one by +one the old phantoms swarmed up to torment me. If she were not here, +after all! If a trick had been played me! Inconceivable, and yet how +real to a man who had suffered so much. + +It was odd, Paddy, but all memory of the tragic days we have lived +through passed utterly from my recollection in that house. No longer +did I care what the world had said of Mimi or what it would say +to-morrow. That awful night, when I stood upon the threshold of my +little house to gape upon a dead man’s body and to know that my wife +had left me; that had been wiped out of my calendar as though a hand +of mercy reviewed the page. The house in which I stood, the great +names I had heard, Mimi’s presence at the château--with what woeful +reiteration did I not repeat the harassing questions to which I had no +answer. She knew that I was here and yet she did not come to me! How +my heart sank at that! What an abasement of love and faith--and how +swift a repentance! + +She comes at last--I hear the patter of feet on the stairs above--so +gentle that it might be the south wind brushing the cheeks of a rose. +What a moment to live as I turn about to spy a sweet apparition on the +stairs, to watch a girlish figure descend them one by one, to say that +she is my Mimi, and yet to remain almost unbelieving. Stand so far +with me, Paddy, but then shall you turn your eyes away. There are +things said and done between two who love which are holy in their +sanctity and God-given in their secrecy. Were it otherwise I could no +more tell you what befell us in that instant of greeting than I could +speak the dreams which the lightest hours of sleep have given me. Was +it not enough that I caught her in my arms and that kisses forbade her +to speak at all? Are there not hours of living so precious that they +would remain heaven though it were hell afterwards to all eternity? +And such an hour was that at the Château of Bougival--when Mimi ran +down the great staircase to my embrace, and my lips sealed her sweet +confession. + +You will remember that she wore a trim black dress when she was with +us at Hampstead, made cleverly as the French make all these things; +but a little overmuch in the fashion of the nunneries. I recollect +that we chaffed her about it, and that the Chevalier would have gone +out to get a Franciscan robe to match it; while old Georges Oleander +was all for singing the office, especially that part of it which +counsels the giving of alms to the needy. + +This dress and the pretty picture it enshrined have stood during all +these weary days for my image of Mimi as I should find her at last and +take her again to my house. But it was not to be. The Château of +Bougival has dealt too well by its prisoner. No little girl of the +atelier and the mountain descended that proud staircase to my embrace. +In her place I found a stately figure of Paris, gowned and dining; a +Mimi robed in silk and chiffon, with a gift of jewels about her white +neck and a sparkle of diamonds upon her arms. Oh, and the grace and +shyness of her, as though she were half afraid, but wholly sure of her +reception! And here is the wonder. She spoke not at all of the things +I had expected to hear from her lips. She told me nothing of the night +of crime and flight; nothing of the days intervening; no story of her +coming to this house--but happy in my arms she laughed at my +perplexities and asked me if I would have her otherwise. And, Paddy, I +knew not what to say to her. She is changed as it were in a twinkling. +My quick perception could not put the fact aside. She has come into +her inheritance--she is Mimi of the Butte no longer and never will be +again. + +Let me try to tell you of the talk which passed between us as we stood +together in the hall and cared less than nothing though all France had +been listening. It will not be to write down the sighs and sounds of a +lover’s meeting--you, Paddy, of all men care nothing for those since +you met the widow at Ostend; but I would wish to tell you how cleverly +this mere child kept, even from me, the things she had been charged to +hold sacred, and how even my persistency could not shake her. And +first, of our meeting in the house at all. + +“The Marquis sent for me, Mimi,” said I; “I looked to find him here.” + +“And you found me, Monsieur Henry----” + +“Monsieur Henry! Am I that to you, Mimi? Is it the Mimi of the Lapin +Agil again? Let me look into your eyes--let me see why you are +changed.” + +“I am not changed,” she rejoined very sweetly, “but I am very happy, +_mon mari_.” + +“How long have you been in this house, Mimi?” + +She tried to think. An impaired memory is among the first fruits of +all that has befallen her. + +“_Ah, mes enfants_, how long have I been here? There would be nights +and days--long nights and days. Then Madame came and I was happy. She +will tell you, Harry--she can remember how long I have been here.” + +“Did the Marquis bring you, then? Did he discover you at the villa?” + +She shuddered; a spasm of pain crossed her face. I regretted that I +had spoken of such a place at all. + +“Bedotte went down to the river,” she said presently, her mind +gathering the threads one by one, “I was alone and afraid. _Alors_, +the woman Marie is there and I think of her. _Ah, mes enfants!_ She +comes to my bedroom and begins to tell me the things I heard long ago, +when I was a little child and ran away to the woods. I think she was +_ivre, mon mari_--and I laughed at her. Then I saw that she was no +longer the Madame Marie who had frightened me. She prayed and mumbled +and wept. Oh, it was droll, for she seemed to think I was a baby again +and would have sung me to the sleep. But I crept away, and then she +told me to go. It was _mechante_ to hear that. ‘Go,’ she said, and she +tumbled to the door and held it wide open--and the black house was +there and the men to kill me. I was afraid to go, and I told her so, +and then she wept again and sat by the fire rocking herself as a baby. +I was frightened, _affreusement_, but I went to the top of the stairs +and then a little way down them. Monsieur Bedotte had not returned, so +I opened the door. And then I ran away from them--Jésu, how I ran! +The woman called to me from the window, but still I ran, until I heard +her scream, and then I could run no more. A long while afterwards I +came to the river and the boat; and when I asked the boatman to take +me to Paris he laughed. I should have been afraid of him also, _mon +mari_, if there had not been someone else in the ship, a great big +monsieur, big as Monsieur Paddy and as kind. He asked me why I wished +to go to Paris, and I told him. He said he would take me there but +that I must rest first. Then he brought me to this house and Monsieur +the Marquis came to speak to me. He promised that he would write to +you--and now you have come--_ah, mes enfants_, you have come and I am +happy.” + +She spoke slowly, Paddy, and with less than a Frenchwoman’s +volubility. Perceive that she had told me nothing of the house itself, +of its master or its mistress. The dramatic story of her flight from +the villa may have been her apology. + +Cannot you depict the scene--the rogue’s house standing apart in the +meadow by the river--one blackguard summoned to Asnières by a trick +and arrested there--another betraying the gang; a third leaving the +old witch in charge and going, perchance to a cabaret to drink? + +He returns and finds the captive fled; in a savage outburst he strikes +the old woman dead and leaves her body in the house. We arrive when +all this has happened, but our knowledge of human nature is not deep +enough to read the riddle aright. We do not say that even this hag may +have known an instant’s humanity, though it were the humanity of the +bottle. She moans and babbles and weeps--the motherhood of the dead +past stirs again in her veins, warmed by absinthe or bad brandy--and +she bids the child to go. Thus in a frenzy she invites the death which +must await her. The man returns and attacks her brutally. He knows +that the game is up, while we are but guessing at the nature of his +pastime. + +This much was plain to me; but the sequel to the story I found as +perplexing as ever. Nor had I any further opportunity at that moment +to question the little girl who shrank in my embrace as though afraid +of her own narration. For that matter the Marquis himself appeared +now, and hastened to excuse himself. He was a fine figure of a man in +his dinner dress, and so natural in his grand manner that none but a +clown would have mocked it. Almost his first words informed me that he +had sent a motor to St. Germain for my baggage and commanded me to +sleep at the Chateau. + +“There will be much to speak of to-morrow,” he said, addressing both +my little wife and myself; “for the moment it is sufficient to dine. +Let Joseph show you to your room, Mr. Gastonard. I am sure you are +very tired.” + +I did not demur, and finding my clothes already laid out for me, I +dressed with what haste I could and descended to a little salon upon +the first floor where they told me I should find the ladies. Mimi was +here, and with her that remarkable woman the Princess Helene of Ilidze +and her constant companion the Duchesse de Bourg. Even you know +something of the adventurous life of the former. All the world +followed her flight from the Austrian Court with the singer Monterez; +her amazing escapades at Geneva have never been concealed; her +subsequent appearance in Paris and friendship with the Marquis de +Saint Faur have long ceased to amuse as gossip. + +An old story now, but unforgotten, Paddy. She preserves an ancient +beauty with little art, I perceive. There is no finer intellect in all +Europe, no woman possessing so many accomplishments with so little of +mediocrity in their display. Her volume on the “Story of Hungary” is a +classic. She has had an operetta done in Milan with sufficient +critical abuse to ensure its success. Kindly tongues would give her +forty-five years, I suppose. She might be anything from thirty-five to +fifty; for she is one of those women who go arm in arm with Time and +are careful not to quarrel with him. + +This was the lady who presided on Wednesday night at the dinner-table +in the Château of Bougival. The little dark Duchesse, her companion, +is but the setting to the jewel. I noticed that she ate and drank with +much dispatch, as subservient people will--wreaking her silent +vengeance upon the viands. The Princess herself talked incessantly, +and chiefly to me. Her range of subjects was amazing. I laughed at the +sketch of the typical Englishman, whose foot is on his native heath +but whose heart is in the Jardin de Paris. The Emperor Franz Joseph is +the greatest man in the world, she thinks, and Anatole France the next +to him. Paris, she declares, is being spoiled by the Socialists. The +new Frenchman is well represented by the ugly steam trams which +disfigure his streets. Religion is fashionable only among monarchists, +and will profit eventually by their conservative traditions. Sentiment +is departing from France; it would be a good thing if a king were +chosen and murdered--for that would revive sentiment. As for art, the +moderns are getting as good as they deserve, and if they desire +better, they should hang the picture-dealers. She herself has recently +discovered Corfu and means to build a villa there. She declares it to +be the finest climate in the world--and you can only play roulette +when the sun is shining. All this, mind you, in a mood most frivolous; +by no means embarrassed, casting sweet smiles about her, and stroking +little Mimi’s hands from time to time as though a new pet had come +into her house and must be made much of. + +Now, Paddy, I am but a narrator of facts as far as this letter +goes--the thinking must be done by you. Why has this extraordinary +woman kept Mimi in this house? And what is the meaning of such amity? +I could but make a hazard at the dinner-table and less than a hazard +afterwards. In truth we settled down to a formal evening, just as +though Mimi and I had driven over from a neighbouring château and +were to return presently. A game of billiards with the Marquis, a +little gallantry played by the obliging Duchesse--and then to bed. And +through it all my dear wife acting a part to perfection. + +I swear she was wonderful, Paddy--this flower of the fêtes, this +child of the atelier playing the grand dame at the Château of +Bougival as though born to it. If she tripped once or twice the +stumbles were humorous enough, just a catchword from the Butte, a +sudden jest--it may be an inelegant attitude. But in the main as +little to be criticised as Madame the Princess herself--a woman who +also has lived in the ateliers and is not entirely a stranger to the +student’s quarters. + +I say that I watched the play amazed alike at Mimi’s part therein and +understanding little until we were alone in our bedroom together. Then +almost with dramatic suddenness the child’s courage left her. She fell +into my arms in a passion of weeping--she whispered in my ear a truth +that I had expected from the beginning. Pride in it, love, shame,--all +were there. And I hushed her to sleep upon it, my beloved, who has +come to me from the unknown but can speak to-day with other children +of immortal memories and the golden days. Let this be her message to +you, Paddy--and let this be my Good Night. Mimi is happy and knows the +secrets of the years. Do you in your turn come to us as swiftly as may +be. Have we not as much need of our friends in our joy as in our +sorrow? + +And so I shall look for you by any--or as you would say, by every +train. _Bis dat qui cito dat_--which is to say “Hasten.” + + Yours ever, + Harry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XLIII. + + [Martha Warrington, being returned to her home, receives there a + letter from the Château of Bougival.] + + Château de Bougival, + November 19th, 1905. + +Dear Mrs. Warrington,--I have to tell you that I have left the +horse-riders of Hampstead and am come to this house, which is a palace +not far from Paris, and as comfortable quarters as Paddy O’Connell has +’lighted upon these many days. Should you wish to write to me, address +the letter as above, though you might put “care of the Marquis de +Saint Faur,” who is one of my friends, and a very noble gentleman. + +Well, I arrived here after the blazes of a journey, and not knowing at +all why Henry had sent for me. At first I thought it would be some +news which he could not well put on paper, and after that I thought it +wouldn’t. Bougival, I would tell you, is a stretch of park-land on the +river near Paris, lying under the height of St. Germain, which you +will have heard of in the French books your husband forbids you to +read. The train took me to the station of the place, and a fine +motor-car from there to the house; so, you see, I was made much of, +and mighty pleased with myself when I set foot in what the French call +“the vestibule.” + +’Tis true that the footmen--and the Marquis must have half a hundred +of them in this place--speak the French tongue poorly, and that I had +to fall back on my Sassenach; but we must allow something to +ignorance, and that is as cheap an article in France as in England. +Any way, I couldn’t be angry in so fine a house; and, being fortunate +enough to arrive about half-past seven o’clock of the evening, they +conducted me to a bedroom as big as a church, and sent as many men to +wait upon me as though I had been an Emperor. This put Paddy in a +dilemma, for, notwithstanding that his forefathers were kings in their +own countries, he can’t suffer another man to put a shirt on his back, +nor is he happy when a couple of flunkeys would see his head in the +washtub. + +You must know that Harry wrote me a long letter inviting me to this +house, and telling me nothing at all, except that his wife was here. +I’d suspected it all along, though hearing the name of the place for +the first time; and now, says I, the truth is coming out at last. ’Tis +some great man or woman in Paris who has been after hunting the child, +and that poor Count d’Antoine who was murdered at Hampstead was but +his or her ambassador. I’d have been worse than a fool not to have +guessed as much after receiving Harry’s letter and reading the +papers--though God forbid I should come to believe any newspaper at my +time of life. For all that, I know a fox when I see one; and what I +say is this, that Mimi has aristocratic friends in Paris, and there +were rogues who got news of those friends, and set out to blackmail +them. I’ll swear as much against all the justices. ’Tis a vulgar +crime, after all, and the truth will make it no better. + +This I must tell you to begin with, for ’tis a different kind of story +which must come after. The last paragraph of this letter left me in +the dressing-room at the château--and that’s no place for a lady. I’d +been there about five minutes, I suppose, when Harry came roaring in, +and hailed me with a hunting cry you could have heard away in Paris. +Faith, the man had lost his head entirely, and when he had kissed me +on both cheeks as the Frenchmen do, he rolled me over and over on the +bed--though I had a clean shirt on my back--and treated me worse than +any terrier. ’Twas “Paddy, you brick!” and “Paddy, such news!” and +“She’s here, in the house, Paddy!” until my ears were bursting with +it. Not a word would he let me speak, though I had a king’s message to +bear him, and when I got down to the drawing-room at last my collar +was up to my ears and my white choker on top of it. A fine figure of a +man I must have looked among such company--and the Marquis bowing to +me until his nose almost touched his boots, and Madame the Princess +flashing a pair of eyes nearly as black and as wicked as your own. But +there I was, and I had to make the best of it, and not a man or a +woman would I notice until I had caught the little Greuze girl in my +arms and squeezed her until she hollered. + +Well, they were all amused at this, and Madame, the Princess Hélène, +who is one of my friends, and a great lady in Paris, she took my arm +and led me off to the dinner-table. I had the Duchesse upon one side +of me and the Princess upon the other; and faith, says I, what a tale +to tell at Glendalough. Such gold and silver plate, Martha; such +glass, such paintings! My neck aches this very day for staring up to +the ceilings to look at the gods and goddesses dancing in the +hayfields, and caring no more for the liquor down below than the +archbishop at a teetotalers’ meeting. What with these bare-legged +beauties and the great ladies and the witty talk, bedad, I could have +been content to stop at the table a month, and to have thought twice +about leaving it then. + +But this is to speak of Paddy O’Connell, and you, woman-like, will be +all for hearing of Madame Mimi. How did she bear herself, you ask? The +little colleen out of the cafés and the circus--how did she carry +herself in such a place? Why, no grand dame born to it could have done +better. Even my friend the Marquis told me so afterwards; while, as +for the Princess, she couldn’t like the child better if she were her +own daughter. Not one of them that does not spoil and pet her, believe +me. I listen to their talk, and a thousand wild thoughts run in my +head. What is Mimi to them? Why did they send to London for her? How +comes it that ruffians would have blackmailed them? + +You are a discreet little body, and you will not speak of this to any +human being; but you’ll think about it very much, Martha, as I am +thinking about it this minute, and saying I’d be a fool not to guess +the truth of it. And if my suppositions are true, is the child’s +behaviour a wonder to be gaped at? You will be the first to say “no” +to that. She has the blood of nobles in her veins, and what matter a +jot if the bend sinister is written across her story? Let the story go +where it will. I would be proud of it if I were Harry--and so much I +have told him to-day. + +Write to me as soon as you can--when your husband is at his sermons +should be a good opportunity--and tell me how far I am right. My own +programme is uncertain. This lovely November weather makes life well +enough in the glorious park about this château, and a sweet time we +are having of it. The Marquis plays golf very well, and I am winning +money of him. Mimi and Harry are nearly always on horseback, for he is +teaching her to ride, and a willing pupil he has found. What is +troubling them is the approaching trial of the man Bedotte, who, it +seems, was Count d’Antoine’s valet, and is to be tried at St. Germain +for the murder of the old woman Marie. I fear the public, which laps +up a scandalous story as a dog takes water, will insist upon much +being told which otherwise should be concealed. But we shall have the +judge with us, for where is the lawyer born who could write unkind +things about that beautiful woman the Princess Hélène? + +Rely upon me, in any case, to send you all the news. Harry is fretting +still for his fortune, though Mimi, I hear, is to have two thousand a +year from the Marquis. He says he means to accept an offer from the +editor of the “Daily Bulletin” to become Paris correspondent at a +stiffish sum, and I do believe he’ll carry out the threat. In which +case they will have an apartment in Paris and a villa at Fontainebleau +which he discovered the other day when in his motor-car. + +I’ll be a lonely man then, Martha, and glad to see you sometimes. +Should the “Society for the Suppression of Human Emotions” determine +to hold its meetings in London, you’ll be going there and may manage +to let me know. In which case, an accident might find me in the great +Metropolis also. + +Meanwhile, with my kind regards, believe me, dear Mrs. Warrington, + + Yours faithfully, + Paddy O’Connell. + + + + + CHAPTER XLIV. + + [Mr. James Frogg, of Serjeant’s Inn, receives an unexpected answer to + an expectant letter.] + + Château de Bougival, near Paris, + December 2nd, 1905. + +James Frogg, Esq. + +Sir,--In answer to your esteemed letter demanding to know how far the +conditions of my revered father’s will have been observed by me, I beg +to state: + +1. That they have been wholly fulfilled. + +2. That an agreement was signed yesterday between the editor of the +“Daily Bulletin” and myself, in which I am engaged by him as his Paris +correspondent for the term of one year, at a salary of seven hundred +pounds. + +A copy of this agreement I beg to enclose for your inspection, and +remain, Sir, + + Yours faithfully, + Henry Gastonard. + + + + + CHAPTER XLV. + + [Mr. James Frogg, of Serjeant’s Inn, passes on the unpleasant news to + the Reverend Arthur Warrington, of Beldon, Suffolk.] + + 3, Serjeant’s Inn, London, E.C., + December 4th, 1905. + +The Reverend Arthur Warrington, M.A. + +Reverend and dear Sir,--I have this day received the enclosed letter +from Mr. Gastonard. Its claims, I fear, are incontestable. + +The Will of the late Henry Gastonard, of Bordeaux and London, provided +that the bulk of his considerable fortune should pass from the +possession of his only son in the case that the young man was not +earning five hundred pounds a year by his own efforts at the age of +twenty-five years. + +Such a condition, I regret to say, has now been fulfilled. The +Agreement between Henry Gastonard and the editor of the “Daily +Bulletin” is not a document I should advise you to contest. No court +would question its _bona fides_; nor would any Chancery judge be +willing to interpret the Will in any strict sense. + +Such are the facts. Believe me, dear Sir, that I deplore them, and am, + + Your faithful servant, + James Frogg. + +My charges in the matter of this business, £74 6s. 8d., are detailed +in the schedule I have the honour to enclose. + + + + + CHAPTER XLVI. + + [The Reverend Arthur Warrington receives the news and makes some + complaint of it.] + + The Red Farm, Beldon, Suffolk, + December 5th, 1905. + +James Frogg, Esq. + +Dear Mr. Frogg,--God’s will be done--though this, indeed, is dreadful +news. That the cup should be dashed from my lips at the last moment! I +can hardly believe my eyes while I read. + +Of course, this alleged contract is nothing but a trick. Would anyone +pay seven hundred pounds a year to a youth who has lived a worthless +life? Why, even I cannot earn a hundred pounds a year by my writings, +and you know how voluminous they have been. + +I must tell you plainly that if I cannot derive some benefit under +this Will, my affairs will be in a very bad way. The debts incurred by +my wife at the time of that miserable and insensate pageant at +Lowestoft still press heavily upon me and interfere with my work among +the poor. I owe some two hundred pounds beside, chiefly to my +publishers, who brought out my last volumes upon Athanasius and St. +John Chrysostom. They have the indelicacy to say that there is no +money in the Apostles. I must pay their account immediately, and also +your own charges. + +Would it be possible, do you think, to find some wealthy person who +would lend me money upon note of hand alone? I should not object to a +reasonable rate of interest--though perhaps they would lend it to the +Lord at a lower figure? How can a clergyman do his duty when harassed +by debt? + +This is a dreadful misfortune, and I cannot contemplate it with +equanimity. What will Henry do with his vast fortune? Oh, it is +deplorable to think that it may be spent chiefly upon this dancing +girl, who, I have reason to believe, is the natural daughter of a +dissolute French nobleman. My own position is rendered more difficult +by the fact that I have already entered into considerable engagements +upon the supposition that nothing could deprive me of the money. And +now Henry so far forgets his birth and tradition as to write for a +common newspaper. + +Will you please to let me know what I shall have to pay by way of +interest for a loan, say of five hundred pounds? Would fifteen per +cent. satisfy the lender? I have some hopes of being chosen for one of +the new canonries at Bury St. Edmunds, which is about to become a +cathedral city. This would mean eight hundred pounds a year and a +house, I suppose. I could pay off the money in three years. + +Kindly write to me without delay. + + Yours truly, + Arthur Warrington. + +P.S.--Should you see Mrs. Warrington, I beg you will not mention to +her the fact that I am trying to borrow money. My loss, I regret to +say, causes her some amusement. She is going to London this week to +support the meeting of the Society for the Suppression of the Human +Emotions--but I have not the heart to accompany her. She would have +gone to the Charing Cross Hotel, but she hears by accident that a very +objectionable Irishman, who is her particular aversion, happens to be +staying there; so she will be at the Grand. She may call upon you. Be +discreet, I pray. + + + + + CHAPTER XLVII. + + [Paddy O’Connell informs his sister Clara that he is detained in + London upon business of some importance.] + + The Grand Hotel, Charing Cross, + December 13th, 1905. + +Dear Clara,--I arrived here on Saturday night from Paris, but I didn’t +come on to you for reasons which the great Deep can speak of, and +especially that part of it which lies between Dover and Calais. Faith, +every soul on board but me was sick; and nothing but the natural +delicacy of my feelings prevented that same calamity overtaking me. + +I propose now to rest a few days in London. There are my stockbrokers +to see, and some of Harry’s business to be attended to. You have heard +by my letters and the newspapers all that has been going on in France, +so I do no more than to tell you that Harry is hard at work already as +a newspaper correspondent, and a mighty pretty one at that. If he +doesn’t succeed as a newspaper man, it will be because he tells the +truth, which is not what some of ’em in Fleet-street want at all, as I +found out when I called John Ferguson, of the “Daily Herald,” a +black-hearted liar. But Harry will do well, I hope; and he’s saved his +fortune for certain. + +_Apropos_ of this, ’tis the oddest thing in the world, but I met Mrs. +Warrington in this very hotel, and had some talk with her. She is a +sensible little body, and doesn’t grudge Harry his fortune at all. + +“After all,” says she, “’twas his father’s money and not ours.” But I +fear the parson man, her husband, is in a bad way about it and +swearing like the devil. It appears that he’s been counting his +chickens before they were hatched, and a pretty brood of blue +envelopes have come out of the nest. I shall have to be writing to +Harry to do something for him. ’Tis not cricket at all to be expecting +a fool to pay the whole price of his folly, for God knows, we are no +wiser than we were born, and that’s not very wise at all where some of +us are concerned. + +I shall stay a few days in London, though I expect to be very busy all +the time. To-night I may go to the theatre by way of relaxation; you +wouldn’t have me kill myself with hard work, though anxious I am to +get home to Ireland and the riding. + +I will just say that Harry writes to me almost every day, and is full +of his happiness. My friend, the Princess Hélène, has gone to Corfu +on the Marquis’s yacht, and the Duchesse de Bourg with her. Harry and +Mimi could have the great château to themselves if they chose; but, +will you believe it, they have gone up to the little house on the +Butte, just to pass a day or two, they say, and to see what the old +life was like. ’Twould be odd to hear that the little Greuze girl +cared anything about that now, but I suppose Harry knows what he is +doing, and he’ll have plenty of murders to send to the newspapers. + +Do not be at the pains to write to me, Clara. I shall be coming home +as soon as all these lawyer men have finished with me. + +Meanwhile, I am, as ever, your affectionate brother, + + Paddy. + +There was a man stopped me by Charing Cross Station yesterday, and +asked me if I could direct him to the house of the Archdeacon of +Middlesex. I had a little talk with him, and took him afterwards to my +hotel. ’Twas a most wonderful story he had to tell me. His cousin, it +appears, is a prisoner, in Spain, and knows of a buried treasure near +Cadiz. About fifty pounds will buy the man’s liberty, and he’s willing +to share the treasure, which dates back from Columbus’ day, and is +mostly in moidores, though all sound gold, with any man that will find +him the money. I’m of the mind to join them. ’Twould be something to +come home to you, Clara, with a ship full of guineas. And all for a +paltry fifty pounds. + + + + + CHAPTER XLVIII. + + [In which Henry Gastonard hears of Jules Farman again, and of the + criminal known as Bedotte the valet.] + + 4 (bis), Rue du Quatre Septembre, Paris, + February 21st, 1906. + +Monsieur,--I have the honour to report as follows:-- + +The criminal Henry Bedotte Sanvalier was executed this morning on the +public ground between the prisons of La Roquette and Les Jeunes +Detenues. + +I was privileged to visit the prisoner at five o’clock and spent some +minutes alone with him. He was entirely unrepentent, and heard with +much satisfaction that his comrade, Gondré, the showman, had received +a sentence of ten years’ forced labour. I have, monsieur, seen many +men die before the gates of La Roquette, but no man more contemptuous +of death or its sequel. Of this, however, you will read in the +newspapers. + +My questions to Bedotte were few but important. I had to discover (a) +if Madame d’Alençon had played any conspicuous part in this affair, +and (b) under what circumstances the abduction of Madame Gastonard +from the Convent of Orleans was safely accomplished. To both of these +I had satisfactory answers. + +There was another actor in this drama, monsieur, but he is dead. I +refer to the husband of the woman Marie, a man who had been in the +service of the Marquis de Saint Faur, who planned the abduction of the +child, and who hid her successfully from the police during the active +weeks of the pursuit. + +Madame, your wife, is speaking but in general terms when she tells us +that she has no clear memory of this criminal--nor might we expect it. +But it is clear that no convent would be so conducted that children +could pass its gates when they chose; and that if any such event had +occurred, the police of Orleans would not have failed in their duty. + +No, monsieur, Madame Gastonard was cleverly kidnapped from the house +during the hour of the children’s recreation. She was carried to the +poorer quarter of Orleans, and there hidden for many weeks. In the +interval an unforeseen event occurred: the husband--the man who knew +the truth--was arrested. The old woman had but a vague notion of it; +she carried the child away with her upon a gipsy’s journey, fell in +with the showman Gondré, and finally sold her prize to that honest +fellow Cassadore. And now, monsieur, the sequel becomes clearer. + +When you sent me to make enquiries at Orleans as to the truth of +certain stories you had heard concerning the infancy of Madame +Gastonard, it chanced that another was similarly occupied for a +purpose which will be self-evident. She was Madame Lea d’Alençon, +then posing in Paris as your friend. Her acquaintance with Count +d’Antoine was slight, but she used it as a clever woman could to +extort from him some confession of the truth. Possibly, although this +could not be proved in a court of law, she herself set counter +agencies to work. She may have betrayed the secret to the man Gondré; +if not to him, then to the old woman Marie. The criminals themselves +appear, upon this, to have joined forces and arrived at a +determination to work together. They did not know where Madame +Gastonard was to be found in London; but they followed the Count to +her house, and there murdered him--as Bedotte declares--because he +threatened them with the police. Their object was to blackmail the +Marquis de Saint Faur and the Princess Hélène. But most fortunately +this was prevented. The public may have guessed the truth; but many +truths are guessed by the public, monsieur, and remain guesses to the +end. + +Monsieur, the world forgets these things very quickly, and it will not +be less willing to blot out this page. If it should be turned once +more, you will have Madame d’Alençon to thank. But I shall not fail +to frighten her, and fear is the only weapon which will silence a +woman’s tongue. In this you may count upon me, not only in your own +interests but in those of my esteemed patron, the Marquis de Saint +Faur. + +I will add, monsieur, that a vast crowd assembled to see Sanvalier +die, and that his death was accompanied by that brutal circumstance +which unhappily is still favoured by our French law: the man would not +receive the priest Abbé Falier nor permit any consolations but those +of a glass of brandy and of a cigarette. He smoked when they had bound +him, and the cigarette was still between his lips when the head fell. +Such was the end of a very evil scoundrel who murdered a noble +gentleman and deserved a fate less kind. + +I will add that at the moment when the knife descended and struck the +head from the body, I heard a shout from the crowd, and perceived +there the notorious Jean-le-Mont. This man’s release was necessary, +but I regret it. He has returned to the old Lapin Agil on the Butte, +where I doubt not that I shall soon have the pleasure of arresting him +upon another account. + +Be assured, monsieur, of my esteem, and permit me to remain, + + Your faithful servant, + Jules Henry Farman. + + + + + CHAPTER XLIX. + + [Madame Lea d’Alençon has really nothing to say; but she says it + charmingly as ever.] + + The Hôtel Metropole, Monte Carlo, + February 25th, 1906. + +Dear Mr. Gastonard,--I compliment you upon your self-denial. To refuse +an invitation to dinner with your old friend! And to forbid me the +opportunity of complimenting Madame! + +Surely it is not true, cher Monsieur Henry, that Madame Gastonard is +about to return to the circus? I positively refuse to believe it. But +the world has such a _méchante_ tongue. Tell me that it is not so. +Indeed, the report--and your unkindness--move me to some envy. Must I +tame the lions--at my age? Helas, the spangles do not suit me! + +It was good of you to come here, for now we may talk. How proud you +must be of Madame’s success. I have even heard it said that she is +learning to speak grammatically. How clever of her when one remembers +the lions and the hoop! I am sure you are very, very proud! + +My dear husband has returned from Tunis. We were laughing together +yesterday at your misfortune--but very kindly of course. How very +foolish of you to amuse Paris as you did. And all for a mere woman. + +Ah well, as the proverb goes--_il n’y a que le matin en toutes +choses_. + + Your friend, + Lea d’Alençon. + + + + + CHAPTER L. + + [Mimi the Simpleton writes a brief note to Madame the Princess Hélène + of Ilidze and we translate it.] + + The Riviera Palace Hotel, Monte Carlo, + March 3d, 1906. + +Dearest Mother,--We return to Paris to-day, and Harry says that I may +write to you. I have wished to write so many times, but he has +forbidden me. We are to go to Paris and then to London to see that +great big Monsieur Paddy, who loves me. + +Dearest mother, there has never been anyone in my life to whom I could +speak as I have spoken to you. All the secrets have been locked in my +own heart, but you have shared them. When I was in Paris at the cafés +and the circus, I knew that someone would come some day and open the +secret place of my love. You only in all the world can do so. Many, +many years I carried my hope with me and never dared to speak of it. +How much, dearest mother, is a woman alone among men. We bear our +burdens and none knows of them. + +Will you write to me, dearest, to the château; and I will have the +letters sent to London, if we go there. I know that I may not see you +often, but I will count the days until I see you again. Our jewels do +not shine less brightly because we do not look at them, and I know +that you think of me as your child. So often have I said she is my +mother, and that is the sweetest word. The years were long, dearest, +until I learned it; but I would live them all again if the end might +be like this. + +Harry writes so well that they wish him to go to England. He has +promised to go there to see his cousin, Madame Martha, who is in +trouble. She has lost all her money and Harry is going to give her +some, for her husband the clergyman cannot preach without money, and +that would make the people unhappy, she says. Afterwards we wish to +buy the Château of Marcey-le-Rideau and to go there for all our +holidays. Harry says that he does not wish to write any more for the +newspapers. It makes him so angry when they leave his work out and put +someone else’s in. And it is never so good as Harry’s. + +Dearest mother, will you come to Marcey-le-Rideau and let me call you +mother there? It will not be my home if you do not. + +All the lonely, lonely years forgotten! Dearest, will you say that +they must never return? + + Your loving daughter, + Mimi. + + + + + CHAPTER LI. + + [Mimi and Harry write to Paddy and advise him of their approaching + visit to Ireland.] + + On board the Lapin Agil, Lisbon, + April 2d, 1906. + +Dear Paddy,--You have been too long without a letter, so now we are +both writing to you. + +I am holding the pen and Harry is spelling the English words. That is +why there are so many blots. + +Dear Mr. Paddy, we cannot go back to Paris. We went there once and +lived for three days at the old Maison du bon Tabac. It was so +beastly. Harry says you (meaning me) must be very young to live where +the people have nothing to do but to say what they will do some day. +So we have grown up and do not do it. + +We are now in Lisbon, where, Harry says, they used to have an +earthquake. It has not swallowed up all the people, but there are a +great many left. Harry says the girls are very pretty, but I do not +think so. + +It is better to be on a yacht when she is standing still than when she +is walking. I do not like the sea, but Harry says it is good for me. + +Please, Mr. Paddy, may we come to Ireland to see you? It was very +naughty of you to quarrel with cousin Martha because she said you +could not play golf. And to go back to Ireland in a huff. Of course, +we shall say you play golf very well when we are at your castle. + +Harry has bought the Château of Marcey-le-Rideau, and we are to +descend there in the summer. One room is to be called Mr. Paddy’s +room. Harry says it shall be very big, so that you can beat the floor +with the golf clubs. He is building a little house in the grounds +which we have named the Maison du bon Tabac. You may smoke there, Mr. +Paddy, when you are angry and cannot get out of the bunker. + +We met Madame Lea at Monte Carlo, and I did not bow to her. She has +grown so ugly and has fallen in love with her husband. _Ah, mes +enfants!_ What would happen to people if they were to fall in love +with their husbands! + +At Cintra, which is a very beautiful mountain near here, we met an +American lady, who, Harry says, is an heiress. You should come out and +marry her. Perhaps she would fall in love with you afterwards. + +But I will not have anybody falling in love with Mr. Paddy. He is my +friend. I wish him to die as a bachelor. Harry says he will do it, so +I am happy. + +Please say if we may come to your castle. The yacht will take us, but +I shall go upon the railway line. + + Your affectionate, + Mimi. + +P.S.--Say if it’s convenient, old chap? Don’t for heaven’s sake turn +your good sister out to grass, or anything of that sort. Just a bed +and a crust, with a pipe and a whisky afterwards. It will be enough to +see you, old Brian Boru. And God bless you, anyway. + + THE END. + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + +The Bernhard Tauchnitz edition (Leipzig, 1910) was consulted for many +of the changes listed below. + +Cyrus Cuneo provided the frontispiece. + +Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. Chatelet/Châtelet, music +halls/music-halls, tiptoe/tip-toe, etc.) have been preserved. + +Alterations to the text: + +Punctuation fixes: some quotation mark pairings, and some missing +periods and commas. Also, adjust some of the letterheads’ location +lines to end with a comma. + +Change four instances of Mr. _Fogg_ to _Frogg_. + +[Chapter I] + +Change “lunch in a frock coat and glory with Lea _d’ Alençon_” to +_d’Alençon_. + +[Chapter V] + +“The suspicion that this chit of the _fétes_ foraines may yet startle” +to _fêtes_. + +[Chapter IX] + +“but you will not have come here for the _fish ing_, perhaps?” to +_fishing_. + +[Chapter XII] + +“bears witness once more to the smallness of this _terrestial_ globe” +to _terrestrial_. + +[Chapter XVI] + +“for _litttle_ Martha insisted on shewing me the greenhouses” to +_little_. + +[Chapter XIX] + +“the house which their old comrade Mimi _wil_ not enter” to _will_. + +[Chapter XXVIII] + +“Is it dreams, or _is_ spirits about?” to _are_. + +[Chapter XXXIV] + +“She posed _lanquidly_ and watched me with some cunning” to +_languidly_. + +[Chapter XLIX] + +(letter signature) Change Lea _d’Alencon_ to _d’Alençon_. + +[End of text] + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78976 *** diff --git a/78976-h/78976-h.htm b/78976-h/78976-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..983ed76 --- /dev/null +++ b/78976-h/78976-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11369 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + The show girl | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +/* Headers and Divisions */ + h1, h2, h3, h4 {margin:4em 0em 1em 0em; page-break-before:always; text-align:center;} + +/* General */ + + body {margin:0% 5% 0% 5%;} + + .nobreak {margin:2em auto 1em auto; page-break-before:avoid;} + + p {margin:0em 0em 0em 0em; text-align:justify; text-indent:1em;} + .center {margin:0em 0em 0em 0em; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + .noindent {text-indent:0em;} + .spacer {margin:0.5em 0em 0.5em 0em; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + + .toc_l {font-variant:small-caps; margin:0em 0em 0em 2em; text-indent:-2em;} + + .rt1 {margin:0em 1em 0em 0em; text-align:right; text-indent:0em;} + + .font80 {font-size:80%;} + .sc {font-variant:small-caps;} + +/* special formatting */ + + .stanza {margin:1em 0em 0em 0em; text-indent:0em;} + .i0 {display:inline-block; margin:0em 0em 0em 2em; text-indent:-2em;} + + blockquote {margin:1em 2em 1em 2em;} + + .mt1 {margin-top:1em;} + .mt4 {margin-top:4em;} + + /* chapter summary */ + .ch_sum {display:inline-block; margin:0em 0em 1em 2em; text-indent:-2em;} + + figure {margin:auto; padding:1em 1em 1em 1em; text-align:center;} + figcaption {font-size:80%; padding:0 2em 0 2em; text-align:center;} + +</style> +</head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78976 ***</div> + + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_fp.jpg"> + <img src="images/img_fp_th.jpg" alt="Frontispiece"> + </a> + <figcaption> + “Her eye caught mine, and she ceased to dance.” + </figcaption> +</figure> + + +<h1> +THE<br> +SHOW GIRL +</h1> + +<p class="center"> +<span class="font80">BY</span><br> +MAX PEMBERTON<br> +<span class="font80">Author of<br> +“The Garden of Swords,”<br> +“Sir Richard Escombe,” etc.</span> +</p> + +<p class="center mt4"> +THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY<br> +<span class="font80">PHILADELPHIA</span> +</p> + + +<h2> +[COPYRIGHT] +</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<span class="sc">Copyright 1909<br> +by Max Pemberton</span> +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +<span class="sc">Copyright 1908<br> +by Max Pemberton</span> +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +All Rights Reserved according to<br> +the Copyright Laws of the<br> +United States and Great Britain +</p> + + +<h2> +[DEDICATION] +</h2> + +<p class="center"> +To<br> +<b>James Gordon Bennett</b><br> +<span class="sc">Hommage Reconnaissant</span> +</p> + + +<h2> +CONTENTS +</h2> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch01"> +1. Being a letter from Henry Gastonard, of the Maison du bon Tabac at +Paris, to his friend Paddy O’Connell, of Glendalough, County Wicklow +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch02"> +2. The response of Paddy O’Connell, of Glendalough, County Wicklow, to +his friend, Henry Gastonard, of the Maison du bon Tabac at Paris +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch03"> +3. A letter from the same brief author addressed to the Reverend +Arthur Warrington, of Beldon, Suffolk +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch04"> +4. Henry Gastonard continues the story in a letter to his friend Paddy +O’Connell +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch05"> +5. Henry Gastonard writes to Paddy O’Connell telling him the story of +a dinner and a challenge +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch06"> +6. Being a telegram from Paddy O’Connell to his friend, Henry +Gastonard +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch07"> +7. A letter from the Rev. Arthur Warrington, of Beldon, Suffolk, to +Mrs. Arthur Warrington at Porchester Terrace, Bayswater +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch08"> +8. In which Paddy O’Connell, of Glendalough, writes to his sister +Clara a full account of the duel between Henry Gastonard and the +Captain Bernard d’Alençon +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch09"> +9. Being a further instalment of the story from the pen of Paddy +O’Connell +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch10"> +10. Henry Gastonard writes to Paddy O’Connell a letter concerning his +search for Mimi the Simpleton +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch11"> +11. Henry Gastonard informs Paddy O’Connell of his probable return to +London +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch12"> +12. Henry Gastonard tells of a visit to his cousin, the Rev. Arthur +Warrington, at Lowestoft +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch13"> +13. The Reverend Arthur Warrington writes in all haste to his +Solicitor, Mr. James Frogg, of Serjeant’s Inn, Strand +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch14"> +14. Paddy O’Connell apologises for his silence +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch15"> +15. “The Chimes” at Yarmouth, and what Henry Gastonard learned of them +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch16"> +16. Henry Gastonard gives a further account of his meeting with Mimi +the Simpleton +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch17"> +17. Paddy O’Connell lays down the law +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch18"> +18. In which we hear something of the Pageant at Lowestoft +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch19"> +19. In which we translate a letter from Henry Gastonard, of the Maison +du bon Tabac, at Hampstead, to Mimi the Simpleton, at Felixstowe +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch20"> +20. In which Mimi replies to Monsieur Henry +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch21"> +21. Being a telegram from Henry Gastonard to his friend Paddy +O’Connell, of Glendalough +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch22"> +22. Being a reply from Paddy O’Connell to Henry Gastonard’s telegram +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch23"> +23. Paddy O’Connell shares the news with his sister Clara +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch24"> +24. In which Henry Gastonard keeps his promise to Martha Warrington +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch25"> +25. Containing certain instructions to M. Jules Farman, ex-agent of +police at 4 (bis), Rue de Quatre Septembre, Paris +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch26"> +26. Madame Mimi writes a letter to Paddy O’Connell +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch27"> +27. Paddy O’Connell replies to Mimi’s letter +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch28"> +28. The same author addresses Henry Gastonard at the Hotel Metropole, +Brighton +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch29"> +29. Henry Gastonard makes an urgent appeal to Jules Farman, of the Rue +de Quatre Septembre, Paris +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch30"> +30. Jules Farman sends to Henry Gastonard some account of his +stewardship +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch31"> +31. Henry Gastonard sends Paddy O’Connell some account of his labours +in Paris +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch32"> +32. In which Paddy O’Connell advised his friend Harry to pay a visit +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch33"> +33. The Reverend Arthur Warrington thanks Paddy O’Connell for services +rendered +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch34"> +34. Henry Gastonard tells Paddy O’Connell of his visit to Madame Lea +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch35"> +35. We meet the Marquis de Saint Faur and another old friend +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch36"> +36. Paddy O’Connell writes a brief letter from Jack Straw’s Castle at +Hampstead +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch37"> +37. In which we hear of Henry Gastonard at the Pavilion Henry Quatre, +in the town of St. Germain by Paris +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch38"> +38. The Reverend Arthur Warrington rebukes his wife, Martha +Warrington, upon a trivial account +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch39"> +39. We hear of Paddy O’Connell in a letter to Martha Warrington at +Cambridge +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch40"> +40. A brief note from Jules Farman, in Paris, to Henry Gastonard, at +St. Germain +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch41"> +41. In which Henry Gastonard receives a summons from the Marquis de +Saint Faur +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch42"> +42. Paddy O’Connell hears that he may leave London, and is invited to +take the first train to Paris +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch43"> +43. Martha Warrington, being returned to her home, receives there a +letter from the Château of Bougival +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch44"> +44. Mr. James Frogg, of Serjeant’s Inn, receives an unexpected answer +to an expectant letter +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch45"> +45. Mr. James Frogg, of Serjeant’s Inn, passes on the unpleasant news +to the Reverend Arthur Warrington, of Beldon, Suffolk +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch46"> +46. The Reverend Arthur Warrington receives the news and makes some +complaint of it +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch47"> +47. Paddy O’Connell informs his sister Clara that he is detained in +London upon business of some importance +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch48"> +48. In which Henry Gastonard hears of Jules Farman again, and of the +criminal known as Bedotte the valet +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch49"> +49. Madame Lea d’Alençon has really nothing to say; but she says it +charmingly as ever +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch50"> +50. Mimi the Simpleton writes a brief note to Madame the Princess +Hélène of Ilidze and we translate it +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#ch51"> +51. Mimi and Harry write to Paddy and advise him of their approaching +visit to Ireland +</a></p> + + +<h2> +THE SHOW GIRL +</h2> + +<h3 class="nobreak" id="ch01"> +CHAPTER I. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Being a letter from Henry Gastonard of the Maison du bon Tabac at +Paris to his friend Paddy O’Connell of Glendalough, County Wicklow.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Maison du bon Tabac,<br> +May 15th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—You will have seen it in the papers, if papers still +cross the pass to those ancient halls which enshroud the immortal +glories of the clan O’Connell—but, my dear Paddy, you will have +little idea of its meaning or be as far from the truth of it as Paul +Delmet from a parson’s cassock or the Chevalier Honoré de Villefort +from the castles in Spain which the entirely disinterested Baroness +has lately bequeathed to him. +</p> + +<p> +I can hear your comments, your wisdom, can imagine your displeasure. +What—a man who should be riding his hack in the Row, putting a yacht +into commission at Cowes—or at the worst buying a thousand guinea +motor-car to carry his friends from their creditors—this man living +in a hovel at Montmartre, spending his money upon chansonniers, +grisettes, cocottes and all that paste-board riff-raff which has made +the Quat-Z-Arts famous wherever the American language is not spoken. +This is what you say, my dear Paddy—this is what my beloved cousin +Arthur is saying when he tells himself that in twelve months’ time the +curtain falls upon the play, and he, the patron, walks off with the +proceeds. +</p> + +<p> +Be sure that I forget this unpleasant truth whenever life will permit +me to do so. The thought for to-morrow is not often the spectre at the +feasts over which Marcelle presides, nor one which Mimi La +Godiche—which is to say Mimi the Simpleton—long permits to remain in +heads as empty as her own. I am to lose my fortune of seven thousand +pounds a year if, at the mature age of twenty-five, I am not earning +five hundred pounds a year by my own labour and talent. So be it, +Paddy. Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we will dine. This fortune +may carry some little sunshine even to the benighted halls of the +Agile Wolf. I make no complaint of destiny—nor of Mimi La Godiche, +whose friends robbed me of a trumpery cigarette-box which is again +upon my table while I write this letter. +</p> + +<p> +I say that I make no complaint of destiny—why should I? Let me but +open this window, upon which Gabriel de Math has drawn in the best +French chalk an impassioned sketch of an empty champagne bottle—let +me but open it and the world is at my feet—Paris of the golden domes, +Paris of the dark eyes and the meaner streets—a great black Paris, a +Paris of woods and gardens and river, of the mills which grind the +grisettes’ corn, of the hives whence issue the noctambules and night +hawks, whose prey has gossamer wings of greenbacks, whose morrow is +never because of the eternal to-day. All this lies in the great bowl +before me. I pour my fortune into the abyss and they strive for it far +below, in a glitter of brass and spangles, in a flutter of white +petticoats and silken hose and shirt fronts which would be better at +the laundry. But none knows the truth—I am the mad Englishman who +neither paints nor plays. And I am as poor as the rest of them—and +God knows how poor that is. +</p> + +<p> +So, you see, Paddy, I have my consolations, and among others, as the +papers have told you, the friendship of Mimi La Godiche. What a fine +old cardboard tragedy they have made of it all! Did I not sally forth +at midnight, armed with a blunderbuss and a scimitar to cut down the +apaches who lurk beneath the shadow of la Galette? Did I not enter a +café which the police are afraid to enter? and did not these strong +hands drag therefrom the brave <i>fille</i> who had returned my stolen +diamonds to me and was in danger because of her honesty? News “fitting +to the night,” upon my word, “black, fearful, comfortless and +horrible.” Would for the sake of this Hector that it were the truth +and nothing but the truth—but, my dear Paddy, there’s little of the +truth in it at all, as these indentures shall bear witness. It’s as +false as Fifine of the Alcazar, and not half as pretty. +</p> + +<p> +You will remember that I have known Mimi La Godiche for some three +months now. She is a pretty, round-limbed blonde, with a mop of +tousled hair, eyes full of “fair speechless messages,” the reticence +of Cleopatra, the youth of Cupid, the devilry of the whole Rue +Champollion in the shape of her bewitching neck. +</p> + +<p> +I saw her first at the Fête de Neuilly. She stood upon a platform +with a strong man, a juggler and a clown; and when she sang I +determined that she should come to the Quat-Z-Arts and sing to the +Bohemians of the Butte. Montmartre gave her the cold shoulder. Can you +wonder that an audience which has heard Odette Dulac sing “Je suis +Bête” should decline to hear Mimi La Godiche warble “Toujours +l’amour,” in a dress that makes her look like a kitchen-maid and a +voice that would befit a Sunday-school? She came, she saw, she did not +conquer. I offered to send her back to the lion-tamer, who is to her +father, mother, uncle and brother—she declined the invitation, +preferring to sit to Desmond Barrymore, the American, and not a little +delighted to earn her bread at so light a task. +</p> + +<p> +Now, my dear Paddy, you must tell me, for by all the kingdoms of the +grisettes, I swear that I do not know what my obligations to this waif +and stray may be. Must I pose as the philanthropist of the books, and +send her to a convent at Brussels or a finishing school at Brighton? +Should I plod patiently beneath a soiled genealogical tree to discover +if, in some remote slum of Paris, Lyons, or Marseilles, there may not +be living a venerable kinswoman, perhaps newly released from prison, +who will harbour her? Or shall I remember that the devil knows his own +and will not forget her? +</p> + +<p> +I cannot tell you. She is earning an honest living with Desmond +Barrymore, and will come to no harm there. Life and laughter and the +light of cities are her whole existence. And imagine the talk of the +Rue Pigalle repeated in the cloister or the argot Montmartrois at +church parade in that “fayre town of Brighton!” It can’t be done, +Paddy. I am the victim of my own enthusiasm, and Mimi will return to +her lion-tamer no more. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, there are the thieves. The papers have told you that I, a +young English student, studying the sculptor’s art in the great +ateliers of Montmartre, was robbed at the Quat-Z-Arts Ball of a gold +and diamond cigarette-case worth a hundred pounds. At the best it is a +half truth—at the worst an ignorant lie. +</p> + +<p> +None knows better than yourself, Paddy, the deserved fame of the +Quat-Z-Arts Ball. Here America does not come, nor Sir Lord Moneybags +enter. There is no ticket more prized in all Paris than a ticket for +the Quat-Z-Arts; there is not a festivity in any ballroom in Europe +more decently conducted for those who see eye to eye with these +Bohemians of the Butte, and understand them. True, Venus in many +shapes rides sky-high upon the gilded floats; you sup upon the floor +from the contents of paper bags thrown down to you from the galleries +above; but of the vulgar things to be done in London or New York by +those who are merely vulgarian, you do none at all. So, my dear Paddy, +I certainly did not lose my pretty cigarette-case (given to me, you +remember, by old Bardon, the banker, for dragging his beloved +“cheeild” from the Solent) at the Quat-Z-Arts Ball; nor would anyone +outside a lunatic asylum puzzle his head to say where I did lose it. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps it was in a cab on my way to the Abbaye de Thélème, that +sordid supper-house of the Butte, to which one resorts in sheer +despair of sleep and solitude; perhaps later on at the Capitol, to +which, I remember, Mistress Mimi would be conducted with Amé Decroix, +the poet; Honoré de Villefort, the Chevalier; and that bald-headed +old rogue of a perpetual mendicant, Georges Oleander, who writes the +revues. I neither know nor care; for my memories are of a night of +life, and colour, and music; of a scene glittering with dresses and +the pictures that great artists have given to their fellows—of music +which should have moved the feet of every dancing faun that ever trod +a pedestal—of wit and laughter, the veritable <i>elixir vitæ</i>. +</p> + +<p> +This is no psalm-singing screed that I write to you, Paddy, nor are +you the man for the pæans of self-righteousness. I will confess +without shame to certain <i>bons moments</i>. Though I am not, and never +have been, the lover of Mimi La Godiche, there have been instants of +the madness in which I have played a madman’s part. +</p> + +<p> +But Mimi neither misunderstands me nor is misled. Did I but drop the +shabbiest of handkerchiefs, she would become my mistress to-morrow; +but I have no intention of soiling fine linen in this way, nor do I +contemplate such a charming <i>ménage</i> as she would certainly disgrace. +When I embraced her at the Quat-Z-Arts, the floats of my Lady Venus +were already sky-high and the parquet a sea of billowy chiffon—but I +did not do so to give her an opportunity of stealing my cigarette-case +(as that old blackguard Georges Oleander will have it), nor will all +the <i>avocats</i> in Paris convince me that this was the moment of my +loss. No, my dear friend, it was at the Abbaye, I repeat, and if not +at the Abbaye, then at the Capitol. +</p> + +<p> +I am asking you to keep this fact in mind that what follows after may +be better understood. You know me too well to suppose that I would +have cried to high Heaven for the loss of a twopenny-halfpenny diamond +box, or even be complaining of it to any man. But it was my misfortune +to be asked for a cigarette out of that same by the prince and father +of all beggars, Maître Georges Oleander aforesaid, and so, in a +moment of surprise, I discovered the loss. +</p> + +<p> +What next is the tale, Paddy? You will guess it first time—that Mimi +La Godiche had thrown her fair arms about me, not in an ecstasy of +love or passion, but purely to pocket the case and enjoy the contents +at her leisure. This I had from the Chevalier Villefort not a week +ago. On Sunday I learned for the first time the true value of a +mendacious tongue and what it may mean even here on the “mountain” +whence you look down upon the domes of Paris. +</p> + +<p> +The scandal was everywhere. Remember that there is in Montmartre a +great colony of artists, musicians and writers, not less honest, not +less clean-living than the inhabitants of many a sanctimonious town in +the country of your oppressor. These may esteem the marriage-tie +lightly; but they hold love to be a sacred thing, and they would no +more think of robbing their neighbour than of shooting the Pope. +</p> + +<p> +These had been good friends to Mimi La Godiche because of my +patronage. But no sooner is the black word spoken than every door is +shut upon her, skirts drawn aside, tables shifted, slander uttered in +no mere whisper. They recalled her coming—the strong man of the Fête +de Neuilly, the clown, the tights, the van, the vagrant’s life. A +little more of it and they would have pushed her headlong over to the +great congregation of grisettes, maquereaux and night-hawks who throng +the cabarets of the Butte. In short, my dear Paddy, they would have +made a criminal and something worse of her—and you know what that +would mean among the savages of Montmartre. Let me tell you next how I +have come to save her from such a fate—if it be but for the +moment—for, as Richter has told us, woman is the most inconsistent +compound of obstinacy and self-sacrifice with which we are acquainted. +</p> + +<p> +I have saved her. She is in this very room while I am writing this +letter; but, Paddy, if she were to walk a hundred yards down the alley +which has the honour to house me I would not answer for her life. +</p> + +<p> +To make this clear, let me return to the Sunday after “the crime” and +to my own recreation upon that innocent day. A morning with Sabine +Monterey and old Villefort upon the Seine at Poissy; lunch in a frock +coat and glory with Lea d’Alençon at her apartment in the Avenue de +Malakoff; then to Longchamp; a little dinner at Armenonville, and +afterwards the long journey home, the steep climb to the Butte and the +card-box house which permits me to look down upon the sails of La +Galette. +</p> + +<p> +Why I went so far that Sunday night I cannot tell you. There is still +my apartment in the Hôtel St. Paul open to me when I would return to +civilisation. But I think the amorous Lea had put thoughts of Mimi +into my head, and, wondering if all were well with her, I returned to +the Maison du bon Tabac and to my bed. Ten minutes after I had entered +the house, came Chocolat, the messenger from the old Café of the +Assassins, knocking as the devil knocked on old Luther’s door at +Weimar. Then I knew that all was not well with Mimi, and down I went, +the black man upon my heels, vainly endeavouring in three languages to +tell me what had happened. +</p> + +<p> +What a jargon it was, what a medley of all the elusive argot of the +cabarets! This much alone was clear—that Mimi La Godiche had got +somehow into the Café of the Assassins (they call it the Lapin Agil +to-day), and that if I did not get her out she certainly would be +murdered. +</p> + +<p> +True, there was a <i>cipi</i>, or municipal guard, to protect her from the +immediate fury of her friends; but these would force her presently to +the pavement, and then God help her! So much Chocolat, the messenger, +declared as we hurried down the alley, passed Cerberus at the gate +thereof, and plunged into the darkness of the labyrinth below. I could +save Mimi La Godiche—the <i>patron</i> wished it; madame, his wife, was of +like opinion. The danger lay in the alleys—not in any house, and +certainly not at the famous cabaret of the Agile Wolf. Upon this point +Chocolat was emphatic. They could look after their own—the streets +were another affair. +</p> + +<p> +Well, I reached the place at last, after as unpleasant a descent as +ever led to Avernus, and entered the café just upon the stroke of +midnight. +</p> + +<p> +You know the place; the dirty courtyard before it; the rude benches in +the shed that serves for a concert-room; the horrid unshaven faces of +men who wear the mask of death; the savage ferocity in the women’s +eyes. Of course, there are lights enough; lights and a rousing piano, +and a chansonnier who lisps things we should be very sorry to repeat +to-morrow. The fellow was singing nothing more virile than “Monsieur +le Curé” when I came in, and, to be candid, not a soul there paid me +a sou’s worth of attention. Remember that I was unknown in these +places except as a poor devil of a sculptor trying to singe his wings +in the candle of ambition. This reputation has been my protection +hitherto, alike at the Maison du bon Tabac and in the alleys of the +Butte. +</p> + +<p> +Here at the Lapin Agil I must lose it, finally and irreparably, as all +the omens seem to say—and losing it, have no longer a home upon the +Butte of Montmartre. +</p> + +<p> +De Courcy was singing when I entered the cabaret, and a bald-headed +old man with a chalk-faced child, who should have been his daughter, +appeared the only claque which the performer commanded. Little Mimi La +Godiche I spied out at once, sitting at a table with a huge ruffian +they call the Mount upon the one side and Desmond Barrymore upon the +other. I was glad to see Desmond there, and pushed my way over to him. +Across the room there stood a company of as savage an appearance as +any defender of the Café des Assassins might desire—squat, burly, +black-eyed brigands, fearful women, girls who saw the sun rise every +day but rarely had seen it set. These were watching Mimi and the Mount +as though the whole drama moved about them. Desmond Barrymore, +however, did not appear to know what it was all about, and told me so +immediately. +</p> + +<p> +“The man says he’s robbed,” he explained—pointing to the Mount with +the stump of a tattered cigarette. “I guess he’s dreaming. Come right +in, Henry, and help me to put the fear of God into him.” +</p> + +<p> +He made way for me upon the bench, and I sat down and began to ask +Mimi about it. Her cheeks have not much colour in a common way, but +they were now a beautiful crimson and there was light enough in her +eyes to set the café on fire. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s up, Mimi?” I asked her. “Why did you send Chocolat barking to +my door?” +</p> + +<p> +She kicked a pair of fat legs against the bench, and, leaning back, +she laughed in the ruffian’s face as he bent down to catch her answer. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ah, mes enfants</i>,” she cried, imitating the inimitable Georges +Tiercy in his famous song. “<i>Ah, mes enfants—ce cochon de +Jean-le-Mont a une écrevisse dans le vol-au-vent</i>”—and by that she +meant (for the line is already grown grey) that the fellow who +pestered her had a bee in his bonnet. +</p> + +<p> +“How did you come here?” I asked her. +</p> + +<p> +“In the automobile of Monsieur le Comte de Pigalle.” +</p> + +<p> +They laughed at this, for I need not tell you, Paddy, that the Rue +Pigalle does not boast its Count, and that an automobile which could +climb the Butte might set out to-morrow to vanquish Mont Blanc. +</p> + +<p> +“No, nonsense. Mimi… there has been a row. What is it all about?” +</p> + +<p> +Barrymore intervened, jerking a fine fat thumb towards the ruffian. +</p> + +<p> +“The fellow says she robbed him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of what, Barrymore?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of a cigarette-case set in diamonds.” +</p> + +<p> +Again the café roared with laughter. A cigarette-case set with +diamonds at the Lapin Agil! Oh, famous treasure! I, of course, knew +the truth in an instant. Mimi La Godiche had stolen my property from +the man who stole it from me. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you say to that, Mimi?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at me as a child in wonder—never was there a cleverer +little actress or one with a cooler head. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not be foolish, Monsieur Henry (<i>ne faites pas des bêtises</i>), I +only smoke a pipe.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you, my friend?”—this to the ruffian they call the Mount. +</p> + +<p> +But he flinched at the question, and drained a glass of filthy liquor +before he answered it. +</p> + +<p> +“She stole the box. Do I steal with my own hands? No, monsieur, but +the she-cats of Paris could rob the Bourse. I was walking to my seat +when she pushed against me. Ask the ‘cipi’ if it is not true? I will +have her searched, I tell you… she shall give me back my property!” +</p> + +<p> +“Your property, good man! Do you carry cigarette boxes set in +diamonds?” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur, I am an honest man—this property was lost in Paris, and I +would restore it to its rightful owner.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you will restore it to me immediately, for it is mine and was +lost at the Quat-Z-Arts Ball, as you very well know.” +</p> + +<p> +Well, Paddy, this took him by the heels, so to speak, and laid him +upon his back. I had been careful not to advertise the case, fearing a +reputation for riches among the apaches of the Butte; but the cat was +out of the bag this time and every ear intent. As for the ruffian, he +was floored for the moment; but he recovered a second wind of argument +presently, and, being both drunk and querulous, was by no means done +with. +</p> + +<p> +“It is an affair for the police,” he exclaimed, lurching as he sat, +and bringing his fist down with a smashing blow upon the table. “Ask +the ‘cipi’—she must go with me to the police-station and take the +affair there. I am an honest man and I will not be robbed. You say +that this is your case, monsieur—well, prove so much to the police +and I shall have no more to say. But you shall prove it—I will make +you, I, Jean-le-Mont—hear that, monsieur—I will make you prove it!” +</p> + +<p> +He stretched an arm across the table and pulled the lappet of my coat +with clumsy vigour. I saw that an uproar was at hand, but determined +to keep my temper as long as possible. Big as Desmond Barrymore and I +are, we were no match for the black company upon the opposite side of +the room—and there was a magazine which any foolish word might fire +in an instant. So it was necessary to temporise and, above all things, +to keep the mob quiet; in which endeavour I called for a bottle of +wine and some cigars, and affected to make light of the fellow’s +impudence. +</p> + +<p> +“You are talking nonsense,” I said. “My case had my name inside it—we +can easily prove that. Drink a glass of wine with me and then come to +the station. What’s the hurry about? We sha’n’t run away, and I don’t +suppose you have any engagement. Now, isn’t that a fair offer, +monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +He muttered something, I know not what, and sank back to glower at the +waiter Juno, who snapped the cork from a bottle and set it before me. +Mimi, I observed, was still smiling; Desmond Barrymore playing with +his cigarette as a man over-anxious, but not afraid. As for the +<i>canaille</i> opposite, I perceived its hesitation, and did not fail to +take its meaning. There could be no brawl permitted in the cabaret, +but there might very well be a pretty affair outside. In a word, they +waited for us to go, each believing that he or she would shortly +become the possessor of a gold cigarette-case set with diamonds. This +was the state of the game when the man they call Jean-le-Mont spoiled +everything by a premature declaration of hostilities, both unexpected +and maladroit. For what should he do but lurch to his feet, catch Mimi +by both her slim arms, and begin to hug her like a bear; while he did +not cease to shower upon her that unnameable abuse in common use upon +the Butte. +</p> + +<p> +Now, this was very unexpected, Paddy, and left the “backs” rather +nonplussed. A table stood between the pair—bottle and glasses had +already gone crash to the floor. Had I struck at the man immediately, +I might have hit Mimi, and done her a mischief; it was impossible to +get at the fellow’s legs or to secure so firm a grip upon his arms as +would open them and release his prey. Luckily, Desmond is a man of +some wit, and did not fail me. I saw him watching the pair with a +droll expression upon his face; then he calmly put his cigarette under +the giant’s nose, and held it there until the fellow turned upon him +savagely and struck a Triton’s blow. Before he could repeat it I had +laid him on the floor with a counter that Molt of Cambridge taught me; +and you could count the minutes before he rose again. +</p> + +<p> +Forgive me, Paddy, for thrusting upon you this plain tale of a tavern +brawl. The papers have a “piece” about it, and that is my excuse. It +will also permit you to understand the new <i>rôle</i> in which I find +myself—that of brother, uncle, guardian, foster-father, tutor, friend +to a tousled-haired nymph of the slums, for whom now I am solely +responsible. +</p> + +<p> +Admittedly, there has been some personal humiliation before this was +arrived at. Your ready mind will depict the scene in the cabaret after +that Jean-le-Mont lay upon the floor, and the “<i>cipi</i>” drew his sword +and bawled murder. Upon my life, I thought the three of us were done +for. The cries, the fierce oaths, the looks, the words of them! And +then upon it all, the enraged <i>patron</i> forcing us all to the street, +swearing that he would have no murder in his house; which, my dear +Paddy, remembering that it used to be the Café of the Assassins, you +must admit to be both illogical and disloyal. +</p> + +<p> +He said that we should go, and go it seemed we must. The place was in +an uproar now; the steep street very soon became a pandemonium. I knew +that the apaches were out, and I would tell you what I would tell no +other man alive, that I had the fear of God in me down to my very +toes. +</p> + +<p> +And what of this waif and stray, Mimi La Godiche, who had my +cigarette-case upon her, and must, but for our protection, jostle with +the ravening wolves at the door? I had never understood the child, and +I understood her less in that moment—for there she was smiling still, +or, stooping, as her trick was, to smooth her short dress over her +knees; now bursting into laughter; now saying, “<i>Ah, mes enfants</i>,” in +that tone inimitable of the cabaret. And the ruffian at her feet had +drawn a knife long enough to cut up the beef at Smithfield. Oh, my +dear Paddy, what a harvest of the green years as Jehan Rictus would +paint them for us in those immortal verses which my countrymen so +rarely understand! +</p> + +<p> +This babel of sounds endured five full and dreadful minutes, I +suppose, during which time the ladies of the company lost no time in +emptying the glasses of the gentlemen, and the gentlemen in picking +the pockets of the ladies. When it became clear that we must go or +face an enraged <i>patron</i> and three of the prettiest bullies in +Montmartre, I whispered a word to Desmond to stand all close until we +reached the street, and then to go as calmly and with as little +concern as might be toward my box of a house upon the height. +</p> + +<p> +Granted that this was the uninventive hope of a man who certainly +believed he would find a knife in him shortly; but, Paddy, what better +plan could you have named, or by what road did wisdom lie? +</p> + +<p> +We had to go out into that darkness of the gutter, where the wolves +were waiting, and to go upon the instant. No excuse, no entreaty +seemed to modify the temper of the ruffian, who feared the police, and +would have none of us. For my part, I preferred the unknown dangers of +the pavement to the clubs of Chocolat and the <i>patron</i>; and, although +a scene in Thiers recurred to me, when the prisoners from the Abbey +were driven forth to slaughter in those fateful September massacres, I +chose to whistle one of Legay’s songs rather than to recite it. Then, +putting my arm about Mistress Mimi’s waist, I dragged her from the +place, and went pell-mell to the fray. Eheu, Paddy, what a moment to +live! what a pretty episode in the life of a young gentleman come to +Paris to study the sculptor’s art! +</p> + +<p> +We were in the thick of it, then, and no mistake at all about the +matter. Fifty at least of the choicest blackguards of the Butte waited +in the alley and swarmed about us instantly. I felt their hands all +over me like mice upon a sack of corn. One rogue thrust his great +fingers into my waistcoat pocket, and had the satisfaction of taking +therefrom an American time-piece of the value of three shillings and +sixpence; another robbed me of a wooden pencil in a tin case; a third +of a couple of five-franc pieces and some small change. This plunder +was far from being what they wanted. Just as the vultures loom +mysteriously upon the horizon when a man sits down to die by the +wayside, so did they appear at this talk of gold and diamonds. +</p> + +<p> +Had there been but two or three there gathered together, I don’t doubt +they would have dealt with us as men deal with chickens at Easter; but +their very numbers defeated a set purpose, and the lights of the +cabaret forbade a murder. For a little while we swayed about as a ship +caught in a vortex; the lamps shone down upon faces besotten with +drink or fired by greed; I could see the room behind us, the figure of +the <i>patron</i>, who still gesticulated, the gaunt form of Jean-le-Mont, +now risen to his feet; and it seemed to me to take the place of a +pleasant harbour one had quitted in despair. Then I think a ruffian +tried to pull me down from behind; but the press was too close, and I +caught his hand in mine and went near to breaking his wrist. This was +a mistake, for he also possessed a knife, and drew it, and it needed +an iron hand upon his throat to silence him. +</p> + +<p> +I am going deeper than I meant into these police-court news, Paddy, +chiefly that you may understand my present difficulty with Mimi La +Godiche. Let me tell you that when the fun really began, when fists +were busy and hats were flying down the Butte, when the women shrieked +and fled and the men called upon their fellows to make an end of us, I +discovered that she had friends, even among such as these, that she +could call them by their gutter-names and that they would answer her. +It may be that many of them hung back just because it was Mimi of the +booths and the <i>fêtes foraines</i>, and by no chance could she be +credited with the possession of sixpence; but, the reflection apart, +my spirits sank when I heard them recognise her, and a sense of +degradation, impossible to define, afflicted me anew. +</p> + +<p> +What a position for Henry Gastonard to be in—self-sought, inevitable, +the price of this gipsy’s game upon the Butte; the consequence of a +chosen masquerade and a self-imposed war upon civilisation! +</p> + +<p> +Were there not a thousand devils of my Saxon self-respect crying at my +elbow to have done with it—to pitch them a handful of money—to say +to them, “There is your sister in the arts; take her by the hand and +lead her to her home?” A flash of thought it may have been, while I +dealt with the gentlemen of the pavement and calculated the chances +with a greater precision; but there it was, and while it ran strong in +my head, the girl herself lay almost in my very arms, smiling still, a +very <i>gamin</i> enjoying a brawl as a common incident in her daily life. +Do you wonder, Paddy, that I clung to my wreckage and refused to part +with it to any other robber upon the shore? By heaven and earth, I +swear she is the best plucked ’un that ever wore a red silk stocking +or showed it on a booth to a gaping multitude. And that you shall come +to believe for yourself presently—when I take you fifty paces further +from the cabaret and show you in a line just why we were not murdered. +</p> + +<p> +Do you remember the Rue St. Vincent, that narrow lane by the +Assassins, with the great black buttresses and the dingy oil-lamp we +used to deride together? Well, it was just by there that we seemed in +for the worst; just by the very corner that you would not have paid +the half of a brass farthing for our chances. +</p> + +<p> +I had as good as given it up, and fallen to wondering what it feels +like to have six inches of steel in your vitals while twenty hands are +picking your pockets and twenty more are rifling your shoes. That this +was premature, the unexpected but quite gentlemanly appearance of some +fifteen agile <i>sergents de ville</i> immediately assured me. They had +been fetched, it seemed, by the “cipi,” or municipal guard, at the +cabaret, who, while he would not have lifted a finger to save Mimi La +Godiche, was by no means willing that an Englishman should be papered +to-morrow, or found drowned upon the following morning. Thus the +company, armed to its very teeth, and thus the rats scuttling to their +holes, the women left to slither down the steep, the men crying that +Mimi La Godiche was <i>une guêpe</i>, and that they would settle with her +upon another occasion. +</p> + +<p> +I thanked the guard, Paddy; thanked Desmond Barrymore for his kindness +to the girl; and bidding him “good night” (it should have been good +morning), I climbed the mountain to that verdant alley wherein my home +lies, and took Mimi to the parlour with me. Her first act was to +return me my diamonds. I need not particularise as to where she had +hidden them, or what was her inspiration. She is here as I write this, +like a dog upon my carpet. She has been for twenty hours almost in the +same position—but what am I going to do with her, what provision make +for her, or how am I going to smuggle her in safety from this mount of +thieves, I know, my dear Paddy, no more than your estimable self. +</p> + +<p> +So let me have your consolations. All places are filled with fools, +says Cicero—but there are but two at the Maison du bon Tabac, and one +is Mimi La Godiche and the other— +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Yours eternally,<br> +<span class="sc">Henry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch02"> +CHAPTER II. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[The response of Paddy O’Connell, of Glendalough, County Wicklow, to +his friend, Henry Gastonard of the Maison du bon Tabac at Paris.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Glendalough, County Wicklow,<br> +May 18th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Henry,—Your letter is received. I gather therefrom two +facts:—1. That you are making a fool of yourself in Paris. 2. That +this occupation is congenial to you and the lady of the circus, upon +whom you appear to have bestowed your patronage.—Believe me to be, My +dear Henry, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Yours sincerely,<br> +<span class="sc">Paddy O’Connell</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch03"> +CHAPTER III. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[A letter from the same brief author addressed to the Reverend Arthur +Warrington of Beldon, Suffolk.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Glendalough, County Wicklow,<br> +May 18th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Reverend Sir,—Your request that I would favour you with such news as +I may from time to time receive from my friend Henry Gastonard permits +me to assure you that he is now established in Paris, and appears, by +his diligent habit and assured gifts, to be doing all that will +presently entitle him to the permanent possession of the fortune, +conditionally bequeathed to him by his late father, Henry Gastonard, +of London and Bordeaux. +</p> + +<p> +My dear Sir, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Yours very faithfully,<br> +<span class="sc">The O’Connell</span> of Glendalough. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch04"> +CHAPTER IV. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Henry Gastonard continues the story in a letter to his friend Paddy +O’Connell.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The Hôtel St. Paul, Paris,<br> +May 24th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—Permit me to ignore the flattering document I had the +honour to receive from you three days ago. +</p> + +<p> +Friendship, my dear Paddy, calls for something more than a pious +expression of opinion upon the reason or conduct of a friend. It +demands a sympathetic endeavour to understand, and an unshaken +determination to accept such facts as are confided to us and call for +our judgment. To tell a man he is a fool is often to tell him the +truth. But I am not aware of many who have become less foolish for the +knowledge, or have derived any consolation whatever from so bald an +utterance. +</p> + +<p> +Now, Paddy, you know as well as I do that you are all agog for further +news of Mimi La Godiche; and were you in Paris this little chit of the +booths would have your warm friendship, and you would lay scalps upon +the green should any defame her. Cannot I see you with your feet upon +an historic mantel-shelf, and your eyes (so far as tobacco smoke will +permit) upon a regal ceiling, reading that same letter for a second +time, and willing to barter all Ireland and the people thereof for one +week of the Butte, one month of this rolling world of gilt and tinsel +and all its spangled joys. Admit the truth of it, and write me +something sensible. For, Paddy, I have need of you—there is the devil +to pay, and the game grows interesting. +</p> + +<p> +You will remember that I left Mimi La Godiche upon my hearthrug. +Barrymore had left us; the time was the early morning of the day; the +<i>canaille</i> of the Assassins had gone God knows where. Save for the old +soldier, who is at once my valet-de-chambre, butler, cook, housemaid, +and scullery wench, there was no one with me in the Maison du bon +Tabac. +</p> + +<p> +Depict the scene, Paddy, and bear with a recital of my virtues. A room +as large as an opera box; about its walls the drawings of Caran +d’Ache, Henri Riviere, and Willette; a couple of armchairs, as ragged +as the beggars at the door of St. Eustache; a yacht’s piano bang +against the wall; a buffet with all the drinks that are not good for +us; the very worst novels littering all the tables; cigarettes and +cigars everywhere; pipes in all the niches—such is the mountain home +of Henry Gastonard, gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +And upon the hearthrug of this charming apartment, style Louis de +Montmartre, the tousled-haired Mimi squatting like any lady of the +harem, her legs crossed, her feathered hat in her hand, her cheeks as +rosy as a picture from a Christmas-book. +</p> + +<p> +Now, Paddy, I have told you something of Mimi the Simpleton; but, to +be as frank as the priest of Clanconnell, ’tis precious little that I +myself know of her, anyway. I can no more tell you whether she be +virtuous or otherwise than recite ten chapters of the Koran. This is a +difficulty, to be sure, which my friends of the Hill will never +understand. I can hear the roar of laughter which would attend its +expression either in the neighbourhood of Neuilly or in that of la +Galette. Mimi La Godiche virtuous! Then was Catherine of Russia a +latter-day saint, and Lucretia herself as misunderstood as all the +historians would now have us to believe. This would be the opinion of +the Butte and of Neuilly. It is not my opinion—I cannot tell you why; +nor do I trouble myself for reasons. +</p> + +<p> +She sat upon my hearthrug, I say, her legs crossed and her great +feathered hat in her hand. When I questioned her, her answers were +often monosyllables; sometimes nods and smiles; long sentences but +rarely. Of her past she appeared to know nothing at all. Her +birthplace she named as Vendome, but was not sure of it. She could +tell me nothing of her childhood; the Fair she spoke of with dread; +the lion-tamer Cassadore stood to her for all terrors past, present, +and to come. She would have burned her hand in the fire rather than +return to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you no remembrance of your father?” I asked her. +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head many times, as one who wished to think but could +not. +</p> + +<p> +“And your mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“There was someone at Orleans, Monsieur Henry, and after that +Cassadore. Oh, Cassadore always, I assure you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must be able to tell me more than that, Mimi. Somewhere, +somewhere in your life, there was a woman who was kind to you. Now, +don’t you remember when?” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember a very old lady, Monsieur Henry—that would have been at +Orleans. And then the road—the great, white, open road—so many days, +so many nights… and after that Cassadore always until you came, +Monsieur Henry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you not run away, Mimi?” +</p> + +<p> +“To whom should I run?” +</p> + +<p> +“Anywhere away from Cassadore. You are young… you can work; why did +you not leave him?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was impossible, monsieur—as well ask the Abbé to run away from +his church.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean that the life had become necessary to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, I mean that—would you put me in the kitchen, Monsieur +Henry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not, Mimi—but, you see, you can’t stop any longer in +Montmartre, and what then?” +</p> + +<p> +Her face clouded, but only for an instant. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall go away with you, Monsieur Henry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should you go with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I do not wish to go with Cassadore.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are plenty of others who would take you away, Mimi. Why do you +think of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell you, Monsieur Henry—you must know yourself why it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if I do, what then? Suppose I cannot take you away?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall ask Mr. Barrymore.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Barrymore would not be of any use to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I shall go back to Cassadore.” +</p> + +<p> +“It wouldn’t be safe for you to stop in Montmartre now—I suppose you +understand that much, Mimi?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed a little at the suggestion. +</p> + +<p> +“Jean-le-Mont is very angry,” she said, “I am afraid of Jean-le-Mont.” +</p> + +<p> +“When did you steal my cigarette-case, Mimi; how did you know that +Jean-le-Mont had it?” +</p> + +<p> +“He came to Mr. Barrymore’s atelier three days ago—the Italian who +makes the models told me that Jean had the box. At the Lapin Agil I +gave him a rose, Monsieur Henry, and then put my arms about his neck. +Ah, the droll—he discovered it at once, but he did not wish to tell +because the others would know and rob him afterwards. Then Mr. +Barrymore came in because he saw me there, and I told him, and we sent +for you——” +</p> + +<p> +“And this was the first time you have stolen anything, Mimi?” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur Henry, you know that it is.” +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +Observe, Paddy, the reiteration of this. I know that she is virtuous; +I know that she is honest. No reasons given or asked, as they say in +the thieves’ advertisements. Upon my word of honour, the good faith of +it is astonishing! For I do know, Paddy… and I would stake my fortune +(or what is left of it) upon the truth of my astonishing creed. +</p> + +<p> +I shall not fatigue you with further particulars of this amazing +morning. For a couple of hours, perhaps, I slept upon my bed, and Mimi +upon the hearthrug; but at six o’clock I waked her, and stopping only +for coffee and a roll, I was out of the house by seven and upon my way +to the Paris of law and of civilisation. All my instinct told me that +the thieves of the Butte would make short work of Mimi La Godiche if +she remained in their neighbourhood. Let her go to the old haunt this +night, and a knife in the back or a collarette of rope would certainly +be her reward. You know Montmartre; you know the particular kind of +blackguard and of blackguardess it can vomit from its cavernous and +detestable mouth. From these I fled with Mimi at my side—whither, the +great Saint Christopher, patron of travellers, alone might tell me. +</p> + +<p> +You are aware that I have an apartment at the Hôtel St. Paul, and +thither first I took the child in the hope that inspiration would come +and a swift solution of a pretty problem be found. Be sure the +excellent <i>patron</i> stared not a little, and that Madame, his wife, +sniffed more of the morning air than had filled her ancient lungs for +many a day. But a better entertainment was that provided by Narisse of +the Faubourg St. Honoré, who came round with his hand-maidens to +dress her, and must take my directions three times before assuring +himself finally of the madness of this English traveller. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, Paddy, cannot you hear this man as he exclaims to heaven upon the +feathers of Montmartre, and sees a national infamy in the fine, if +tattered stuffs of Belleville? No doubt I should have gone not “Chez +Narisse” but the Magazin du Louvre; there bought not silk and chiffon +but good, honest serges, a hat to fit a governess and lace suitable to +the deaconess of a Sunday-school. But, Paddy, I am a man, and I know +the name but of one costumier in all Paris, and he is Narisse, and he +made of Mimi La Godiche a veritable beauty in less time than you or I +could finish a rubber of bridge at the club. Ah, these mad +Englishmen—they still exist it appears, and blessed is Paris because +of them! And what shall be said for the girl herself, and what must +she do upon the instant but sing the man a song after the fashion of +Jehan Rictus, just because of the clothes he had put upon her back. +Believe me, when I tell you that the models themselves came near to +joining in the chorus, and that Narisse was speechless before the end +of the second verse. +</p> + +<p> +Mimi, then, is dressed and in her right mind. Will you follow me as I +lead her forth about the hour of twelve o’clock, and ask myself, what +next? There are many in Paris who know me, and not a few who stared +with some astonishment. Whatever the costumier’s art, my dear Paddy, +it cannot disguise the walk, the airs, the manner of the Butte. I am a +person of some sensibility out of doors, and I object to that freedom +which grips you hysterically by the arm, at odd intervals, to drag you +to a shop window and exclaim upon a rope of pearls which would ruin a +Maharajah, or an emerald bracelet none but a Rothschild could buy. It +is not a joy to me when my companion has the wit and the language +which silences enterprising cabmen or calls for the retort +discourteous of the foot-passenger who has been obstructed. Publicity +has no charms for me; I prefer to give the wall to the humourists and +to go in obscurity. +</p> + +<p> +We lunched at the Café of the Cascade in the Bois. There was a goodly +company present, and “her ladyship” fell in love with the Baroness +Séchard, who was with Pechala, of the Spanish Embassy. I think the +grand manners of many of these far from grand dames somewhat +astonished her; but the size of the asparagus tickled her sense of +humour, and the bill was ever in her mind. +</p> + +<p> +“What will happen to us if you cannot pay the bill, Monsieur Henry?” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall go to prison, Mimi.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cassadore went to prison once—at Châlons-sur-Marne—I do not wish +to go to prison, Monsieur Henry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then we must try to find some money, Mimi. How much have you now?” +</p> + +<p> +The question should not have been put, for Mimi carries her money +where she carried my cigarette-case, and made no secret of the matter. +</p> + +<p> +I was but just in time to prevent a display which might have brought +us the bill on the spot, and, as it was, Etienne, the waiter, grinned +from ear to ear as he floated to us with a sole à la Victorine. +</p> + +<p> +“Did they not tell you in the Rue Pigalle that I am rich, Mimi?” +</p> + +<p> +“You could never be rich, Monsieur Henry; you are not clever enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mimi, am I not a sculptor?” +</p> + +<p> +This appeared to her a droll saying. She laughed quite honestly and +again appealed to my candour. +</p> + +<p> +“You know that you will never be a sculptor; you have no talent, +Monsieur Henry; even I have more talent than you. Besides, if you +were”—she added wisely—“how poor we should be.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not good to be poor in Paris, Mimi.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not good to be poor anywhere, Monsieur Henry.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if one has no way to get a living—as I have not, what then, +Mimi?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, then one sleeps at the Hôtel of the Belle Etoile. I have stayed +there often when I used to go to the Fêtes. It is a very large hotel, +and you can see the stars while you lie in bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you go back there, Mimi?” +</p> + +<p> +“Jesu—no; why do you speak of it when one is no longer hungry, +Monsieur Henry?” +</p> + +<p> +I did not pursue the subject further, but paid the bill and went out +with her to the Bois. A shabby cab made the usual grand tour with us +and helped us to pass a pleasant hour. Perhaps it astonished me to +discover that the Bois impressed her but little—but then she had been +accustomed to the spangles all her life and could make little of a +passable equipage with a fat Baroness in it, or a costly motor driven +by a man who looked like an Oneida Indian. Her exclamations were few +but her observation unfailing. She detected me at once when I nodded +to Lea d’Alençon, who drove a pair of cream-colored ponies near the +Cascade. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did that lady look so angry, Monsieur Henry? Are you in love with +her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I be, Mimi? She is the wife of Captain d’Alençon of the +Engineers.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she is in love with you—I am sure of it. And she is very angry +with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I cannot help it. Let us get out and walk, Mimi, and ask +ourselves where we are going to stay to-night. That will be more +interesting than Madame d’Alençon.” +</p> + +<p> +“You wish to see her pass again—is not that the reason, Monsieur +Henry?” +</p> + +<p> +Well, of course it was, and she had guessed wisely enough; but what +was I to say to her? Lea is one of my virtues, as I have told you +before, Paddy. When I wish to balance the books of all the moralities, +cash, day and ledger, Lea d’Alençon stands for the most valuable of +my assets. She is too clever to be anything else, and yet you might +call her the most amorous woman and one of the most dangerous in +Paris. Just a hundred times, perhaps, has she advised me to get out of +this delectable country and go back to England. I might have done so +but for her promise to visit me there upon an early occasion. Be sure, +Paddy, that I have no desire whatever to cut the Captain’s throat +merely to prove myself a good Parisian. Lea is charming as a friend. +She would be all the malignities impersonified otherwise. +</p> + +<p> +I should tell you that I had recognised her when she passed me, and +that this astonished her considerably. It is considered less than +nothing at all in Paris to drive in the Bois with a cocotte—but to +recognise your lady friends when thus employed must be named little +less than an infamy. So here was a pretty problem for this majestic +Astarte with the raven locks and the liquid black eyes and all the +langour of the trained voluptuary. Either I wished to insult her or it +were possible that my companion might be introduced. This she must +have told herself, for the chariot reappeared presently and was drawn +up at the pavement not fifty yards from the place where we stood. +</p> + +<p> +“Bon jour, Madame d’Alençon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bon jour, Monsieur Gastonard.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a story for you; when will a good comrade hear it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not at five o’clock; my husband is at Valérien. Is it a story of +the theatre, Monsieur Gastonard?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a story of virtue, madame.” +</p> + +<p> +We laughed together. This poor old Pantaloon Virtue still provokes a +smile—if his name be ever mentioned—in such saloons as Lea +d’Alençon and her kind have made famous. Some spirit of sheer devilry +must have prompted me to this confidence, Paddy; but behind it lay a +firm belief in the sagacity of this shrewd woman of the world and in +her honesty. She would place Mimi the Simpleton in some possible +situation—I had not a moment’s doubt of it. +</p> + +<p> +How we laughed together over the whole story when I went to her rooms +an hour later. Mimi, meanwhile, had been dispatched to the Hôtel St. +Paul, and there entrusted to the safe custody of <i>la patronne</i>. I +myself sat in a wonderful cradle chair and watched Lea pour out really +excellent tea from a Chinese pot that should have been behind glass. +She had changed her gown for a delicate robe of lace and chiffon, and +thrust the prettiest pair of feet in all Paris from a petticoat over +which a costumier must have shed tears of joy. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is this girl?” she asked me. +</p> + +<p> +I told her that I did not know. +</p> + +<p> +“Why has she become virtuous?” +</p> + +<p> +“A natural condition, Lea; why is not marble chalk?” +</p> + +<p> +Observe, Paddy, that Lea and I have been some months at the point when +“Monsieur” or “Madame” provokes ridicule, and no formality clouds our +brutal frankness. Had it been otherwise I could not have spoken to her +of Mimi La Godiche at all. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me tell you the girl’s story,” I said, “or what I know of it. Six +months ago she was performing outside the walls of Paris with a +monster of a man named Cassadore, whose riches are three lions and +whose wardrobe a pair of spangled tights. I was in the tent when this +child was taken into the cages with this man, and I did not fail to +remark two facts; one, that she was absolutely lacking in a sense of +fear, and, secondly, that she might become eventually one of the most +beautiful women in Paris. Five francs judiciously expended obtained an +introduction to her—a hundred francs bought her of the lion-tamer. +Rejoice, my dear Lea, that in our society women are not sold for a +hundred nor for ten hundred francs, or who can tell what I might not +bid for you at an auction. In Mimi’s case the bargain was soon made. +After all, the tamer had a dozen girls of her station ready to be +driven into the cages at his nod—what was this girl to him? I bought +her and took her to the Butte. Febry, of La Galette, gave her a chance +to get hissed upon his stage, and she did not disappoint him. I tried +her again, paying a thousand francs for the privilege at the +Quat-Z-Arts and the Coq d’Or. Again, my dear lady, she was a hopeless +failure. No femme de chambre acting in the kitchen could have failed +so dismally. And yet I continue to believe in her; my faith is +unshaken. I am ready to declare that she will become a great actress, +astonish Paris, and end in an apartment not a third of a mile removed +from the Arc de Triomphe or the Avenue Marigny. It is this faith which +brings me now to the house of the charming Lea d’Alençon. I come, +<i>foi d’honneur</i>, simply to seek a salve to my vanity. How shall I get +this child taught? Where shall I place her while she is being taught? +You, of all my friends, can best advise me upon that point. Do so, and +you shall not find a more grateful man in Paris to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +Well, I could see that I had impressed her, but I had not convinced +her, as the next question proved. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you say that the child is virtuous?” she asked me. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I know her to be so,” was my retort. “Put your hand upon the +marbles at the Madeleine and will they burn you? It is true that a +fire might be conceived of such a nature as to melt your marble and +cause it to run as liquid steel—but, my dear Lea, we are not talking +of the forges, but of the facts. This child is virtuous because she is +utterly devoid of any desire to be anything else. The wisest up on the +Butte recognise the truth and are proud of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now these very people drive her out. Did you not tell me that she +cannot return to Montmartre, Henry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not—at least, to the only quarter of Montmartre where it +would be possible for her to live. The thieves have marked her +down—she would not be alive a week if she remained up there.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you propose——?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Lea, nothing of the kind. I have no matrimonial intentions, +believe me. It is you who will propose.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed a little wickedly. The talk had drifted apart from my +idea, and I could not but be amused by her sudden <i>volte face</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Louis does not return from Valérien until to-morrow,” she said +quickly. “I am supposed to dine with my sister Lucille. Where are you +going to take me, Henry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Alone, Lea?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked me straight in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us ask the Curé of the Madeleine.” +</p> + +<p> +“By all means. And while we dine we will make plans for Mimi.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us dine on the island,” she cried, ignoring it; “there is the +safest place in Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will be at the Cascade at a quarter to seven. Of course, it may be +a tragedy.” +</p> + +<p> +“The tragedies, my dear Henry, are always for to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +And so, Paddy, amiable fool that I was, I consented. It will be no +surprise to you to hear that the Curé of the Madeleine had another +appointment, and could not turn up. But of this dinner and of all the +absurdities which followed upon it, I will write to-morrow. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, find me, my dear fellow, your friend, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Harry</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch05"> +CHAPTER V. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Henry Gastonard writes to Paddy O’Connell telling him the story of a +dinner and a challenge.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Hôtel St. Paul, Paris,<br> +May 30th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—This is to tell you that I go out with Bernard d’Alençon +somewhere about daybreak to-morrow, and that when I write again, Paris +will be in possession of a pretty scandal. +</p> + +<p> +I am not joking, my dear Paddy. A more serious human being than Henry +Gastonard does not exist in all this city to-night. I am to fight +Bernard d’Alençon, and I am to fight him somewhere in the +neighbourhood of the Bois at five o’clock to-morrow morning. The +affair is as irrevocable as the sunset I have just witnessed from the +Chalets du Cycle, where Mademoiselle Mimi has given me tea and +recited, to the great astonishment of waiters and cyclists alike, the +first lesson she received this morning from Pelletier, of the +Conservatoire. +</p> + +<p> +So, if you please, has this great question of the hour been settled. A +woman’s shrewd opinion has backed up a mere man’s idea that something +may be made of Mimi the Simpleton, something at least ventured in her +interests. The suspicion that this chit of the <i>fêtes foraines</i> may +yet startle Paris is so much an obsession where I am concerned that I +have willingly agreed to place her with Pelletier for twelve months +and to see what comes of it. He is too clever a man to try to make a +silk purse out of a sow’s ear. He will train her for the Vaudeville or +the Palais Royal, and if he cannot make a success of her, then is she +lost indeed. She lodges meanwhile in a little English pension near the +Louvre, and God help its inmates if she have the mind to misbehave +herself! +</p> + +<p> +Be sure that for me this is a closed book, and that I am very +unlikely, when once this other folly is over, to see or hear of +Mistress Mimi again. The whim of a moment has given her a chance in +Paris; the whim of another will banish her from my recollection when, +as must be, if I am not killed to-morrow morning, I set out to save my +fortune from my cousin and to make those five hundred pounds per annum +which will enable me to hold it. +</p> + +<p> +You will remember, Paddy, that when last I wrote to you, I was about +to dine in blessed seclusion with that amiable but charming woman Lea +d’Alençon. Providence and a far from belle Americaine saved me from +such an imprudence. The American lady, I understand, appeared just +when Lea was wrestling with a refractory hat and an equally obstinate +pyramid of her famous black hair. She carried a letter from Elise +d’Alençon, the Captain’s sister, who is now in New York, and could +not, in decency, be denied. What Lea said, or, better still, what she +thought, I leave you to guess; but she covered her retreat by asking +her cousin Emilie, who is madly in love with young Derogy of the +Chasseurs, and by sending post haste for the cavalryman to join us. So +we were five at the table instead of two, and we dined at Armenonville +and not at the Cascade. +</p> + +<p> +I was glad of this—frankly glad. Lea is too good a friend of mine +that I should ever wish her to become anything else. And remember, +Paddy, that virtue is as much a matter of opportunity and of accident +as of the commandment, both written and unwritten. To you alone would +I confess my belief that it had been her intention to bring matters to +a crisis this night. Bernard was conveniently at Fort Valérien; her +mother had gone to Tours to let their chateau to a Yankee from +Vermont; I had come to her in a romantic mood and appealed to her upon +the score of my interest in another woman—a sure passport to +intimacy. And then upon the top of it all the lady from New York, +Jenny Middleton she called herself, with an accent to butter your +bread and the eye of the eagle as it soars. Oh, we were a merry party, +be sure; and even cousin Emilie (who is married to a man of sixty as +sour as vinegar and as yellow) made little of her cavalryman in such +a presence. +</p> + +<p> +You know the dinner at the Armenonville, as good as it is dear, as +<i>chic</i> as it is distant. We discussed London restaurants with our +soup; the Verney scandal with our fish; the character of the American +man with the entrée and Mimi the Simpleton with the ices. Mrs. +Middleton, I observed, was much interested in the character of my +<i>protégée</i> and firm in her belief that I had made a fool of myself. +</p> + +<p> +“She will go back to the lion-tamer in a month,” she said, “and leave +you with the bill for a keepsake.” +</p> + +<p> +When Lea began her dissertation upon virtue, the lady from the West +joined in the merriment, and I perceived that here was an American +who, like others of her countrywomen, had no interest in Paris +virtuous but much in Paris of the vices. It was cheerful to be done +with it all at last, and to begin that momentous return which might +land me either in an infamy or, at the best, destroy my friendship +with the charming Lea. +</p> + +<p> +I say the fun began at Armenonville, and you will readily understand +the nature of it. Lea did not disguise her intention to return in my +cab—Emilie was equally insistent upon riding with the guardsman. For +a little while we stood in the glitter of the lights, amid the most +wonderfully dressed women in the world, scheming and planning to our +different ends. First it would be Lea suggesting three cabs and a +hurried departure—then the cavalryman gallantly volunteering to +telephone for an automobile which would carry us all. Mrs. Middleton +herself providentially had special designs upon me, and watched her +prey with a feline patience beautiful to behold. When two cabs +appeared, I put the agitated daughter of Venus in the first of them, +and by a ruse got Lea and Emilie and the cavalryman into the second. +</p> + +<p> +This was providential to be sure, if we may suppose Providence stoops +to the mild intrigues of pretty Frenchwomen; for I may tell you that +d’Alençon himself did not stop the night at Fort Valérien, but was +back in his own apartment at half-past nine, and detected there by Lea +just at the moment she was waiting for me to appear and take her to +supper as I had promised. Ah, the dear soul, what a terrible five +minutes she must have spent upon the pavement waiting for my cab! But +a blessed destiny had sent me on with the Stars, to say nothing of the +Stripes, to the gates of the Jardin de Paris, whence a messenger +carried a hasty note back to Lea telling her of the impossibility of +it. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, these fair Americans! Do you know, Paddy, that if I were a man of +genius, I would make the five hundred a year which my father’s Will +demands just by catering for their naughtiness in Paris. Of course, +the whole affair would have to be a sham, as unlike the true Paris as +Bayswater is unlike London, and no more vicious than a magic-lantern +show in a Sunday-school. Then I should catch the class which now +visits that poor place the Jardin de Paris, net the fools who go to +the Moulin Rouge because they ought not to go, and send them back to +their native land as happy as a “week-ender” who has seen the Louvre. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Middleton, I discovered, had come to Paris to write a book upon +French social customs. She assured me that it was imperative upon her +to visit the music-halls. “I want to see the people play,” she said. +“I guess they work pretty well the same everywhere; but it’s the +national games I’m set upon.” When I pointed out to her that the lady +who displayed hose to her fellow-countrymen at the Jardin de Paris was +a Spaniard, and not a Frenchwoman, she insisted immediately on going +to verify the fact. It was two in the morning before I got rid of her, +and then I had to tell her that if she were shut out of her hotel the +police would want to know the reason why. +</p> + +<p> +So you see, Paddy, I neither dined nor supped with the charming Lea; +and, once more having escaped those fascinating toils, returned at +length to a welcome bed. When I awoke on the following morning the +valet at the hotel informed me that Captain Berton, of the Engineers, +desired particularly to see me, and upon the fellow being shown up, I +learned in ten words that he had come to arrange this pleasantry with +d’Alençon. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps, had I been clothed and in my right mind I should have +answered him as he deserved, offered to punch the Captain’s head, and +told his ambassador not to make a fool of himself. This, +unfortunately, did not happen. Berton caught me when I was both tired +and irritable, and I sent him headlong to Honoré de Villefort, that +old rascal of a Chevalier who will never cease to remind me of his +obligation. What is even worse, Paddy, I named pistols—and that is +just the maddest thing your friend Henry Gastonard has done since he +was born. +</p> + +<p> +I am a fool—I know it. Often as I have desired to play in one of +those gigantic farces they call an “affair of honour in Paris,” never +did I contemplate standing up to a man with a pistol in my hand. Of +course, I had no real cause of quarrel with Bernard d’Alençon, nor he +with me. He is madly jealous of the charming Lea, and hates me like +poison; if he can shoot me to-morrrow morning, he will do so. +</p> + +<p> +But, Paddy, I shall, in very truth, have finished my French education +when this is over, and be prepared to return to England and a sober +life. It is true that there might be an accident—you may say the same +every time you call a hansom cab—but, Paddy, if the fun should be +spoiled and this man hit me, then I call upon you, as the oldest +friend I have, to do what you can for my little friend of the Butte, +and to remember that there is no one else in all Christendom who would +give her sixpence if not— +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Your friend,<br> +<span class="sc">Harry</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch06"> +CHAPTER VI. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Being a telegram from Paddy O’Connell to his friend, Henry +Gastonard.] +</p> + +<p> +You must be mad. Have wired the Embassy. Am coming over.—Paddy. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch07"> +CHAPTER VII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[A letter from the Rev. Arthur Warrington of Beldon, Suffolk, to Mrs. +Arthur Warrington at Porchester Terrace, Bayswater.] +</p> + +<p> +My Dear Martha,—I will not say thank God; but, are we responsible for +this unhappy young man’s folly? Should it have pleased the Almighty to +call him I will see Sands and Collier about the estate at Ingershall +immediately. Please let me have telegrams as the evening papers come +in. To think that this should be the end of Henry Gastonard’s fortune, +his son a debauché in Paris, shot down in a vulgar duel about a +married woman, and, I doubt not, precious gold lavished upon her. But +we, dear wife, shall know how to spend that fortune to God’s good +ends. +</p> + +<p> +I shall, of course, buy a motor-car at once should the worst +follow.—Your devoted husband, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Arthur</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch08"> +CHAPTER VIII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[In which Paddy O’Connell of Glendalough, writes to his sister Clara a +full account of the duel between Henry Gastonard and the Captain +Bernard d’Alençon.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Hôtel St. Paul, Paris,<br> +June 7th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Clara,—You will have learned from the newspapers some of the +news I have to tell you, but this will not make you less anxious to +hear it a second time from a family pen. +</p> + +<p> +I arrived in Paris early on the Saturday morning, and drove to the +Hôtel St. Paul; for, where else would I be driving at all on such a +day? The newspapers gave me a fine account of poor Henry as we went +along, and small hope had I of cheering him alive or talking to +anything better than a corpse. When I arrived at his hotel, they would +have shut the door in my face but for a way I have with them, and for +sure the journalists are here all day and would tear the very bandages +from Harry’s body to photograph the wounds. +</p> + +<p> +Well, I made my way up to the sick man’s room at last, and there found +the poor fellow stretched upon his bed and looking by no means so +cheerful as I should have wished to see him. By his side there was a +little French girl, the one whom he wrote about last week, and a more +beautiful creature the Lord never created. +</p> + +<p> +This, I confess, was some surprise to me. I am very well acquainted +with the ladies of Paris, and had made a picture of this particular +lady for myself. Clara, I was as far from the truth as Dublin from +Cork. This is a face that the man Greuze should have painted. And oh, +the airs and graces of her, the little winning ways, and the dignity! +He tells me that she came from the circus; but if he were not on his +back I’d call him a liar. Mimi the Simpleton for sure—why, she has +the sense of twenty in her head, and ’tis your own Paddy who grows red +in the face every time he argues with her. +</p> + +<p> +Well, the child sprang up upon my entrance, and stood there glaring at +me like a wild cat out of the shows. What French I remember leads me +to the belief that her observations were neither flattering to my +appearance nor my manner—but, God forgive me, I may have +mistranslated it. As for Harry, he just stirred in his sleep and told +me to go away, which so tickled me that I laughed like a boy at the +pantomime. +</p> + +<p> +“Go away!” says I, “Then ’tis yourself that must be putting me out, +for no other man in Paris can do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” says he, “if it isn’t old Paddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“My boy,” cried I, “my friend—the only one that ever I shall love in +all this world—oh, God forgive you, Harry, for this,” says I. +</p> + +<p> +“Paddy,” says he, “I thought you were a journalist. They’ve been here +all day, Paddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Show me the man that will come here when I am by, and I will tell you +where to bury him.” +</p> + +<p> +“The old Paddy, every bit of him. Spoiling for a fight, as ever he +was.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no more peaceable man in Paris,” says I; “but lucky that +your Captain has gone to the wilds! I’d have shot him, Harry, though +the Parliament itself had been there to prevent me.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed again at this, but I saw that he was in pain, or, to be +honest, the little Greuze girl did that same for me, and spoke words +of which I was content to be hearing poorly. ’Tis plain she worships +the ground he treads upon, though there is not much of that same just +now—while as for the boy himself, if there’s any woman in Europe he +cares a button about, ask Paddy O’Connell to drink cold water, and see +that he gets it. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you come here? Why do you make this noise?” she asked me—oh, +the impudence of it!—with her pretty eyes blazing like coals and her +cheeks so crimson that a Bishop might have kissed them. “Are you his +friend to do this? Oh, be ashamed of yourself,” says she, “and go away +immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +’Twas a just rebuke, Clara, and Paddy not the man to be minding it. +Presently, when I had done penance before her, she permitted me to sit +in a chair at the bedside; and, every time I opened my mouth to speak, +she looked so tremendous that I gulped down my words and ate them for +very shame. By and by the doctor came in and asked Harry if I had been +talking, and “never a word” says I, which was the truth to be sure. +</p> + +<p> +I should tell you that Harry was shot on the collar-bone, and devil a +shirt will he be putting on for a long while to come. ’Tis precious +hard luck, for he was leaving for England next week to get his living +as the Will wants him to do. What’s to come of it all now, God only +knows. If he’s not making five hundred a year by his own exertions +this time next year, he’ll lose his fortune, and that weedy old hack +of a curate in Suffolk come in for the whole of it but a paltry +hundred pounds a year. This must be talked over between us hereafter. +To-day, when the doctor was gone, and the little witch with the pretty +face sent out to do some shopping for him, he told me the story of the +fight, and sorry I am that Paddy O’Connell missed that entertainment. +For it was a fine affair entirely. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you go out with the man?” I asked him. +</p> + +<p> +He answered me as shortly: +</p> + +<p> +“Curiosity, Paddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“The cause of half the mischief in the world. Was the woman sorry +about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“The beautiful Lea? Oh, my dear Paddy, she went to church to pray that +I might shoot him.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was nothing between you—your solemn word, Harry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Paddy, am I the man——” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d like to meet the one who’d tell me that you were.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have done everything that men do in Paris—why should I have missed +this, Paddy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye were not the man to miss it. Show me the one who says so, and I’m +ready for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted to understand why people laugh at what they call an affair +of honour. They all do laugh in England, and yet there are worse ways +of putting a bit upon men’s tongues. When I chose pistols I hardly +knew what I was doing. But I said it and had to stick to it, Paddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, ye did. Ye weren’t afraid of him, Harry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not as you would understand it—upon my word, no. But a man who has +been up all night in a reeking café, and then sees the sun rise over +Belleville and remembers an appointment for six o’clock in a garden +near Auteuil, that man would be a liar to say he liked it. There was +one mortal hour, Paddy, when I would have given half my fortune to +know what was going to happen. I remember thinking that most +Englishmen would have pooh-poohed the whole affair and fallen back +upon the national cant about scruples. Blame old Villefort, who dosed +me with half the filth they keep at the Taverne Royale—and that old +beggar, Oleander, who drank enough brandy to poison a regiment on the +score of it. +</p> + +<p> +“We came down from the Butte singing ‘Brunette aux Yeux Doux’ with all +our lungs. I sha’n’t tell you a lie and say that I thought Paris +looked beautiful, or anything of the kind, for it just isn’t, Paddy. +Everything seemed as cold as a November fog. The sun shone +sardonically—I remember seeing maids about the doors of the houses, +and envying them their occupation. A cabby who chaffed us was little +better than an irritating blackguard, who should have been whipped. +</p> + +<p> +“When we arrived at Count Louvier’s house—you know we fought in his +garden—I remember hearing the bell ring about five hundred times +before they let us in. If anyone had spoken, if someone had made a +joke, I would have been grateful to him then, Paddy—but we just +entered the hall of the house in silence, walked straight through to +the garden, went on down toward the river, and took up our positions +on the borders of a little thicket of fir, without as much as a +monosyllable from any one of them. I didn’t like that—you wouldn’t +have liked it yourself, Paddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye should have whistled an air,” said I, “laughed and joked yourself. +That puts the iron into them. I remember that I was whistling +‘Finnigan’s Wake’ when I knocked down Peter Morley, that had me up at +the police-court afterwards. Ye should have whistled, Harry!” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled at the idea of it, and for some while he would not talk +again. When he had rested himself and taken a drink of the stuff the +doctor man gave him—God send me good whisky in such a plight!—he +told me the rest of it. +</p> + +<p> +“They put a pistol into my hand, Paddy, and it felt just like an iron +bar. When I saw d’Alençon I wasn’t angry with him, but the devil on +two sticks could not have cut an uglier figure than he did. The man +was shooting fire already from his eyes—he couldn’t stand still a +minute, was here and there and everywhere, but always turning back to +look at me, as though he would tear my heart out——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye weren’t behind in that, Harry?” asks I. “Ye didn’t wish him the +top of the morning, or anything of that kind?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Paddy—but I was sorry to see him so angry. I had done him no +injury—what he has suffered—for I know Lea’s story—is in a measure, +his own fault. Perhaps I had been wiser never to see her at all—I +used to swear I would cut it every time I left her. If Paris were not +the smallest city in the world when you want to avoid anybody, I would +have kept my word. But I think she used to wait for me—hide where she +knew I would come, and make a fool of herself all the time. That’s why +the Captain looked like a human devil when he stood opposite to me +that morning. If he hadn’t hit me with his bullet, I believe he would +have used the butt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, and a man’s game, too, Harry. ’Tis one I would have had a hand in +myself—but you shouldn’t have missed him, boy—you used to be handy +with a pistol, and you shouldn’t have missed him.” +</p> + +<p> +He sighed a bit at this, and I saw that I had wounded his vanity. +Presently he said:— +</p> + +<p> +“I could have shot him dead, Paddy, if I had wished—but, you see, I +had Lea in my mind all the while, and I couldn’t be angry about it. It +is difficult to make you understand it, but when the Chevalier placed +us on the ground and put the pistol into my hand, I was half afraid to +look at my man at all, his eyes were so queer. I could think of +nothing else, Paddy. I didn’t remember that he might hit me; I forgot +the man altogether; the fight was between me and the ugliest pair of +eyes I have ever seen. When the word came to fire, I turned very +slowly and raised my pistol with a child’s arm—I couldn’t look the +Captain in the face, Paddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“And ye didn’t try to hit him at all, Harry? Will ye tell me that ye +let the blackguard go empty?” +</p> + +<p> +“I fired when the Chevalier spoke, but I took no aim, Paddy. The +Captain hung back and looked at me for some minutes before he shot me. +I remember that there is a little wall running at an angle behind the +corner of the wood, and over this I could see the river and a barge. A +woman was steering a great lumber boat, and crying out something to a +man on the towing path—and I kept asking myself when she would +disappear from my sight; if it would be instantly in a sudden +darkness; or slowly, as a picture fades from a sheet. When the crash +came it was just as though a man had hit me with a hammer and then put +a branding iron upon my shoulder. I forgot all about d’Alençon’s +trouble then, and if I had held another pistol in my hand I would have +shot him, rule or no rule. That’s the truth, Paddy; the pain maddened +me—I could have crushed his head in my hands, stamped him under +foot—I no longer cared—I was sorry that there had been no reason for +his challenge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shame on you for that. Please God, I’ll shoot him before the week is +out.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Paddy—I absolutely forbid you to do anything at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell ye I’ll shoot him—right or wrong, I’ll have a bang at him.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed—just the same boyish Harry Gastonard that won my love +twelve years ago at Charterhouse. +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll choose swords if you challenge him, Paddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then let him choose ’em and be hanged to him.” +</p> + +<p> +He was about to reply when the little witch that Greuze should have +painted came into the room again—and God forgive me, I told her that +he had not opened his lips since she went out. It was now almost time +for him to have his food—so I went up to my own room to write this +letter. +</p> + +<p> +Be easy, Clara. The Captain is not in Paris, and there’ll be no +fighting—unless he should return—but of that you shall be the first +to have the news. +</p> + +<p> +Would my sister have me stand by when my oldest friend is on his back +and the whole French nation dancing for joy of it? +</p> + +<p> +I’ll do no such thing—shame upon any O’Connell who would. So God +bless you, Clara—and more will I write when next I have a letter for +you.—Your affectionate brother, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Paddy</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch09"> +CHAPTER IX. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Being a further instalment of the Story from the pen of Paddy +O’Connell.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Hôtel St. Paul, Paris,<br> +June 30th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Clara,—I address this to you from the Hôtel St. Paul, but I +would have you to know that I am these two days at Poissy, which is a +riverside hamlet at the gates of Paris. Harry is here with me, looking +all his old self, and the little witch of a Greuze girl. We fish all +day and catch nothing, and at night we listen to the singing when +there is any. But, oh, my dear Clara, ’tis the oddest folk in the +world which comes to this place, and no people for the back +drawing-room at all. But that is between you and me, and need not be +told to our neighbours at Glendalough. +</p> + +<p> +Ye should know that the Seine winds about Paris, and is here a pretty +river enough, with a bit of a feathery island and an inn, to which the +Bohemians come when they are not playing at the theatres. Such a +company they are! The prettiest women of Paris, dressed in collars and +straw hats (and not always so much as that upon them), and the +drollest figures of men that I ever clapped eyes upon. They spend the +mornings upon the river bank or in their barges, fishing for gudgeons +which they do not catch; but in the afternoons they go off to make +love in the woods, and come back as brazen as the colleens from a +fair. In the evenings we have dinner and music; and pretty enough it +is to sit out in the moonlight and listen to these merry nightingales +when they are in the mood to amuse us. +</p> + +<p> +This is the outside of the platter, Clara; but the inside is not so +pleasing by a long way. For one thing, I have discovered that the +little simpleton Mimi is head over ears in love with my friend Harry, +and he is not far short of that with her. And if this was not the +worst of it, what should happen but that he had a visit last night +from the very last person in Paris who ought to be seen with him, and +she none other than the Captain’s wife, Lea d’Alençon. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, ’tis a pretty business entirely, and enough to drive a sane man +silly. I had believed that he was done with Madame Lea for good (as he +ought to be, for her folly has got him into trouble enough). The weeks +that have passed since the duel have hardly brought her name up +betwixt us. I said that she was back with her husband, who would learn +to treat her better; when what should happen but that she turns up at +dusk last night, in a fine automobile with a nigger man driving, and +is closeted a full hour with Harry to my certain knowledge. To say +that I was angry is but to express my feelings poorly. You will be my +judge in that. +</p> + +<p> +It would have been about eight when Lea came. Harry had gone up from +the boat to the hotel, and I was helping Mimi to carry up the tea +things, for we had been for a bit of a picnic, and a merry one, +forsooth. I saw the automobile and a veiled woman getting out of it; +but the child was the first to recognise Lea, and she had no pleasure +of the meeting, you may be sure. +</p> + +<p> +“That is Madame d’Alençon,” says she, as pale as a little ghost when +she said it. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame who?” asked I, not wishing to believe it. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame Lea,” cried she. “How could it be anyone else?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, come,” says I, “there’s more than one Madame whom he knows in +Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +She stamped her foot, just like a wild beast scenting its prey. +</p> + +<p> +“You know it is Madame d’Alençon, Mr. Paddy. Why do you not prevent +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Shall I bundle her into the car and send her back to Paris? +Pretty talk if I did that, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has come here to beg money of him, Mr. Paddy. You know she would +not come for anything else.” +</p> + +<p> +“What!” cried I. “Don’t you think she is in love with him?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed at this, long and drolly, the laugh of a woman who is +shaken by a passion she cannot express otherwise. +</p> + +<p> +“Love—love—oh, what is all this talk of love? Go to her and offer +money, and then come back and speak to me of love.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” says I, “ ’tis plain you will never be the friend of Madame +Lea, in spite of what she’s done for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Done for me, Mr. Paddy! Oh, yes, yes, yes—she tried to prevent me +seeing Monsieur Henry again. I remember that, and the English pension +where I was to be locked up and treated like a school-girl, that she +might be with him—her lover—while I was away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Her lover! I’ll not have Harry called that.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true, true,” she said, “and I—I am nothing when she is here. +Why did he call himself my friend at all? Why did he take me from the +Fête? I was happy then—yes, happy, Mr. Paddy. Why did he not leave +me where I was?” +</p> + +<p> +She turned away from me and sobbed just for all the world like a grown +woman who has come upon the supreme sorrow of her life. To be sure, +Clara, I was much taken aback, and hardly knew what to say to her. +Never until this moment had I understood how deeply she loved my +friend, Henry Gastonard; but here was all her love written down in +glittering tears which a child would have understood. No longer did I +doubt the story of her virtue in a society where virtue is never much +more than a jest. All that had happened up at the Butte and afterwards +at the Hôtel St. Paul became as clear as the day. Mimi the Simpleton +was ready to die for the devil-may-care English boy. I had guessed it +before, but to-day I was sure of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, come,” says I, “ ’tis hearts that are soon mended when two have +the will to do it—and, see here,” says I, “will ye be leaving him to +the black woman who will ruin him, or take a hand in that affair +yourself? Come up with me to the house now and hear what the lady has +to say. I’ll engage that neither of us will be behindhand in the +civilities—and, Mimi,” says I “ ’tis your duty to go up.” +</p> + +<p> +Well, she would not hear me, but went off in a tantrum down again +toward the river and the boat. When I entered the house I discovered +Harry to be closeted with Madame Lea in the little sitting-room upon +the first floor, and far from pleased she was to see me, as you will +imagine. A very beautiful, stately woman, as dark as the shadows upon +a crimson rose and as full of passion as a caged Spaniard. I observed +immediately that she had been telling the old story to my friend +Harry, and with no mean success; for he paced up and down like a wild +beast thinking of the country, and seemed to welcome my intrusion as +though a special providence had sent me to watch over him. +</p> + +<p> +“You know Madame Lea,” says he, with a wave of his hand toward her. +</p> + +<p> +“If I know her,” says I—and then, “I’ll take leave to ask a word +after Captain d’Alençon and his health.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed at this, saying something in French about “these droll +Irishmen;” but she did not inform me that the Captain was well, and, +be sure, I was over-anxious about him. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he in Paris, Madame?” I asked her. “ ’Twould be good news that he +was in Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur d’Alençon is at Chalons,” says she, blazing up suddenly; +“he has been transferred there at his own request.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then ’tis to Chalons that you’ll be going presently, Madame?” says I. +</p> + +<p> +She did not reply to this, while Harry looked as foolish as a man can +look when a woman has put a question to him and he has no mind to +answer it. For my part, I was never more at my ease, and I sat there +watching the fair-haired lad and the grown woman, and thinking that +but for my presence in that same hotel, she would carry him to Paris +with her for pity’s sake. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you fond of the fishing at Poissy, Madame?” I went on. “ ’Tis +little that they seem to catch here and a long while in the catching +of it. I have taken one gudgeon this day, and my friend two more—but +you will not have come here for the fishing, perhaps?”—I put it to +her. +</p> + +<p> +She answered me with a commonplace. Harry appeared to be greatly +troubled while I spoke, and presently he could stand it no longer. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame d’Alençon is in trouble,” he said, “I am sure you do not +understand that, Paddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“In trouble?” says I, “then that’s the worst news I’ve heard this day. +Would it be about the Captain’s going to Chalons?” +</p> + +<p> +“Captain d’Alençon has behaved like a blackguard, Paddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t doubt it. Let me meet him soon that I may tell him so.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has gone to Chalons and left this poor lady almost penniless.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then let her follow him immediately and see that someone else hears +of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“She cannot follow him, Paddy. You are talking nonsense. We must put +ourselves in her position and try to help her. I’m sure that there is +not a man in Paris, who would be readier to do so than my friend Paddy +O’Connell.” +</p> + +<p> +I answered this at once— +</p> + +<p> +“If it’s to me that she’s come for advice, why here I am as ready with +it as the best of them. For all that, her coming was an imprudence, +Harry, and she’ll allow me to say that she’d have done better to have +stayed away.” +</p> + +<p> +I said this in English, for I thought that she had no knowledge of a +Christian’s tongue—but here I must have been mistaken, for she blazed +up immediately, and said aloud that I had insulted her. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is this man?” she asked him. “Why do you permit him to say these +things? Is he your friend? No; a friend would not insult your friends. +I wish to speak to you alone, Harry—have I not the right to ask +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly you have, Lea—Paddy does not mean what he says. He will +understand everything better when I tell him about it afterwards. +Come, Paddy (this to me), now do be reasonable for once, and put your +philosophy in your pocket. I am sure you are very sorry for Madame +d’Alençon.” +</p> + +<p> +“So sorry,” says I, “that if I could meet the Captain this night, I’d +put him in the river to show the good opinion I have of him.” +</p> + +<p> +They laughed together at this, and then, to change a subject which was +not by way of being too delicate, Harry spoke of dinner, and the lady +was quick enough to say “yes.” No one in this country does much +without eating or drinking before and after they do it; and a better +ornament for a dinner-table than Lea d’Alençon you would not be +finding anywhere. She is a stately, vivacious lady, living chiefly for +the glory of showing herself to the gentlemen of Paris, and of making +love to such of them as captivate her fancy. Here, at this little inn +at Poissy, she cut a fine figure enough, and sat down to the table as +though she were a queen of a mountain kingdom come down from the +heights to dine with pigmies below. We sat and listened to her talk as +humble ministers to an acknowledged wit; all of us, that is, but +little Mimi the Simpleton, and she was silent enough but for one or +two words of repartee that by no means discredited her. +</p> + +<p> +’Twas as good as the leaping at the Horse Show, Clara, to watch the +woman and the child upon opposite sides of that table, and to see the +love that went flying between them. First, it would be Madame Lea +talking to Harry with the grand air of the woman who finds herself in +the nursery; then my little Mimi making such a grimace behind the +lady’s back that I must hold to the table with both hands to prevent +the explosion that was within me. When Lea asks her quite affably what +she came to Poissy to catch, Mimi answers as readily, “I came to catch +myself”—and when Madame went on to say “That is a new kind of +amusement”—says Mimi, “You are not too old to learn it.” None the +less, I knew the child was all on fire because Harry talked so much to +the other one, and I was not a bit surprised when she ran away to her +own room directly dinner was done, and refused to come near us for the +rest of the evening. +</p> + +<p> +This would have been about nine o’clock; Madame left us at a quarter +to eleven when Harry had told her for the twentieth time that he was +not returning to Paris, and that she must go back alone. I saw that +his refusal caused her much chagrin, but I will do him the credit to +say that it was just what I had expected of him. When she was gone, +and we sat together for a last pipe before turning in, he asked me +frankly what were his responsibilities toward this woman, and what he +ought to do for her. +</p> + +<p> +“The man has left her, you see,” says he; “he has made my friendship +for her the excuse, and gone off with himself to Chalons. None but a +jealous Frenchman would have planned quite such a devilish revenge as +that. He doesn’t divorce her, doesn’t talk of a separation; but he +leaves her in Paris without a sixpence, and then practises the +moralities. Confess, my dear Paddy, that there is something +particularly French and subtle in all this. Lea has been accustomed to +all the luxuries. She is a woman who cannot live without them. Poverty +to her is something beyond the bounds of imagination—a shadow-land +too woeful to contemplate. And now d’Alençon thrusts poverty on her. +He leaves her in a house of glass, whence she can see the pleasures to +which she is accustomed, but is forbidden to take part in them. Two or +three chosen servants are there to spy upon her. What alternative has +such a woman if it be not an alternative of dishonour?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye speak truly,” says I, “and yet, if I were asked to name the +biggest fool in Paris to-night, ’twould be this same Captain +d’Alençon. The man cannot see further than the end of his nose, and +that, I am sure, is no famous spectacle. Of course, he has no love for +the woman left, and may be trying to drive her to those devices which +he suspects, but cannot prove. Your own course is clear, Harry—you +may help her if you can help her honourably. But you’ll not see her +again, and you’ll deny yourself because you are a man of honour to +begin with, and a lover in the second place.” +</p> + +<p> +“A lover, Paddy? What do you mean by that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just as much as I say, and not a word more. You are in love with +little Mimi upstairs—I’d cry shame upon you if you were not.” +</p> + +<p> +He was taken aback at this, and did not answer me for quite a long +while. When he spoke, I knew that I had touched his heart-strings, and +that he would deny it no more. +</p> + +<p> +“If it’s true, Paddy, what then?” he put it to me. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” says I, “you’ll leave for London in three days’ time; get +honourable employment, which will save your fortune, and then come +back to Paris to marry her—she, meanwhile, having been at some good +school to soften the manners of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think they want softening, Paddy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure of it. Put all this talk of play-actresses and opera singers +out of your head and come down to the truth. Mimi will make you a good +wife… but you’ll have to teach her how.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’d never stop at any school, Paddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Try her and see; and, directly it’s done, go back to London and work +for your living.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” says he, rising abruptly, “it’s a fine old philosopher come out +of Ireland after all. Well, my boy, I’ll ask Mimi in the morning, and +hear what she has to say about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll not see the other woman again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not of my own volition, Paddy… upon my honour, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” says I, “and a fine old friend is that same volition when ye +begin to weigh it up and a pretty woman’s in the balance. But I’ll +take what I can get,” says I, “and be thankful it’s no less.” +</p> + +<p> +Upon which, Clara, we parted; but how the promise is to be carried +out, or what the future of such a man may be, God only knows. Now, at +the very minute of closing this letter, I learn that Mimi La Godiche +has left the hotel early this morning, and is nowhere to be found. +Such a thing was not wholly unexpected by me; but what it may mean to +my friend Harry Gastonard, I prefer not to think. +</p> + +<p> +Never was a man in such a state of misery and despair. I can do +nothing for him, say nothing, think of nothing. The child has gone, +and there’s an end of it. But God keep her wherever she may be is the +prayer of, your affectionate brother, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Paddy</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch10"> +CHAPTER X. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Henry Gastonard writes to Paddy O’Connell a letter concerning his +search for Mimi the Simpleton.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Hôtel St. Paul, Paris,<br> +July 15th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—The calamity of your sudden departure from Paris is in no +way mitigated by the sad news I have to tell you. Mimi is not found, +nor have I any clue to her whereabouts other than a pitiful little +letter from her, posted three days ago at Raincy, a suburb of Paris, +and evidently a sincere expression of her determination not to return +to me. +</p> + +<p> +That Lea d’Alençon is at the bottom of it all I have not the smallest +doubt. But there are subsidiary reasons, and one of them your own +frankness before Mimi concerning my fortune and my future. The idea +has come to her that I am lost if I remain in Paris. She is madly +jealous of the other woman, and would have me leave France that I may +also be quit of the fascinating Lea. Such is the truth, Paddy; such is +the naïve confession of one whom few would credit with so sure an +instinct or so faithful an affection. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, as I need not tell you, who stood by me during the dark of +the day, that my efforts to find her and to bring her back are +unceasing, and pursued with all the advantage my fortune can bestow. +Recently I revisited the old haunts at Neuilly, which we re-discovered +together before your sister’s unfortunate illness recalled you from +Paris. The quest of the lion-tamer, this horrible monster of a +Cassadore, was rewarded with success some days ago, when I found him +in a booth at Conflans, and was immediately admitted to his august +presence. But he knows nothing of Mimi, nor is it reasonable to +suppose that even her resolution would carry her again to scenes so +reminiscent of the phantoms of her childhood. +</p> + +<p> +I say that he knows nothing of Mimi, but this is not to believe that +he would not hear of her gladly, and press her joyfully to his grimy +bosom if any opportunity occurred. A truly heroic figure, vast and +proud and formidable, I found him in a wooden shed behind a crazy +circus, taking a <i>plat du jour</i> of black bread and ancient beef, and +making frequent applications to a green bottle which contained an +unknown but, I doubt not, potent liquor. Upon either side were lions, +which so delight the simple people of the fêtes and fairs about +Paris. They were shut off from the passage in which he sat by huge +beams of timber; but these stood so wide apart that a paw could pass +at half a dozen places—and you, Paddy, will understand how much I +enjoyed that interview. For there were lions at the front of me and +lions at the back of me, and, although some of them seemed half +asleep, there were others very wide awake indeed, and so playful that +I wonder I came away with any flesh upon my bones at all. +</p> + +<p> +We spoke between the roaring—no pleasant sound at any time, and +doubly fearful when you have a lion within a foot of you. I found +Cassadore quite frank, both about Mimi and his business. The lions, he +admitted, were half-drugged when he put them through their paces. It +was true that the great African brute Salambo had eaten his keeper, +“Sammy,” when he, Cassadore, was away in Paris; but, after all, you +cannot make Christians of lions by burning them with red-hot irons, +nor was the “Sammy” aforesaid quite sober when he entered the cage. In +a voice resounding with dramatic tones, the man described how he had +returned to find his servant eaten to the very neck—“mais, monsieur, +the eyes were wide open and staring, and the head was untouched.” +</p> + +<p> +Of Mimi the fellow told me much. He had bought her of an old woman at +Orleans. There was no other word for it. He saw the child capering +before a dirty home, and was struck by the readiness and the wit with +which she answered his questions. Assuming her to be a waif and stray +entrusted by callous parents to a mercenary hag, he made a bargain on +the spot, and took Mimi away with him. His further assurance that he +loved her as his own daughter, uttered between lengthy draughts from a +capacious bottle, carried less conviction than his story. He had, so +he said, spent large sums upon her education, and taught her himself +those charming accomplishments which she displayed at the many fêtes +her presence graced. Having in turn sold her to me (for it came to +that), he asked if I thought he had no sense of honour, no finer +feeling than to play the part of a mean kidnapper, taking young women +from respectable homes? This I answered immediately in the +negative—for who would contradict a showman with half a dozen lions +at his back! +</p> + +<p> +Admit, my dear Paddy, that this quest is not a little pitiful, when +you remember the object of it. Consider what my acquaintances would +say of me if they heard that my latest occupation is to search the +booths about Paris for a child who was capering with a tambourine a +few months ago, and may now be returned to that employment. With these +I myself should not argue. There is a day in every man’s life when he +must stand outside the world’s conventions, break with all common +tradition, and write the page of action for himself. Such a day is +mine—I am indifferent to all else but its issue. +</p> + +<p> +This spirit, my dear Paddy, is moving me to employ every agency money +can command for the recovery of little Mimi. I have just engaged the +services of Jules Farman, perhaps the cleverest officer in Paris +to-day, and he is with me in this quest. Our latest call was upon the +old woman Marie, who lives in a cottage upon the great high road +between Blois and Orleans. Here we gleaned but little. The child is +the natural daughter of persons unknown. She was left with a sum of +money, and a “mother’s care”—do not laugh, Paddy—was bestowed upon +her. Farman assured me that this hag would not help us, but on the day +following our return to Paris, he carried me suddenly to the suburb of +Raincy and declared that he had a clue. Mimi was travelling with a +rascally showman named Gondré. A hundred franc note would buy her +freedom—that freedom I would have paid not a hundred but ten thousand +francs to ensure. +</p> + +<p> +We left for Raincy early in the afternoon and visited the show as any +bumpkins ready to gape at aged Pantaloon, or to lay our offerings at +the feet of a rouged and battered Columbine. +</p> + +<p> +The tents were pitched in a clearing of the wood near the +village—half a dozen of them with sorry spavined hacks grazing round +about, and as fine a collection of rascality in charge as all France +could show you. I will not dwell upon the shame with which I +discovered myself seeking the child in these haunts. I am not easily +moved to excitements, Paddy, but when we approached this place and I +told myself that little Mimi had left me for such a life as this, that +I was about to re-discover her and take her to my house—be sure never +to leave it again—then, believe me, I lived one of the truest hours +of life that I have ever known. +</p> + +<p> +I say that we walked about the grounds as ordinary bumpkins, but, be +sure, our eyes were seeking Mimi everywhere, and the first +disappointments came when we discovered nothing whatever that would +justify Farman’s optimism. The man Gondré proved to be a veritable +clown of the vulgarest kind—a fellow of small physique, mean eyes and +jaded energies. He stood upon the platform of a booth supposed to +contain an angry panther, who shared a dinner with a white-haired +Circassian, and generally displayed tenderness towards her—but when +we paid our money and went in, we discovered the panther to be nothing +more than a German wolf-hound, while the white-haired Circassian was a +lady from the neighbourhood of la Galette, who had resorted with some +success to the potentialities of common washing soda. +</p> + +<p> +This did not surprise me, but I was disappointed to find that Farman +was well known to these people, and that I had done better to have +gone there alone. True, every door opened at his coming, but the +suspicion remained that these vulgar wits were being played against +his own, and that they understood perfectly well why he had come to +Raincy. +</p> + +<p> +From this moment I, myself, despaired of finding Mimi at all. Useless +for Farman to tell me that she was hidden somewhere in the +neighbourhood of the fête and that he would not leave without her. I +began to believe that our coming had been anticipated and Mimi +removed. It is true that a gleam of hope came to me after dinner, when +my friend asked me to go with him to a cottage a little way from the +town and did not hesitate to say that Mimi was there. The place proved +to be a tumble-down shanty in the very heart of the wood, a mere cabin +reeking of filthy odours and indescribably damp. Here we found the +fellow Gondré, and with him a handsome girl, sleek and dark-eyed and +of the gipsy blood. They received us civilly, and said that they +believed that the young woman was discovered and would be handed over +to us. I perceived nothing in their demeanour to awaken suspicion, and +for the first time I really dared to believe that Mimi was found. +</p> + +<p> +Farman, upon his part, took the affair a little cautiously. I think +that he feared something, both from the lonely situation of the house +and the known reputation of those who owned it. +</p> + +<p> +When Farman and I were left alone in the room, no light but that of a +coal fire in a broken grate, the doors closed, the silence of the wood +all about us, I detected a certain uneasiness, a readiness to set his +chair closer to mine and to feel for his revolver, which were some +comment upon the gallant reputation he bears in Paris. Unable to hold +his tongue, he recited in low tones the story of the man Gondré, his +known share in a recent story of crime, the assassinations, robberies +and assaults of which the law had failed to convict him—and, as +though this were not enough, he began to blame me for seeking Mimi at +all. +</p> + +<p> +“She has been bred to this life,” he said, “and nothing will wean her +from it. What can you hope—to make her your mistress? Believe me, she +would not live with you a month. Much better to leave her to these +people and return to London. If she goes with you to-night, she will +leave you again. I know her kind—there are ten thousand of them in +Paris, and not an honest one among them. You are risking your money, +perhaps your life, in this quest. Is the girl worth it, whatever her +looks?” +</p> + +<p> +It was difficult to answer this—for be sure the man had the logic of +the argument. I could not enter upon the discussion of my reasons, +most certainly could not confess to him the whole truth, that I would +sooner have parted with every shilling of my fortune than have +returned to Paris without Mimi. +</p> + +<p> +Happily the argument terminated before it had begun—I am quoting from +you, Paddy—by the sudden appearance in the room of the man Gondré, +the gipsy girl, and another young woman apparently of some twenty-five +years of age. +</p> + +<p> +I have told you that there was little light to speak of in this mean +hovel. A reddening fire, a guttering candle, showed me immediately +that the newcomer was not Mistress Mimi, nor did she resemble her in +any way. To be candid, the girl wore an odd and ungainly appearance, +and I had scarcely blurted out an impatient exclamation when Farman +laughed aloud and asked, not altogether to my astonishment, “Why did +you bring that boy here?” Then I perceived the truth—the so-called +girl was a young actor from a neighbouring booth, and he still wore +the clothes in which he had delighted the bumpkins of the country +side. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you bring that boy here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mais, monsieur, you are insulting us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you wish me to remember your history, Maître Gondré? Now, come, +no nonsense. Produce the child, and we will make it worth your while.” +</p> + +<p> +The question was direct and demanded an answer. I realised now the +dangers of our situation. These people understood that we had money +upon us to ransom Mimi if she could be found. They were determined +that we should not leave the cabin with that money upon us if any wit +of theirs, or violence, could extort it from us. To this end the young +actor had been called from a neighbouring booth. I had no doubt that +others were being summoned from other booths, and that our position +must soon become desperate. Meanwhile, the fellow Gondré was +protesting by the honour of all his ancestors that we had insulted +him, doing what he could to detain us and showing his hand most +impudently. +</p> + +<p> +“If this young woman is not the person you seek, I am sorry,” he +rejoined. “It is not my fault, monsieur. Admit that I have been ready +to oblige you. I am sure the young gentleman will wish to recompense +me for my trouble. Is it not so, monsieur—you will be ready to pay us +for what we have done and for any further information we can bring +you? Let that be understood, and I will undertake to find the girl +within a week. But naturally we are too poor to work for nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +I was about to make an answer to this when Farman stood up and replied +for me. I could see that the situation alarmed him, and that he was +employing all his wits to extricate us from it. Agreeing apparently +with the man Gondré’s contention, he said that he would speak to me +apart and then make them an offer. This, I think, deceived the company +for an instant, and before they had time to debate it, we were +standing outside in the wood and the door behind us was closed. +</p> + +<p> +“Run!” he said—“run—or, by God, they will murder us!” +</p> + +<p> +I did not ask him a single question, did not even care to know why a +man armed with such authority as he possessed should be in danger of +his life in such a place as the woods by Raincy. It was very late by +this time, and the thicket about us black, dark, and still. We took a +path at hazard, and, forcing our way through the brushwood would have +reached the town of Raincy itself and the railway station there, but +we had not gone fifty paces before the men were on our track, many +men, as it appeared by their shouting, and quite open in their pursuit +of us. I had a revolver with me, and I need not tell you that Farman +had his, but it became clear to me that these would be of little +service in such a place. When my companion pulled me from the path and +dived into a thicket at the edge of a considerable copse, I would not +have wagered a sovereign upon our chances, nor admitted any but the +seemingly inevitable conclusion to so sorry an adventure. +</p> + +<p> +We lay in the thicket for a couple of hours, I suppose. If the +ridiculous nature of the proceeding occurred to me, be sure I was not +willing to admit it. A man does many foolish things in the name of +woman, but is not often ready to write about them. And I do believe, +Paddy, that we came as near to being knocked on the head for a few +francs as any two men that ever set out upon a Quixotic errand and +forgot to count the cost of it. +</p> + +<p> +More than once I perceived the slouching figure of the man Gondré, as +he thrashed the undergrowth and exhorted his brother ruffians to +diligence. The youth who had disguised himself as a girl came into the +very place where we lay, and almost stepped upon Jules Farman. This +was the finest moment of it all, for, had he discovered us, Farman +would have shot him dead and the rest of the gang swarmed into the +copse in a moment. I think he was himself afraid of the darkness and +not unwilling to escape it. When he had gone, a voice from afar called +him to another covert, and we were left alone. +</p> + +<p> +I should tell you, Paddy, that all this happened at a distance, +perhaps, of a couple of miles from the town. Had we run for it in the +first instance, other showmen would have emerged from other booths and +reinforced the gang, who would have murdered us first and robbed us +afterwards as cheerfully as they would have gone to the tents to +exploit the “white panther” from the Indies. For this reason, and no +other, Jules Farman chose to go to ground, and I could not but admire +his prudence. When the immediate danger appeared to be abated, he led +me through the wood, not toward the town of Raincy itself, but to the +main eastern railway line, and there, by a stroke of good fortune, we +found a “marchandise” or goods train waiting at a signal cabin, and +instantly boarded it and were taken to Paris. It was five in the +morning when I made the Gare de l’Est—an hour later when I reached my +rooms in the Rue St. Paul and flung myself upon my bed as weary and +disappointed a man as any in Paris. +</p> + +<p> +For now it is clear to me that the quest of this child is vain, and +that she has determined to separate her lot from mine, cost her or me +what it may.—Dear Paddy, yours as ever, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Harry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch11"> +CHAPTER XI. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Henry Gastonard informs Paddy O’Connell of his probable return to +London.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +July 21st, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—I have received your letter dated July 18th, but I cannot +say that I have hastened to reply to it. This is very fit and proper, +for who would dare to reply in haste to a document which contains so +formidable an indictment. +</p> + +<p> +I am going to the devil, you say, and going, in motor parlance, upon +my fourth speed. The writing is upon the wall, but I have no eyes to +read it. A few brief months shall roll and then my inheritance pass to +the amiable parson at Beldon, and I become a beggar upon the +streets—or in the poorhouse, as the case may be. So be it, my dear +Paddy—for what is written is written, nor shall all the tears blot +out a single line. +</p> + +<p> +Consider the irony of it. I am to earn five hundred pounds a year by +my own labours. The fortune bequeathed to me by my dear father is not +to help that undertaking. Useless for me to go into the city, to +choose a Hebrew at hazard and to say to him, pay me five hundred per +annum and I will lend you twenty thousand. The Will forbids the trick. +The money must be earned by me, by my own labour and industry, or my +cousin must have my fortune. Poor devil, he wants it badly. I have not +the heart to begrudge him a single penny of it. +</p> + +<p> +But, Paddy, imagine your friend Henry Gastonard upon an office stool +or seeking half commissions in the purlieus of Throgmorton-street! Of +talents I have none. I could not earn a shilling by writing for the +newspapers, or persuade even an enthusiastic friend to set up a bust +of mine in any hall or cellar in Europe. The world has been to me a +pleasant place. I have drunk of the fountains of Bimini and quaffed +draughts of perpetual youth. To dress and drive, to dine, to dance, to +sing, to sleep—behold my curriculum! I can no more imagine life +without its music, its laughter, its love than I can depict the +Châtelet without its Zulema or the Athénée robbed of the art of +Mademoiselle Yalone. If I have lived in Paris among the Bohemians, it +is because they stand to me for the fullest impersonation of the <i>joie +de vivre</i>. I may sink to poverty, pass into the shadows of +obscurity—but to the degradation of the servile state, never, dear +Paddy, upon my honour. +</p> + +<p> +So your letter leaves behind it but the gratitude of a man who bends +to the truth but is obstinate to the fact. I am answering it by a +confession—and one which will not be very welcome to you. Yesterday +I saw our old friend Lea d’Alençon again and spent many hours in her +company. She is to be divorced, I understand, and Paris amused by a +pretty scandal. You know how little this concerns me. You will be very +sure that my meeting with her was accidental and that I forbore to +seek her out of my own volition—even as I promised you. +</p> + +<p> +Let me say that it began with a wild dinner given at Charine’s by that +mad voluptuary, Willy Martin, the American. I accepted his invitation +because Paris has bored me very much since Mimi went away, and there +are not enough decent people left in the whole city to keep a +reasonable man from suicide. +</p> + +<p> +We dined in a room set out to represent a cabin in the mountains. +There were back cloths of perpetual snow and cooling glaciers, distant +views of mountain peaks and wonderful pictures of impossible valleys. +The table was supposed to be a bank of the driven snow, above which a +cascade suspended its frozen waters. For partners of the feast, there +were handmaidens in dominoes—beautiful of course, because Willy +Martin declared them to be so. When I drew a paper from the basin and +discovered that my particular lot was to be cast with a green domino +of some magnificence, then I thought of St. Patrick and of you and +declared myself in luck. Alas, Paddy, I had not been two minutes at +the table when, despite her domino and a most excellent disguise, I +discovered that I had the amorous Lea for a companion and that the +drawing was entirely to her satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +It is some weeks, as you know, since I have seen this adorable +creature. To judge by her conversation, she has been on the verge of a +decline because of my neglect. Almost her first words destroyed that +fond illusion of her poverty which helped her to win my sympathies +when she visited me at Poissy. +</p> + +<p> +I no longer believe her story that d’Alençon left her without a +shilling, although it would appear to be true that his patience is +exhausted and that he is about to take a quite unusual step for a +Frenchman, and to divorce her. This, if the tongue of gossip has not +done her an injury (which is possible), he appears to have the right +to do; and yet it is delightful to hear her protesting her innocence +and declaring that all her fault is a love of the light and a positive +aversion from social darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall go and live in the East,” she said to me in a languorous +outburst, when the dinner was still young. “I must have sunshine and +music, Harry—all the sober things are hateful to me; I could never be +an obedient wife to any man. Of course, I am sorry for my husband. It +is the privilege of a woman to be sorry for the man she cannot love. +He married me—I did not marry him. What child in a convent ever +marries any man, or is to be held responsible for the womanhood which +comes to her afterwards. Marriage to me was a release from routine and +the lives of the Saints. I had learned to hate the Saints; I would +have kissed the feet of any man who closed that dreadful book to me. +And all the world was opening to my eyes, the great world, immense to +the childish imagination as the heavens, and as full of golden stars. +Do you wonder that I leaped for joy when they told me I was to be +married.” +</p> + +<p> +I had never heard Lea serious before; but I do believe she was serious +upon this occasion. My promise that if she went to the East she would +hear little even of the “tom-tom” in a harem, and find the prophet’s +limitations trying did not move her a hair’s-breadth. Had she not seen +“The Belle of Teheran” as they staged it at the Bouffes, and did not +that glittering spectacle of sequins and seraphs stand to her for the +whole glory of the Asiatic world? +</p> + +<p> +“You would be one of four, Lea,” I said to her, “an adorable quarter +of a gloomy <i>ménage</i>. It is true that you would be permitted to sleep +upon cushions, and to wash your hands in a fountain, but, my dear +lady, consider the <i>dernier cri</i> in turbans, and reflect. There is no +glamour of the East except in the West. Go to the Bouffes when the +floats are dark, and see what the scenery looks like. Does it remind +you of anything on earth which is not the apotheosis of the mean and +the shabby. To me the East stands for a kind of opera comique, which +is to be suffered only by those who view it from afar. I like to read +of pashas and pagodas, of temple bells and little Burmese maidens; but +when I am among them I think of the fleas. You, Lea, would be calling +for sweet scents and a passage home before you had been in the place +twenty-four hours. As for the aged Vizier who owned you, I doubt if he +would have a whisker left in a week. My compassion would go out to +him.” +</p> + +<p> +Well, Paddy, she refused to see it, and I perceived that for the +moment some wild scheme of romance is in her head, and may lead her to +new extravagances sufficiently wild and sufficiently foolish to +astonish this Paris which loves the bizarre and the daring. She is not +without rich relatives, and, as she told me to-night, there is an +uncle at Marseilles who is always ready to befriend her. Men are +sometimes very gentle toward a woman whose chief enemy is her own +beauty. Lea will find defenders, whatever may be charged against her; +and it would not astonish me in the least to hear that she had become +a queen of the colony at Cairo or a novice among the Benedictine nuns +at Subiacum. Nothing, indeed, would be too outrageous for the changing +dispositions of a woman who has drunk of the cup of satiety, and +already has found it bitter. +</p> + +<p> +Willy Martin’s dinner came to an end, I should tell you, in a blaze of +glory, which nearly set the restaurant on fire. A nymph, supposed to +be imprisoned in the ice, but really shut up in a glass case, danced +a wild <i>pas seul</i> upon the table, and overturned the candlesticks into +the lap of little Jane Merlot, from the Opera Comique. When her robe +caught fire—and she could ill spare it—the soda water was employed +to extinguish the flames—a bright idea, and one which set this +rollicking company to other notions not less brilliant. From this +moment, a battle of the corks took the place of that polite talk so +dear to our forefathers. +</p> + +<p> +I found myself at five o’clock of the morning upon the road to +Versailles in a forty-horse car driven by Lecallo, of the Opera. Lea, +in a green domino, soaked to the hems in aerated waters, was at my +side, and heaven alone knew whither we were going! As for Lecallo, he +drove like the devil possessed; and before I had quite realised the +absurdity of the venture, we stood at the door of the Hôtel de +France, at Chartres, and a pretty crowd of early birds were cheering +us to the echo. +</p> + +<p> +Such, my dear Paddy, was the first stage of an adventure as ludicrous +as it was lamentable. I give you my word that I would have paid a +hundred sovereigns at any moment of it to have been quit of the +predicament and safely back in my own room at the Hôtel St. Paul. +This sum I would have doubled when Lecallo, with intentions of the +loftiest kind, chose to drive his car on to Tours, and left me in the +Hôtel with one green domino and a crushed opera hat. Now, for a +truth, was my own position both perilous and impossible. It became +infinitely worse when Lea, disdaining all other arts, threw herself +upon her genius for romance and suggested an immediate journey to a +desert island where none should discover us. +</p> + +<p> +“What has Paris done for us?” she asked me dramatically. +</p> + +<p> +I answered that it had just given us an excellent dinner and a nymph +in a block of ice. +</p> + +<p> +“Be serious, my dear Harry,” she said; “did you not tell me last night +that you never wished to see Paris again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not until the morning, Lea. At night I never wish to see Paris again +until the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you jest when I am so much in earnest. Take me away, Harry, take +me from all temptation—to the sea, to the woods—anywhere, if I may +forget what has been, and learn to hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my dear Lea, does a pretty woman ever cease to hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“She ceases to hope when the man who should be her friend ceases to +remember. I have been telling myself for the last ten days that the +luckiest day of my life was the one which determined my husband to +divorce me. The supreme injustice demands the supreme sacrifice. I am +now going to blot out ten years of my life and start again from my +girlhood. I shall leave Paris, perhaps leave France. As I do not +intend to deceive myself, there will be no part for religion in this +reformation of a soul. I shall live as all the other good women about +me. Reputation will be nothing to me, for I shall have nothing to win +by reputation. Even my name will not betray me, for I shall be Madame +d’Alençon no more. This is my settled resolution. I am waiting to +hear how far you, the oldest of my friends, approve it.” +</p> + +<p> +This, my dear Paddy, was the astounding confession this romantic woman +now poured into my amazed ears. Whether to take it seriously, or to +believe it to be the natural sequel to a night of frivolity, I know no +more than the dead. +</p> + +<p> +For the moment I appeared to be confronted by a sudden purpose, and to +become aware of an aftermath to the harvests of folly. Lea, I said, +had wearied at last of all that Paris had to give her. Love, light, +laughter, music—these revolted her, and she would turn from them. It +might be possible that the tongue of slander had wholly maligned her, +and that at heart she was a virtuous woman, seeking something as yet +lacking to her life. Upon this I felt able to pronounce no settled +opinion. Has not old Georges Oleander written that the one riddle man +may never solve is the riddle of a woman’s confidence? +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want me to do, Lea?” I asked her baldly. “How can I help +this wonderful scheme of yours? Do you suggest that I buy a desert +island and a camping outfit for two? Or shall it be a caravan and a +month in the forests of Amboise? You have only to say the word.” +</p> + +<p> +Well, this pleased her immensely. She clapped her hands at the novelty +of the idea, and I could see that the “reformation of the soul” had +gone to the wall for the time being, at any rate. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like nothing so well,” she said. “A caravan in the +forest—how absolutely delightful. Did not the Chevalier Leblanc have +one last year? You remember—it was in all the papers. A motor +caravan—a little bedroom, a salon, and a kitchen behind it. My dear +Harry, you could not suggest anything I would like half so well. Let +us go back to Paris immediately, that I may order my dresses.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Lea, I don’t happen to own a caravan, and it would take some +months to build one. Besides, I made no promise to go with +you—certainly not alone.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at me amazed. Here was a thing that Lea d’Alençon could +not for a moment understand. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Harry, what do you mean? Shall we take a <i>sergent de ville</i> +with us, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Lea, consider our reputations. I grant you that this appearance +at Chartres is little to our credit, but, at the worst, we can blame +the car. I don’t think your friends would accept a similar excuse in +the case of a caravan. We could not say that we burst a tyre and were +detained for a whole month in the Forest of Amboise.” +</p> + +<p> +She was much piqued. Of course, she did not take my words literally, +but they were understood in some way as an anticipation of all she had +been leading up to, and a ready repudiation of it. Her reply intimated +this in plain terms, and also was very far from that flippant response +I had expected. +</p> + +<p> +“Are my friends’ opinions anything to me, Harry? Will they be anything +when I am a divorced woman? Is it really of no concern to you +whatever, what happens to me afterwards? I do not believe it. Honour +gives a woman claims which love may deny to her. Are you insensible to +them?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know that I am not, Lea. My friendship for you would do much, but +it would not do it upon a false compulsion of honour. The story of +your life is your own. It would be no kindness to make it mine, nor +should I permit you to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have never loved me, Harry.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have often said so, Lea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why do you not go away from me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I shall take you at your word—in a caravan.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed a little angrily. I could see that she was greatly +chagrined by our brief talk, but by no means ready to accept it as +final. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you leave me without a friend in Paris, Harry—must I think +that of you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know me better than to think it, Lea.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are telling me that you mean to go?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am answering you as you asked to be answered.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is the man—always—always—when the flower is cut from the +tree, it is already a dead flower to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not always, Lea. I have known him to keep it quite a long time—in a +book. But, of course, the particular man was very young. Now, here is +our breakfast coming. Is not that a subject more agreeable to you?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head, and would not admit the fact. The repast was the +dullest I have ever shared with the stately Lea, and even the purchase +of a respectable frock—the best that the city of Chartres could +discover—did not allay her gloom. In truth, my dear Paddy, she has +determined to marry me when her husband divorces her, and is dismayed +to discover that I am not as determined to marry her. For my part, I +know not what to think, and I am wondering if honour may not have +something to say to me after all. Certain it is that her husband’s +jealousy chose me before others for its subject, and chose me without +a shred of justice or reason. They say in Paris that there would have +been a reconciliation but for that mad journey of hers to Poissy and +the inn. You know how little I was responsible for that—you do not +need to be reminded of its circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +All that has happened to Lea d’Alençon has been of her own seeking. +For this reason my mood impels me to decline to respond to her +sentiment or to be deceived by it. Nor am I yet wholly convinced that +it is real. When we returned to Paris to-night, Lecallo having called +for us unexpectedly at five o’clock of the afternoon, the first decent +person we met, upon quitting the Bois de Boulogne, was the Count of +Marcy, just returned from Dieppe, and upon his way to the Engadine. He +greeted Lea rapturously, and immediately spoke of a little dinner at +the Ritz, and of another couple who were to dine there with him. She +accepted the invitation instantly, and quitted me to go and dress. It +is true that I promised to meet her to-morrow and to give her a “man’s +opinion” upon the whole situation; but that promise will not be +fulfilled. And it will not be fulfilled, Paddy, because Farman has +just brought me the precious news that Mimi has been traced to England +and is now engaged with a troupe of ragamuffins playing in the barns +and booths of my own country. +</p> + +<p> +So I go to London immediately. The decision is irrevocable. And it may +be that I have seen Lea d’Alençon for the last time. +</p> + +<p> +I will not say I wish it so, for I have called her my friend; but the +event might be better in the end for her and for—Yours in great good +hope, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Harry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch12"> +CHAPTER XII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Henry Gastonard tells of a visit to his cousin, the Rev. Arthur +Warrington, at Lowestoft.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Hotel Metropole, Lowestoft,<br> +July 31st, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—The late Douglas Jerrold remarked that he doted upon the +sea—from the beach. It seemed yesterday that the sea doted upon me +when it rolled me like a barrel in my bunk and moved me to appeal to +high heaven for immediate annihilation. The passage across was about +as dirty as a Channel passage can be—and that, as you know, you who +are fond of singing the glories of the deep (when you are on shore) is +a shade which blackest night cannot surpass. +</p> + +<p> +I made no stay in London save to dine and to sleep at the Carlton. The +hansom which drove me across Trafalgar Square showed me no amazing +novelty, nor was I long enough in the city to find the place much +changed. It is true that there is now a fine bit of life and colour +where once the dingy old Pavilion stood—for I visited the new +building after dinner—and Leicester Square seems less shabby than +formerly; but a man who comes over from Paris is rarely amazed by +anything that London can show him, and admits her later day claims +reluctantly. In one matter alone do I find a real advance, and that is +the newer hotels, which, I venture to think, are just about as good as +any in Europe. +</p> + +<p> +You did not answer my last letter—possibly because of your +indignation; it may be because of your want of interest. A man who is +playing golf by the seashore (for I am convinced you are there) cares +little for the fact that his neighbour is in a bunker, and less for +the means by which he may extract himself therefrom. Nor do I expect +the Paddy of old time to be changed very much from that Hector who has +washed his hands of me upon more than one occasion, and is quite ready +to do so again when my letters have made him angry enough. You think +that I am playing a fool’s game, Paddy, and your silence bears witness +to the fact. So be it—until we gather scalps together at Portmarnock, +and I play you for your boots, which, most likely, are unpaid for. +</p> + +<p> +You should know that Jules Farman’s information sent me to London, and +from London pell-mell to the East Coast of England, where I am to find +Mimi the Simpleton among a company of clowns, and to withdraw her +immediately from that humorous if unwashed society. If Farman is to be +believed, the girl left us deliberately at Poissy, met an old comrade +of the Fêtes upon the outskirts of Paris, joined his troupe +immediately; and having acquired the distinction of dancing a Spanish +dance which is not Spanish, and of playing upon a guitar which is no +guitar at all, set out with certain vagrants of the city to amuse the +desperadoes of the outskirts and their obliging families. +</p> + +<p> +This company appears to have prospered for a little while, and then to +have been drowned, partly by drink and partly by the winds of +adversity. It broke up at Rheims, sent straggling members on to +Brussels, there fell in with an Englishman of enterprise, was +re-organised by him and wafted over to our native country where upon +the sandy shore or the less accommodating shingle it amuses the +prosperous of suburbia and bears witness once more to the smallness of +this terrestrial globe and the fertile resource of its inhabitants. +</p> + +<p> +Admit with me, my dear Paddy, that there is something wonderfully fine +in this superb independence. Reflect upon the homes you know, the +motherhood there, the gregarious instincts of childhood, the bonds +binding even the most wretched—do this, and then put side by side +with it the life and actions of such a child as Mimi the Simpleton. +She has not known a home these many years. She cannot have the +remotest idea of the meaning of motherhood. The streets of a city have +taught her the great lessons of self-reliance and of self-help. She is +not afraid to be alone. All the terrors which inflict the man of +substance, bills payable and bills due, the rise or fall of values, +doubts concerning the future, the perils of ambition, the bitterness +of loss, these have no meaning for Mimi the Simpleton. Let the sun +shine and she will laugh. Give her bread and coffee and she has the +riches of Crœsus. Take her to a café, where the lights dance and the +fiddles are busy, and you are opening to her the floodgates of +Paradise. Fortune is powerless against armour such as this. What +matters it if the bread be lacking to-day—will not to-morrow be more +generous? Who shall complain that the sun sets in a cloud, when he +will rise in splendour at dawn? +</p> + +<p> +You may ask me, Paddy, how it comes to be, if this be Mimi’s creed of +life, that I would intrude upon it with a more exacting philosophy or +a friendship that is critical? I shall not attempt to answer these +questions. I am drawn to this child, I know not by what spell. It is +not love, as men commonly employ that word. I do not seek, be sure of +it, to put shame upon her, or to ask her to be the instrument of +passion. But she has become necessary to my life. The vagrancy of the +years has brought me to this, that there is just one other vagrant +upon the road with whom I would share the wigwam, just one other +little comrade who must help me to light the camp fire and to watch by +it when the sun has set. To this end I am pursuing Mimi upon this +Eastern strand. To this selfish purpose I am about to command that she +shall cast off the Spaniards and remember the lessons of yesterday. +She may refuse or she may consent—but I shall pursue the issue if +necessary through the years. +</p> + +<p> +Accompany me, then, to this “gay” resort; follow me to the sandy shore +of Lowestoft; but particularly, my dear Paddy, to the temporary home +of my cousin, Arthur Warrington, who is here as a <i>locum tenens</i>, and +has already fascinated a large number of females and a smaller (a much +smaller) number of pious males. Arthur, I must admit, was not as +pleased as he might have been to see me. The exclamation that he +uttered was not altogether ecclesiastical, nor do I choose to remember +it; but it did not imply welcome, not as you and I understand the +word. When he had recovered the shock, he confessed to me that he +believed me to be dying in Paris, and was naturally much relieved to +find that his alarms were groundless. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you wrote me to that effect, Arthur,” said I. “If I did not +reply to your letter, pray forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” says he, blushing to the roots of his beautiful auburn hair, “I +do not think that I wrote, Henry—I had not your address—but we were +both distressed, greatly distressed, I will say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said I, “you seem to have been worrying, Arthur—but say no +more about it; for here I am as sound as a smacksman and as hungry. +What’s more, I have come to stop with you for a week or two if you +will have me, which, if I remember your invitations correctly, is a +pleasure you have been looking forward to for a long time. Now, isn’t +it, Arthur? or am I mistaken?” +</p> + +<p> +Well, he stammered and stuttered again, and was in the middle of a +parable about the green room and the pink room, when in comes cousin +Martha, who is one of the jolliest little women in Suffolk and as +clever a flirt as ever was yoked to a parson’s cassock. Be sure Martha +had her lord and master down in a minute and was trampling upon him in +two. What! to turn their own flesh and blood into the streets—who +ever heard of such a thing! Of course I must stay with them. And +wouldn’t I be useful, too! She thought of that in a minute. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know we’re to have a Pageant here,” says she, “of course +you paj, Henry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” said I, “anything that you tell me to do is done +immediately, Martha. Shall we paj now or await a more solitary +occasion?” +</p> + +<p> +She expressed some confusion at this, and hastened to explain that +they were about to have a Pageant at Lowestoft in which they would +celebrate the early arrival of the Danes in England and the glorious +victories of Queen Boadicea. There were to be real Norsemen and real +ships—to say nothing of bloody fights on the foreshore and the +gathering of the clans upon such heights as this land of marsh and +marigolds can command. +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur is to be a monk,” says she. “Of course he will be a Protestant +monk, but he will wear sandals and shave his hair. I am to play a +British maiden, Harry. I shall wear a bearskin upon my shoulders and +dye my hair red—now don’t you think it will look beautiful?” +</p> + +<p> +I assured her that nothing could be finer; and “as for the reputation +of the late Mrs. Astley of glorious memory, whose hair was to be +wrapped about her feet whenever she stooped to the earth to do it, +that,” said I, “is already perished.” +</p> + +<p> +This flattery was by no means unwelcome to cousin Martha. She told me +that they were having great trouble with the townsfolk, who had +entered into the fray almost with too much spirit—especially a local +vendor of wines, who wanted to play a modern monk Roger and to roll +kegs of beer down the hills to the sea. There were many candidates, I +discovered, for the maidens’ parts, especially such maidens as were to +be carried in the arms of the barbarians. Not less popular was the +office of Druid, who would cut the mistletoe provided by the Army and +Navy Stores and generally conduct the sacred rites as tradition and +Christmas have sanctioned them. +</p> + +<p> +“And what do you do, Arthur?” I asked the parson, “and what, if you +please, is a Protestant monk? Forgive the ignorance which remembers so +little history. Of course it is a showy part, or they would not have +asked you to play it. You were always a bit of an actor, weren’t you, +cousin? Don’t you remember when you came out to us at Bordeaux, that +little Mademoiselle Charcot who——” +</p> + +<p> +He exclaimed, “Hush, hush!”—it is astonishing how rarely a cleric is +tolerant of reminiscences—and when my cousin little Martha implored +me to tell her the whole story, Arthur silenced her immediately by an +answer to my previous question. +</p> + +<p> +“A Protestant monk is one who carried the evangels before the days of +the Papacy——” +</p> + +<p> +“Then against what did he protest, Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Against the pagan intolerance of his day—just as we protest in our +own time against the pagan intolerance of the social world. I intend +to show the people that their vices are not changed from those of +fifteen hundred years ago——” +</p> + +<p> +“What a lively business. Do you have a band?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not seemly to jest upon such a subject, Henry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I know it—pray forgive me. Of course you are quite right. The +old gods are far from done with yet. Venus, I think, still gets an +engagement occasionally, and Janus is often looked in the face by the +morning papers. I admit that there is still something to be said for +bearskins, while caves should be a godsend to the man who has just +come down from Carey-street. Why don’t some of you parsons set us an +example? Sell that thou hast—especially your brewery shares, +Arthur—and live in a cave. I’ll bet you what you like that cousin +Martha in a bearskin would fill your church every Sunday though half +the bishops in England were at the shop opposite.” +</p> + +<p> +“The shop, Henry! Has Paris taught you to call a church a shop?” +</p> + +<p> +“In Paris, my dear Arthur, there are no monks. The Government has done +the protesting.” +</p> + +<p> +“For the good of France, undoubtedly. The pure religion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your religion, Arthur—but look here, I’m not out for a theological +argument. Let us talk of the Pageant. What does Martha suggest that I +should play?” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you like to be a knight in armour, Harry, and buy your own +armour?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a generous proposal, Martha. Did knights in armour come over +with the Danes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dear, no—I had forgotten that. Suppose you were a Norseman with +beautiful long hair——” +</p> + +<p> +“To match yours, Martha? Arthur wouldn’t like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“But a Norseman was such a splendid creature. You would have to speak +in a guttural voice, Harry, and carry a scimitar.” +</p> + +<p> +“It sounds well, Martha; but I should prefer the cellarer’s part. I +could look after the wine vats very well. If that’s not it, how would +you like me to play Henry the Eighth on the Field of the Cloth of +Gold? I could get the costumes from Fox’s; and I tell you what, if you +want any humour, I’ll drive on to the course in my motor car.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur raised his eyes to heaven at this, while Martha seemed not a +little affronted. They were both very serious about this business, +poor dears, and not a little concerned for its success. To pacify +them, I fell in with the Norseman idea, and then sat down to tea. +</p> + +<p> +You can have no idea, Paddy, of the meaning of these pageants to +country towns, or of the enthusiasm they excite. People are in and out +of this house every ten minutes to consult the “Master.” Young girls, +who would have blushed to show their ankles yesterday, are popping +themselves in skins and sandals with the glee of children. There is an +eloquent Free Church Minister staying here who preaches twice every +quarter against the theatre, and is now about to appear as a Druid +priest with a sickle. He rehearses his part like any actor at the +Haymarket. Frivolity is immediately resented. When I suggested that a +fleet of motor-boats should bring the Norseman to the shore, just to +contrast the old ideas with the new, shocked looks met me, and an open +protest. The most trivial mistake costs its maker a reproof. I have +just heard Arthur deliver a sound rating to a wretched tailor who +thought that a Dane might very well carry a musket, and produced one +left to him by his great-grandfather. The majesty of the Pageant +brooks no levity. +</p> + +<p> +It will be apparent to you that I had little opportunity for any +really private talk with my beloved cousin during these first days of +my arrival, nor does there appear any possibility of my finding one +until this mummery is over. For that matter, I am very doubtful of the +utility of such a proceeding, nor do I think that I shall profit by +it. A sportsman would consent to my plan immediately; but Arthur is +not a sportsman. I shall propose to him that we divide the +inheritance, and have done with it; but I know from the outset he will +find some shifty plea upon which he may excuse himself. If he does, I +am what the world calls a ruined man—which is to say, Paddy, that I +must work for my bread like any other decent fellow, and not complain +if the loaf is yesterday’s. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes I admit that the change will be stupendous. I have wanted +for nothing, as you know, since I was a little child. My poor father +indulged me in every way, so that now, at the mature age of +twenty-four, I am as blasé as many a man of forty. All that any sane +bachelor can need is to be purchased by seven thousand pounds a year. +I can run a motor-car, keep a small sailing yacht, hire a shoot, +travel. I need no house, for the finest hotels are open to me, with +all their luxuries. From that to abject poverty is to be a swift +descent. Paddy, I shall have a subsistence, but nothing more. The rest +will go to dear cousin Arthur—to the glory of God and the purchase of +a manor-house he has his eye upon. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, there is always Mimi. Would she come to me, I wonder, if I +were poor? It might be so; in which case one of the Beatitudes would +again be justified, and Harry Gastonard awakened in an instant from +his lethargy. I shall ask her this question when I find her—to-night +or to-morrow, as the case may be, Paddy. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, waft me your blessing across the emerald seas, and find me, +as always, Your friend, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Harry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch13"> +CHAPTER XIII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[The Reverend Arthur Warrington writes in all haste to his Solicitor, +Mr. James Frogg, of Serjeant’s Inn, Strand.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +St. Philip’s, Lowestoft,<br> +Feast of St. Alphonsus. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +James Frogg, Esq. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Mr. Frogg,—I am writing in much haste to inform you that my +cousin, Henry Gastonard, has returned from Paris, and has had the +effrontery to come here. +</p> + +<p> +I trust I am not lacking in charity, nor harder than my fellows, but +the life this young man has led in Paris makes him no fit companion +for my wife, who, I regret to say, appears to have taken a fancy to +him, and insists upon his remaining with us. +</p> + +<p> +I write, therefore, to ask you if this will imperil in any way my +hopes under the will of Martha’s uncle; are we doing right to have +Henry here, and is there any possibility of the judges construing this +as a consent upon my part to any division of the valuable property? +Please inform me at once that I may convince Mrs. Warrington of her +folly, and put an end to this foolish infatuation.—Dear Mr. Frogg, +yours very faithfully, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Arthur Warrington</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch14"> +CHAPTER XIV. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Paddy O’Connell apologises for his silence.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The Dormy House, Portmarnock,<br> +August 3d, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Harry,—I should have told you before that you did wisely to +leave Paris, and, please God, to see that “iligant faymale” no more. +’Tis many a man that goes to the devil when he might have gone any +other road for the asking of a cheap ticket—and you, I am glad to +see, are now restored to your senses and safely back in the land of +the Sassenach, where I wish you much prosperity. You have wits of your +own, man, and a lively presence. Let me implore you to use them in +some honorable occupation, if it is only to spite that long-legged +beggar of a parson, who would drive the very saints out of heaven +should he by any chance arrive in the neighbourhood of that highly +praised locality. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Harry, I am waiting for your news of Mimi. What a droll +little witch she was to be sure—and, man, ’tis lucky for ye that I am +your friend, or the Lord knows where she would have landed me. Seek +her out by all means and restore her to civilisation. Ye’ll never need +to be ashamed of her in any company. There are women who are born to +be the light of men’s lives; and if ever I saw one of the kind, the +little lady whom Greuze should have painted is one of the company. +Find her, I say, and play a gentleman’s part towards her. You’ll never +regret it, my boy. +</p> + +<p> +I am writing you but a brief letter, for the golfers here have been +playing games upon this old bird and ruffling his plumage excessively. +Yesterday, young Willie Jackson made me a bet of a sovereign that he’d +drive a ball off the face of his watch, and I took him immediately. +Well, he goes out to the tee as cool as a martyr at the stake, pops +his watch down on the sand, sticks a ball on the top of it, and +smashes the whole lot to blazes. You could have heard me laughing two +holes off as I paid the money and chaffed him. +</p> + +<p> +“ ’Tis to the watchmaker ye’ll be taking that same,” says I, “and +asking him what’s wrong with the works?”—for there wasn’t a ha’p’orth +of the watch left, not enough to put in a teaspoon. To which he +answered, as impudent as anything: +</p> + +<p> +“I think not, Paddy; it was a penny watch I bought in Dublin three +days ago.” +</p> + +<p> +Ye may think that I didn’t show my nose in the club-house any more +that day, Henry. And, as if this wasn’t enough, young Philpots +persuaded me to play him with one of those pneumatic balls to-day, and +a fine game he had with me. The harder I hit it—and you know that +driving is my pride, being able to outdrive any man in Ireland when I +hit one—the harder I hit it the shorter, so to speak, it went, until +some of my finest brassies weren’t travelling twenty yards, and my +cleeks not ten. +</p> + +<p> +“Be hanged to the ball!” says I at last, “I believe it’s bewitched.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, come,” says young Philpots, “nothing of the kind Paddy; ’tis your +precious bad driving. Now, what did you drink with your dinner last +night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not more than half a pint of whisky, and perhaps not so much.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then your eyesight must be going, Paddy. I’d see a doctor if I were +you when I got back to town.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no better eyes in Ireland,” says I; and I picked the ball up +and put it in my pocket. After that I knocked young Philpots all to +blazes, so I knew it was the ball, and would have said so if the +Archangel Gabriel himself had come along and denied me. When I got +back to the club-house, I took young Martin, the pro., aside, and +asked him a few questions. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did ye sell me such a thing of a ball as that, Martin?” I asked +him. +</p> + +<p> +He professed great astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nay a better baa’ made,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +“Will ye play a round with it yourself, Martin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, when there’s wind in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wind!” cried I, beginning to understand. +</p> + +<p> +“True,” says he, “when there’s wind in it; but no’ when a gentleman +has pricked her wi’ a needle before the other gentleman ganged oot.” +</p> + +<p> +Henry—I saw it in a moment! That young devil of a Philpots had let +all the air out of the ball before I began to play with it. The +story’s all over the place—I’ll never show my face here for a month, +unless it be to pull the noses of the pair of them for the pleasure of +saying good-bye to such jovial companions. My dear Harry, yours as of +old, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Paddy O’Connell</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch15"> +CHAPTER XV. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[“The Chimes” at Yarmouth, and what Henry Gastonard learned of them.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The New Vicarage, Lowestoft,<br> +August 6th, 1905. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Dear Paddy,—Byron told us that: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Christians have burned each other, quite persuaded;</span><br> +<span class="i0">That all the Apostles would have done as they did.”</span> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +I am not quite sure that my dear cousin, Arthur, would not put me +immediately to the stake were it not for this worldly little wife of +his, who leaps through the hoop of his philosophy like a clown at the +circus, and is never so pleased as when her antics move him to +paroxysms of jealousy. +</p> + +<p> +Let me, none the less, postpone for the moment a narration of this +particular tragedy, and thank you for your letter. I am sorry to hear +that they let the wind out of your pneumatic golf ball, and so +provoked you to expressions not found in the catechism—but, my dear +Paddy, is not half the world flogging balls so treated, and are not +the fortunate few those who can command a superfluity of that +necessary gas by which mankind achieves success? +</p> + +<p> +I give you this for consolation. Would to heaven you could console me +as effectually. For, to be candid, Paddy, I am as hard driven by my +doubts as ever a man was in this world. Yesterday I saw Mimi for the +second time. My first visit was paid to her almost immediately after I +had written to you; and a sorry enough pilgrimage it was, so full of +drab shades and mournful harmonies that I write of it with reluctance, +and do not speak of it at all. +</p> + +<p> +Recollect that I had traced the child to the old town of Yarmouth, and +was determined to seek her there. Of course, my car is here, and +serves me well at these times. A fast journey in the famous “forty,” +which has carried us together upon many a merry venture, brought me to +that fishing village they call Gorleston; then to an even more crabbed +street—the main thoroughfare of Yarmouth to wit. I know nothing of +these places, but the approach to them depressed me greatly, and left +me but ill prepared for the really superb sea-front which a side +street of Yarmouth presently disclosed to me. +</p> + +<p> +It is inconceivable, Paddy, that such a parade as this should be so +little known to the children of civilisation. Depict a wonderful +strand of the purest golden sand, a gentle sea with many ships in a +narrow street, a wide thoroughfare abutting upon the promenade, and a +mile of houses as a background to it all. Do this, I say, and you will +still have the poorest idea of Yarmouth—for its glory lies in the +booths they have erected upon the sand, and in its entertainments, its +wide piers, its floral halls, its orderly gardens, and superabundant +bandstands. Such a city upon a seashore I have never seen in all my +life. I drove my car to a decent hotel on the front, and I descended +presently, feeling as lost as an African set down suddenly at +Ludgate-circus. +</p> + +<p> +This would have been about a quarter to eight o’clock of a splendid +summer evening. Thousands of lights were now blazing upon the +promenade, lights large and small, and of all the hues of the rainbow. +Turn your ears where you would, music pleased or offended them. And +what music, Paddy!—now that of a fine military band, again of a +hurdy-gurdy, and upon that the tinny notes of a worn piano, +laboriously thumped by some child of the academies. Nor was this +sufficient, for youths passed raving of Jenny or Sarah, and here and +there a woman screeched some incoherent lines which the music-hall or +the sea beach had taught her. +</p> + +<p> +I crossed the street, and ventured upon the golden sands. The +barbarity of the scene impressed me strangely. That such an artist, +such a born child of all that is really the fruit of genius as Mimi +the Simpleton, should have sunk to this, inflicted me with an +intolerable melancholy which nothing could relieve. +</p> + +<p> +Here, Paddy, here I must find Mimi the Simpleton. To this <i>ultima +thule</i> some inspiration of the nomad’s life had wafted her. You can +have little idea of the emotions which followed me to the quest of her +as I threaded the human lanes, and would have closed my ears to their +voices, but could not. +</p> + +<p> +But I will not weary you with a recital to so little purpose. Let it +be sufficient to say that when I discovered Mimi at last, it was not +upon the lower sands where the meaner booths are set, but in a +considerable wooden structure built almost against the promenade, and +promising at least a better atmosphere and a better company. +</p> + +<p> +Here a bill at the door informed that “The Chimes” were performing, +and that for the inconsiderable sum of sixpence I might be privileged +to hear the famous singer Wat Urling in his famous song “Bonny Bill,” +and also to witness the gyrations of the Spanish dancer “Alphonsine.” +Other lines accorded notoriety to a certain Jack Bendall, and to a +person by the name of Bertie Idden, who, it appears, had played the +banjo before the crowned heads of Europe, and was still alive to tell +the tale. These promises I read swiftly, and, paying a shilling for +the front row, I passed into the place, and saw Mimi again. +</p> + +<p> +It was a quaint scene, Paddy. Some fifty square yards were fenced in +by a wooden awning and provided with benches and garden-seats. The +platform at the further end had a torn Union Jack for its emblem, and +a Spanish flag to cross it. Here stood a piano, and two or three +chairs for the performers, of whom there appeared to be five, +including the lady accompanist. All were dressed in quasi-Pierrot +costumes of black and yellow; and Mimi, I observed, wore precisely +similar garments to the men. +</p> + +<p> +As to the entertainment, it consisted of a part-song sung in three +keys and wofully discordant; but Mimi left the group at the end of it, +and returned shortly afterwards in a black spangled dress and a quiet, +respectable mantilla. +</p> + +<p> +I took my seat in a garden-chair to the left of the stage, and watched +the child closely. She had not seen me, and I perceived that her whole +soul went out to this business of the dancing. Perhaps it stood to her +for a reflex of Paris in a dismal land. I can imagine her recalling +the balls of the Butte—all the familiar faces of the Quat-Z-Arts—and +believing for the time being that the music was made by Jean Delmas, +and that Chardibert was her partner in the dance. She had no talent +for such a class of entertainment—so much I confess at once. Her +dancing was spirited, but inelegant; she threw herself about with the +uncouth gestures of a child at play. When she sang, it was not in +Spanish, but in that argot of the atelier, which even a Frenchman in +the audience might not have understood. But I understood it, Paddy; +and, as though she were speaking to me alone of all the company, I +watched her intently until her eye caught mine, and she ceased to +dance as suddenly as though a strong man held her ankles to the floor. +</p> + +<p> +This was for the merest fraction of a minute. A seedy individual in a +long grey overcoat—or rather, an overcoat which had once been +grey—strode forward from his nook behind the piano and addressed her +in rough tones. She answered him with a nod, and continued to dance +immediately, which provoked a whole torrent of bad language, and a +subsequent draught from a substantial flask when the back of the piano +somewhat hid the man from the audience. Mimi, upon her part, now +danced on as though she had never seen me at all. I did not catch her +eye again, not once, until the entertainment was done and the people +had quitted the enclosure. +</p> + +<p> +Be sure, however, that I had no intention of leaving without seeing +her. That would have been a folly surpassing all. No sooner was the +crowd departed than I walked up to the platform and spoke to her in +the French she understood so well. +</p> + +<p> +“Bon soir, Mimi. Shall we go and fish for gudgeons at the Châtelet?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ah, mes enfants</i>—it is Monsieur Henry who has come back.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you doing in this place, Mimi?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am dancing, Monsieur Henry.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see perfectly well; but you are tired of dancing, and are now going +to return to Paris with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is impossible, Monsieur Henry. I have not got a boat.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I shall buy one. Go and tell these gentlemen that you can dance +no more for them. I shall wait until you have done so.” +</p> + +<p> +She shrugged her shoulders defiantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Does Madame d’Alençon send you here, Monsieur Henry?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you when you have spoken to your friends.” +</p> + +<p> +She was about to answer me when the greasy man stepped forward and +intervened. He spoke in the jargon of the music halls. +</p> + +<p> +“ ’Ere,” he said, cocking a vile cigar in the corner of a huge mouth, +“and what’s all this?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have come to take this young lady to her friends,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Ho,” cried he, “and ’ave you? Well, a bloomin’ long journey that’s +going to be. ’Ere, you clear out of this—we don’t ’ave none of your +sort ’ere.” +</p> + +<p> +I stepped up upon the platform and looked him squarely in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“My man,” said I, “by whose authority did you take this girl from her +home, and when will you show it to the police?” +</p> + +<p> +He turned a little pale, and took his cigar from his mouth hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that to you?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It is everything to me,” said I, “as you will presently discover.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she ’ere against ’er will, then? Arst ’er yourself. Ain’t I givin’ +’er advantages? Who says I took ’er from ’er friends—who says it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I say it, and presently will prove it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you do, do yer? Well, my name’s Jack Bendall, and my ’ome’s the +Pav. at Ealing. Now go and prove it—let me see you do it. Why, half +the profession will answer for my character. Who’s going to answer for +yours—and who the deuce are you, all said and done?” +</p> + +<p> +He did not wait for me to answer, but called Mimi up to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know this man?” he asked her. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Monsieur; that is Monsieur Henry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is ’e related to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is one of my friends—I knew him in Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“A—student, I suppose. Just as I thought. Well, now ’e’s going out of +’ere, and right sharp, too.” +</p> + +<p> +Imagine the fellow’s impudence, Paddy. He strode up to me in a +threatening attitude and laid his hand upon my collar; but not a +second time, for I tripped him before you could count two, and threw +him headlong down among his own stalls. +</p> + +<p> +“Hands off,” I said when he had picked himself up, “and learn to +behave yourself. I am now going to the police station. You can follow +me there if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +I did not wait a moment longer, but marched from the place—Mimi +watching me with wide-open eyes, another woman snivelling on the bosom +of her “poor Jack,” and that worthy himself close upon my heels. As it +turned out, my car stood within twenty yards of the place, and the +sight of it with the great flaming headlamps and the gaping crowd +about it sobered the clown immediately. He pushed up to me with a +sidling gesture and spoke his first civil word. +</p> + +<p> +“No offence meant, guv’nor. Gawd witness I never ’armed the girl. +Don’t be ’asty like. So help me ’eaven, my own daughter ain’t been +treated better. Now, what’s it all about—you ain’t going to do +nothink imprudent, guv’nor?” +</p> + +<p> +I turned upon him and took him at his word. After all, I had no case +for a police-court, and he might have beaten me hollow there. It was +prudent to temporise, and I did not lose the opportunity. +</p> + +<p> +“I am the guardian of this child,” said I. “Your honesty is not at +stake if you listen to reason. I don’t hold you responsible for her +appearance here, but I must speak to her immediately. Show me where +that can be done, and we may settle the affair yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“If that’s all, guv’nor, you can speak to ’er in the show and welcome. +I didn’t know I was talking to a gent like you—though. Gawd’s truth, +I’d pay a fiver to learn that fall.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” says I, showing him a five-pound note, “no need to try it a +second time. Take the company out and give them supper at my expense. +I suppose that’s your last show to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +“The last’s at half-past nine. You can ’ave twenty minutes with her. +She said her name was Mimi Oliver and that she came from Bordeaux. Is +it the truth, guv’nor, or a lie?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a lie,” said I. “She left my house in Paris to go to you. Now +leave us together, please; I have much to say to her.” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded assent, and I went up to the platform again. The show was +quite deserted by this time, and the performers made a hasty supper in +the corner over by the piano. As for Mimi, she sat upon a bench a +little way from the others, dressed in her spangles and wearing that +pretty smile I have never yet been able to fathom as long as I have +known her. Whether she was pleased by my return, or still angry, I +cannot say. But I went up and sat beside her; and then I knew, Paddy, +that nothing but her courage kept her from weeping. +</p> + +<p> +Of this interview, with its new issue, of all that she confessed to +me, and of my plans for her, a letter to-morrow must tell you. I am +but just in time to catch the post, and, to be plain with you, old +friend, my heart is full of a sadness I cannot define and would write +of to no other. The memory of this interview recalls it powerfully. +Let me then sleep upon it all—and bidding you a hearty good night, +remain—My dear Paddy, your friend, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Harry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch16"> +CHAPTER XVI. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Henry Gastonard gives a further account of his meeting with Mimi the +Simpleton.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The New Vicarage, Lowestoft,<br> +August 8th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—I was too seedy to write to you yesterday, nor did my +good cousin’s chatter concerning the things of this world help me to +get better. Arthur is the kind of man who buys in an earthly market +and would realise in a celestial. He began to talk of motor securities +this morning, and did not cease until he was called to the church for +Litany—but he went with thunder on his brow, for little Martha +insisted on shewing me the greenhouses meanwhile, and the man is as +jealous as Othello. +</p> + +<p> +You will readily imagine that I linger in this house chiefly for the +comedy of it. I believe that Arthur would have told me to go this +morning if pretty Martha had not cut in before him. “Arthur is so +delighted to have you here,” says she, looking hard at him across the +table, “there are so few educated folk in these parts that it is a +real kindness for any friend to come and see him.” You should have +seen the black looks he cast back at her. I do believe the poor man +nearly choked himself with the toast he was eating. +</p> + +<p> +I shall go over to the hotel at Yarmouth to-morrow, Paddy—later on, +perhaps, from there to Cromer, where Mimi goes with the troupe. So +much tells you in a word that I have not persuaded her to quit the +gentleman of the cockney accent, or to forsake the delights of posing +before an ignorant multitude as the Señorita Alphonsine. What is in +her mind I do not know for any certainty. She understands, she must +understand, that I have no interest in Lea d’Alençon, and never had. +But a jealous woman, more especially when the Butte has taught her to +be jealous, is one of the most incomprehensible of all mysteries, and +such, I begin to fear, will our little friend Mimi remain. +</p> + +<p> +I talked to her very frankly the other evening, perhaps as frankly as +ever I spoke to her in all my life. +</p> + +<p> +“You left me at Poissy because Madame Lea came there,” I said—and +then I asked her—“Was that just, Mimi? Could I prevent her coming?” +</p> + +<p> +To which she answered: +</p> + +<p> +“You could have prevented it, Monsieur Henry. No woman goes to a man +who does not wish to see her—she writes to him.” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed at this. How like the Mimi of la Galette. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, old Georges Oleander taught you to say that. I remember it +was one of his great, also foolish, sayings. Those were famous days, +Mimi. I wonder what you would have said if I had forbidden you to see +Mr. Barrymore or Count Charles, or any of the friends you used to +know? Suppose I had been jealous, as I had the right to be——” +</p> + +<p> +“But you, you, Monsieur Henry—you were not my lover; why should you +be jealous?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mimi,” said I, “we are going to forget the past just as we would +forget a sad book that we have been reading. What is to prevent us? I +shall never see Madame Lea again. If I saw her a thousand times, it +would make no difference. You know that I love you, Mimi. How often +must I say it to make you believe?” +</p> + +<p> +The words moved her to some emotion. There is no more intelligent face +in Europe than hers, none more beautiful; and I could see that the +child was wrestling with some great temptation, unknown to me, and +unconfessed. +</p> + +<p> +“It would be folly to speak of it, Monsieur Henry,” she said +presently; “I am not fit to be your wife. You are rich, and we are no +longer at the Maison du bon Tabac. I tried to follow you out into the +world, Monsieur Henry, but I lost you there—and I shall never find +you again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mimi,” said I, “there has always been this between us. You call me +rich, but in a few months’ time I may be poorer even than these people +who employ you. Is not that enough for you? Shall I make myself poor +to-morrow because riches keep you from me? Is that your wish, Mimi?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know the truth,” she said quietly; “your great Irlandais told it to +me. You are rich, and if you work you will remain rich. Do not believe +those who tell you that the poor are happy, Monsieur Henry. That is +what the rich say to defend themselves. Oh, do you think that I can be +happy so far away from France and among these strange people? Would I +not return to-morrow if I could do so?” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall return, Mimi—we will go together.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed drolly, turning the pathos of it with the cleverness a +born actress alone could command. +</p> + +<p> +“To the Butte,” she cried, “on the high road? We will sup at the Lapin +Agil and breakfast at the Capitol. That’s what I dream of when I dance +before the people—but you are not in my dreams, Monsieur Henry; I +think of a Paris which you have left—I do not see you any longer +among my friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you yourself have determined that it shall not be so.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—because you were not born of us; because you are an Englishman +who has work to do in your own country. I am in my own world even in +this poor place. It is not your world—it must never be so.” +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +This was the sum of it, Paddy, often repeated. This child believes +that all my love for the Butte and its people is but a sham affection, +that it will pass, that I am born to riches and position. She is +clever enough to think that a marriage with me would be a false step, +leading neither to her happiness nor to mine. All this fine philosophy +of hers is no sounder than the bloom upon a flower. If I could conjure +up the old house in Paris, people it with the old figures, recall the +old precarious life, the days of poverty, the days of comparative +riches, the empty cupboards, the chiding corks—if I could do this, +and say, “Mimi, come back to me,” she would be in my arms in an +instant. But she is afraid of her new situation; London has chilled +her finest instincts—she can think of me but as the “great Monsieur +Henry, of the Hôtel St. Paul.” And between me and her a great barrier +is fixed. +</p> + +<p> +How to combat this argument I know not. My threat to shed myself of my +money is both idle and impossible—it is the word one whispers to a +woman in an ecstasy of passion, and repeats with a shamed grin next +morning. I feel, Paddy, that I could not support poverty—and yet here +is poverty staring me already in the face, and promising, like the +Devil in “Faust,” that he will have me some day. To you I put the +problem, for God knows I can make little of it. Is there any way—any +sane way—by which I can win this child’s love and make her my wife? +Would it be a crime to do that? Am I a madman to be thinking of it at +all? Write to me, old friend, and speak in plain terms. The Paddy of +the old time was never ashamed to do that. +</p> + +<p> +You may address your letter to the vicarage, for little Martha will +see that everything is forwarded. I am tired already of this +lantern-jawed cousin of mine, who nagged his wife for three hours last +night because she would not turn me out, and prayed before breakfast +this morning for charity. I heard them quarrelling; the wall was not +thick enough to keep those dread sounds out—but she silenced him in +the end, though how, I do not know. When next I saw her she was +wearing a bearskin on her shoulders, and her hair was the colour of a +terra-cotta house. They are to have the first dress rehearsal for the +Pageant to-morrow—and Arthur, who has just preached another sermon +against the theatre, is to be there with a megaphone. +</p> + +<p> +God bless him! He is the poorest creature in Suffolk, though not in +the least aware of the fact.—Dear Paddy, yours dolefully, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Harry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch17"> +CHAPTER XVII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Paddy O’Connell lays down the law.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Glendalough,<br> +August 12th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Harry,—What I would have you to do is to set about getting your +living. ’Tis honest advice and the best I can give you—though it’s +precious little I do in that line myself, and a poor hand I would be +at the employment if my father—God rest his soul—had not done the +business for me. +</p> + +<p> +I am little acquainted with the art of money-making, and no wise +adviser in that matter. But I see plainly enough that if you do not +set about earning your living, this parson man will be banking your +fortune and thanking God for it, while you will be next door to a +beggar in the streets, and a mighty unsuccessful one at that. +</p> + +<p> +Let me ask you what you could bring to the child if you lost your +fortune. This gipsy notion is well enough when a man follows it by +choice; but there is a time of life when you begin to sniff at the +cooking-pot and to ask how many thorns are in your bed before you—and +you will come to that before most of us, by reason of the habits you +have acquired. Indeed, Harry, I am not sure that you understand at all +what this loss of fortune may mean to you, nor do I believe your life +will be worth living when you have lost it. +</p> + +<p> +You are young, you have a fine presence, people take a liking to the +looks of you, you are by no means wanting in brains. Should you get on +the Stock Exchange you would find clients enough—or, for that matter, +you might turn your Art knowledge to some advantage and see what you +can do in that line. +</p> + +<p> +Shake your wits together, my boy, and make a start, to-morrow if you +can. I couldn’t do it myself—unless I were taken up by those who +would learn to ride, or golf, or play a decent hand at bridge; but you +can do it, Harry, for you have the brains; and if you love this little +girl out of France, and if your heart is full because of her, you will +lose no time in following my advice and preparing that home she will +be willing enough to occupy. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, see, for God’s sake, that no harm overtakes her. It’s worse +than wicked to hear of the company she is in. Pay for a change of +employment and do not let her know that you have done it. Your purse +may help to achieve this. Pull the strings of it wide open, Harry, and +put her in some decent way of life, in London for preference, and +where you can watch over her. I have said from the first that the +blood of the Bohemian runs strong in her veins. I doubt that you will +ever tie her to any house or country—but the effort is worth the +making, and you know that you have my good wishes in the matter. +</p> + +<p> +As for your prudence, your right to marry her or the wisdom of it, you +know that I am a man who said be hanged to convention many years ago. +What a sorry peep-show, what a play of shams and meanness and false +pleasures is this social world we know, and into which we were born! I +tell you that the hut on the mountain side—if there be good whisky +therein and a decent golf course within riding distance—is all the +palace I will ever require; while, as for my friend Harry, if the +great high road and the café at the far end of it are not his goal, +then say that I know nothing of men and less of the sex that does us +all the mischief. +</p> + +<p> +You will set about earning your living, Harry, and put Mimi to some +decent employment unbeknown to her that you have done it. This is the +wisdom and the wish of your old friend, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Paddy</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch18"> +CHAPTER XVIII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[In which we hear something of the Pageant at Lowestoft.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The Grand Hotel, Cromer,<br> +August 14th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—The Pageant at Lowestoft came and went on Saturday +last—the occasion of its first representation—and your faithful +epistler has departed with it under circumstances which should be made +known to you. These were as ridiculous as they were inevitable; but +they have left my good cousin in a sad state of mind, and his little +wife no less agitated. +</p> + +<p> +I count it nothing less than a tragedy, Paddy, that your friend, Henry +Gastonard, who would no more make love to another man’s wife than he +would steal the spoons from his table, should twice carry a firebrand +into a peaceful house and there extinguish it not at all or but +doubtfully. This, none the less, has been my undeserved fate. I +quitted Lowestoft, leaving my cousin torn by jealousy concerning +Martha and myself. His anger is as absurd as his suspicions; but of +both you shall now hear. +</p> + +<p> +To begin with, let me say that I had some fine fun with him on Friday +night upon my return from Yarmouth. The talk after dinner chanced to +turn upon the ease or difficulty of making money; and, wishful to +chaff Arthur, I began to speak of my own intentions. To have heard me +you would have said that I had but to lift a finger to make ten +thousand a year. I spoke of this scheme and of that, of the financiers +I knew and the financiers who wished to know me. I mentioned young +Gould casually, and threw in Harry Vanderbilt as though he were a +paper-weight; to all of which Arthur listened entranced. His colour +alternated between that of the departing rainbow and the +newly-imported orange. There were moments when he was at a loss how to +address me at all. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you say that you were venturing your own capital in these +affairs?” he asked me. The simple fellow, a child would have seen +through the question. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a penny of it,” said I, filling my glass with the Marsala, old in +bottle, which he buys from a neighbouring grocer for one-and-three; +“not a penny of it, Arthur. You must understand that I am bringing the +new French motor-cab companies to London, and when the Syndicate has +put down two hundred and fifty thousand, there should be some seven or +eight for me as negotiatory vendor to begin with; and if they don’t +pay me twelve or fifteen hundred a year afterwards to look after their +interests, I’m a Dutchman. What I wanted to ask you was just this: Do +you think I am wise to take up such a thing as a motor-cab, or would +you advise me to stick to the flotation of the new submarine company, +in which you know that I have interest? You have great sagacity and +perception, and so I put the question to you frankly.” +</p> + +<p> +Upon my word, Paddy, the man’s face was a study when I said this, and +it was worth anything to hear him humming and hawing in the very best +pulpit manner before he answered me. +</p> + +<p> +“A clergyman knows little of financial affairs,” he remarked, coughing +slightly to cover his difficulty. “Undoubtedly, a cab is not a very +dignified conveyance, and er—hem, the future of the motor-car +is—that is—may be—a dusty one. I should consider the whole question +very closely, Henry. There are two sides to it, as to every question.” +</p> + +<p> +“And to every cab, Arthur. Well, I shall take your advice, for, of +course, if I don’t do something very soon, you will be having my +little lot and driving a four-in-hand to Hurlingham. I don’t mean to +let you do that, Arthur. I shall stick to the money; though, if ever +you want fifty for parochial uses, don’t forget to tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +He was visibly upset—he is not a man who can hide his feelings. I +believe that if I had said the word, he would have consented to a +compromise on the spot. But I am an obstinate fool, Paddy, and I feel +that I would sooner sleep on the Embankment without a shirt to my back +than part with one shilling to this disciple of the Law and the +Profits who would spend it so ill. +</p> + +<p> +This badinage was a pretty prelude to what was to come. We were up +early next morning, and the streets all a-blowing and a-growing before +the fishing boats had come in. You do not know Lowestoft, Paddy, but +you will please to understand that there is, beneath the northern +cliff, a very pretty stretch of grass land, whereon golfers and others +disport themselves. Toward this at eleven o’clock in the morning half +the inhabitants and all the visitors wended their way; and here the +great battle between the invading Danes and the inhospitable Britons +was to take place, directed by my cousin Arthur, who carried a +megaphone and took his station upon a watch-tower. As this is not a +horsey locality, the most part of us went afoot, and a fine, +straggling show of hire-purchase assassins we must have looked to any +sane man who had happened upon us at hazard. +</p> + +<p> +Just imagine the narrow, fishy street of a fishy town packed from end +to end with twentieth-century monks, romping British maidens, Druid +priests, Danes, and Norsemen. Depict a fat grocer waddling along in a +tin-pot helmet and a tunic down to his knees. Create for yourself the +image of a substantial matron in a frock that looks like a—but you +have seen the catalogues of the linen houses and will spare my +blushes. Over all wave the flags and the banners. There are a few +horsemen—six-and-six the first hour, six shillings afterwards—a +great many battle-axes, pikes, and spiked maces. The fishermen, who +stare as we pass by, laugh vulgarly. Some of the youths, who are to do +the fighting, begin already and need the police to separate them. I +observe that the girls are all in a hurry to be carried screaming to +the hills and that they rehearse their parts upon any opportunity, +even the most trifling. +</p> + +<p> +Such was the beginning of the Pageant at Lowestoft. Never, I suppose, +was Arthur Warrington in better form; it was better than any Criterion +farce to hear him shouting the stage directions from his watch-tower. +Of course, had he been a clever man, he would have engaged some genius +from the theatres to have helped him as to the stage management; but +he is not a clever man, and chaos followed him to the battle-field. +Oh, my dear Paddy, what a joy it was when that bellicose crowd heard +him bawling: “Harps to the mound; all the lyres this side; ancient +Britons, quick march; Danes ashore!” Could energy and a shrill voice +have achieved success, Arthur assuredly would have been crowned there +and then with a laurel; but, alas, what are energy and shrillness when +your Druid priest is invariably in the refreshment tent and your Danes +upset the boat which is bringing them ashore? +</p> + +<p> +You will remember that little Martha had persuaded me to play the part +of one of these Scandinavian heroes, and a veritable sea-lion she said +I looked when the costumier had finished with me. Though she herself +stood for a British matron, I observed that her dress leaned toward +the soubrette ideal, and that she proposed an early and satisfying +adjournment to the tent wherein ices and other delicacies were vended. +In this she was generally imitated. A more desultory battle, a wilder, +more nonsensical puppet show, I have never seen upon any field of +Europe. Danes playing leap-frog on the sands; Druids chasing each +other, and the ladies—with sickle and artificial mistletoe—warriors +flirting already when they should have been fighting; trumpeters +passing their trumpets round for their neighbours to “have a blow;” +monks talking politics and passing each other the morning papers; fat +men asking “Where do we go?” stout ladies no less at a loss. My dear +Paddy, the hills would have rung with your laughter and the sea given +it back to you in roaring harmonies. +</p> + +<p> +I will confess that we got something like order when the battle was +done, and that some of the Druidical rites were pretty and imposing. A +dance of “early British maidens,” in the afternoon, left footprints on +the sands of time; but the attempt of a monk to join in the business +came near to ruining it. From this moment onward toward sunset the +affair showed some signs of a degeneration which boded ill for the +later hours. I found myself without part or place in a disorderly +ensemble, and I suggested to Martha that she should be carried off +incontinently to the sea; and that we would go for a little row until +the multitude had recovered its senses. To this she consented very +gracefully, and, a boat being quickly found—for many watermen had +come to the place—I put off in it and soon left the madding crowd +behind us. +</p> + +<p> +You must admit, Paddy, that there was little harm in this. We rowed in +full view of the shore; as a Norseman it was my business thus to act +in the presence of a British maiden. In a less romantic mood, I +desired to have a little talk with pretty Martha—for none was +possible at her house—and to hear exactly what she thought of my own +affairs and of my cousin’s interest in them. She is a candid little +body and responded immediately to my invitation. I found her no less +merry than eloquent, and, to be honest, she was not born for a +parson’s wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur thinks he’ll have your fortune,” she said; “he’s buying +motor-cars already with it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you encourage him, Martha?” +</p> + +<p> +“Women always encourage men when they wish to be extravagant in a +proper way. But I don’t believe you’ll part with the money—and, to be +honest, I hope you won’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Those are not Arthur’s sentiments.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would they be mine if they were? No man is the better for a woman +agreeing with him. Of course, I want Arthur to do well in the world, +but that’s no reason why he should do it with your fortune, Harry. As +it is, your father left him five thousand pounds, and he ought to be +satisfied.” +</p> + +<p> +“Especially in view of the simple life, and all that. Is not Arthur a +bit of a Socialist, Martha?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he believes in having all his neighbours’ things in common. He +preached about it several times—they don’t like it in the country, +and someone wrote to the Bishop.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he suggest that his lordship should divide also?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now you’re silly, Harry. What I wanted to tell you was that you +really must begin to do something in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have blown a trumpet this very morning, and nearly cut off a +Saxon’s head by accident. Is not that an achievement?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the kind of achievement which sends Arthur buying +motor-cars——” +</p> + +<p> +“To the glory of God, and the delight of the local repairer. Tell me, +Martha, do you think I could earn any money, if I tried? Is it quite a +mad hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“You could do so, Harry—you have brains enough. Arthur admits +that—he read your article about East Anglia in the magazine, and is +quite sure you have abilities.” +</p> + +<p> +“Strange term. I wonder how many men have gone to the devil because +they had abilities?” +</p> + +<p> +“But you really have them, Harry. That little bust you sent me over +from Paris a year ago was beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +“Offer it to an art dealer in Piccadilly and see if he will give you +five shillings for it. That kind of talent is the ruin of most of us. +We touch the hem of Art’s garment, but she doesn’t stop to bless us. +If I had been born a Portuguese Jew, and educated in the Ghetto, I +might begin to speak of abilities. There are few left in the ordinary +way.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, at least, you might work, Harry.” +</p> + +<p> +“What man who is in love works?” +</p> + +<p> +“You! In love! Now, do tell me. Is it true—you aren’t joking, Harry?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not joking, Martha. Look at me and see. I am in love with a +little French lady who is dancing on Yarmouth beach. It was she who +kept me away from you last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, that’s nonsense, and I shall not listen to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon—you will listen as long as I go on talking. No +woman shuts her ears to a man’s love story—she couldn’t if she +tried.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—it—it would be disgraceful, Harry!” +</p> + +<p> +“Most of the pleasant things in life are disgraceful—from a narrow +point of view. I think you used to dance before you married Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I only waltzed—that’s not the kind of dancing I mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me suggest to you, Martha, that you have not seen the Señorita +Alphonsine. It would be fair to postpone a decision.” +</p> + +<p> +“Harry, I shall not believe it any more than I believed the story of +the married woman for whom you fought a duel.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s kind of you, Martha. A woman who does not believe a story +about another woman is a treasure. She usually knows it is true +because she has seen it with her own ears——” +</p> + +<p> +“Eyes, Harry——” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I mean ears. She sees it because she hears it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to marry this dancer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, that’s what I don’t know. She also objected to Madame Lea, and +her ideas about marriage are of the East, eastward. It is a subject +you do not hear much about in a French atelier.” +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur says that he does not think any Frenchman can be saved—he +read somewhere that even the married men hardly remember the names of +their own wives—that is, in the society of which you speak.” +</p> + +<p> +“An embarrassing circumstance. He was once in Paris for three days, I +think.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, we had cheap tickets, and saw the Louvre and the Madeleine——” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder he did not bring an accent home—and pay duty on it at +Charing Cross.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he is quite a French scholar, you know. He has read Lafontaine, +and he says that French people can never be as religious as we are, +because the Bible isn’t the same thing when it’s translated.” +</p> + +<p> +“A fine thought. But tell me, Martha, will you be my best woman if I +marry Mimi?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mimi—is that her name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and a pretty name, too—don’t you think so?” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the best woman at a wedding, Harry?” +</p> + +<p> +“The woman who doesn’t run the bride down. Mimi hasn’t a friend in +England and hasn’t a rag to her back. If she will marry me—and God +alone knows whether she will or no—I want to see that she is all +right and wants for nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll do that with pleasure if Arthur will let me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Arthur be hanged. If this boat continues to carry us out to sea, +as it is doing, we shall never see Arthur again.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Harry—oh, my dear cousin, where are we going?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s just what I want to know, Martha. Apparently we are on the way +to the Hook of Holland. Do you know the Dutchmen? A charming people +and some fine old cities.” +</p> + +<p> +I spoke at random, but, to tell you the truth, Paddy, I never was in +such a stew in my life. There is a tremendous current running down +this narrow strait, and we had been talking so heedlessly that it had +carried us far out to sea before I had thought anything about a course +at all. When the danger became apparent, we must have been a good mile +from the shore, drifting apparently toward the southeast and carried +almost as swiftly as a stick upon a river. And, as if this were not +enough, what should happen but that my right scull, refusing to +respond to my herculean efforts, broke off short at the thowl and left +me with but a stump in my hand. Then, in truth, the lid was off the +casket—then, indeed, I foresaw what was to come, both the peril and +the folly of it. +</p> + +<p> +Poor little Martha! What a face she wore, and what a devil of a mess +we seemed to be in! We had set off late in the afternoon, and it was +now about the hour of sunset. I looked about me and saw a great watery +plain glowing toward the west with a sheen of melting light; but, cold +and grey as unburnished silver elsewhere. By here and there, a herring +boat worked seaward beyond the banks; there were steamers upon the +horizon, and one which had just passed us making northward, as it +were, to Shields or the Humber. But, of help to be had for the crying, +I saw positively none. As for the town of Lowestoft, it was now but a +fringe of houses above a shimmering horizon. I could not even espy the +masqueraders upon the beach, though there came to us from time to time +a murmur of distant music, and, as it were, the ghost of a human +voice. At last we passed away even from these—the sun sank; the +waters began to beat about us a little ominously and the wind to utter +a warning. +</p> + +<p> +Now, Paddy, you may imagine how little I liked this situation and how +careful I was that my real opinion concerning it should be kept from +the frightened little woman at the tiller. A sailor, I suppose, would +have made light of the whole affair, arguing that the set of the tide +would change anon and that the same boat which was now being carried +out to sea would presently be carried home again. So plain a fact did +not occur to me even while I had a pair of sculls in my hand; but with +one scull overboard and no particular use for the other I fear it +entered but little into my calculations. At the best I hoped that some +passing ship might pick us up—at the worst that we might drift right +across in safety and take an early boat to Harwich and our homes. But +the latter was a wild dream, as you may suppose—and I had all my work +to do to comfort little Martha and to applaud her bravery. +</p> + +<p> +“To begin with,” I put it to her, “we cannot go far in these parts and +not spy out a herring-boat. The herring is a homely fish, Martha, and +will naturally suggest Arthur and the fireside.” +</p> + +<p> +“He will never forgive me,” she said, “never—never—you don’t know +him, Harry. I shall hear of this to my dying day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you will. He will tell it proudly. An idiot of a man broke +an oar out at sea and was only saved from a watery grave by the pluck +and the resource of a brave woman—isn’t that what Arthur will say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Think of the scandal in the parish, all the tongues that will be +wagging—think of that!” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be finer talk than the Pageant. Please write it down Martha, +it may come in useful if I should perpetrate a book.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t, don’t,” she cried, “don’t say it, Harry. I am afraid, horribly +afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, that you are not, or you would not confess it, Martha. It is I +who am in a panic. I never was brave in the dark, and this particular +kind of darkness is my abhorrence. I wonder if I flared a box of +matches would it be any good, Martha. Do you think a fishing smack +would understand it?” +</p> + +<p> +She made some evasive answer—the poor little body, I don’t wonder +that the situation scared her. There we were out in the gathering +darkness, not a light in sight save at distant Lowestoft, the wind +blowing cold as a blast from the hills, the sun gone down in a cloud, +and the sea rising with a mournful cry which would have shamed the +spirits of desolation. What to do, how to act even an old sailor might +have been puzzled to say. My primitive maritime knowledge, obtained +upon the yachts at Trouville, suggested an attempt to keep the head of +the boat towards the swelling breakers and her bows above the crests +of the increasing waves. I sat by Martha’s side, and, employing the +remaining scull as a paddle, tried to achieve so desirable an end. But +not without many a weird evolution which came near to costing us our +lives. +</p> + +<p> +To be candid, I was within an ace of drowning my cousin’s pretty wife, +and that’s the whole truth of it. If you would give me ten thousand +pounds upon the table, I would not again encounter those grim hours of +helpless battling with monstrous waves and increasing winds blowing +upon us out of the void of the night. +</p> + +<p> +Such a sense of loneliness and despair I have never experienced. We +seemed to have left the world of men far behind us. Great hollows +opened and threatened to engulf us. We mounted to crests and beheld a +grey horizon capped by mountainous clouds with the moon struggling to +break a golden way amid them. I knew then that long hours had passed; +I doubted that we should ever see the shore again. +</p> + +<p> +And what does a woman do in moments like these. Well, if little Martha +may speak for her sex, she cries a little, laughs for contrast, +shivers when the cold can no longer be denied, and grows hot with hope +upon the slightest word of encouragement. When I told her that I +espied the light of a fishing-boat, she put both her arms about my +neck and kissed me—when I had to admit that it was sailing away to +the northward she just cried like a child who has met with +disappointment. Nor was that poor creature, her husband, often out of +her thoughts. A woman’s devotion to the man she has married may be +diverted by his own follies, but the right kind of woman goes back +upon it in the hour of danger. So with pretty Martha to-night. She +wept not for herself but for the man’s sorrow—and there I could not +comfort her at all. +</p> + +<p> +It would have been nearly four o’clock of the morning and full light +when the boat they had sent out from Lowestoft found us at last. We +both got wet to the skin going aboard her, and were wrapped up in +blankets when we arrived at the Vicarage. Shall I say that Arthur +received us with a tragic air? Nothing of the kind; he just blubbered +like a schoolgirl and was down on his marrow-bones—for which I +honoured him—there and then. His demand for explanations came +afterwards. Those were tragic, indeed. “There must be a public account +of this,” he said. I told him not to be a fool, and he retorted by +asking me to leave his house. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not say,” he was good enough to remark, “that you can command +the elements. Such was the power of the men of old. But at least you +should know better than to leave the beach in full view of the people, +with my wife as your companion, in so mad a folly. For that I shall +never forgive you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you won’t continue to say the Lord’s prayer,” was my retort—and +I left him to think upon it. +</p> + +<p> +But, naturally, I couldn’t stay here, Paddy—so where should I go but +to Cromer, where “The Chimes” are playing. Be sure that the palms of +these worthies were greased long ago, that the gentleman known as Jack +Bendall has bought a new overcoat, that the lady at the piano is +resplendent in a wonderful gown of satin, and that aromatic cigars of +a Belgian brand are freely smoked by the company. +</p> + +<p> +Mimi is now a queen among them. +</p> + +<p> +But I am daring to hope that her sovereignty will be transferred +elsewhere very soon—and that my daring plan will be rewarded by that +success which you, my dear Paddy, would be the first to wish me. So in +high hope find me, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Your friend,<br> +<span class="sc">Harry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch19"> +CHAPTER XIX. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[In which we translate a letter from Henry Gastonard of the Maison du +bon Tabac, at Hampstead, to Mimi the Simpleton, at Felixstowe.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Maison du bon Tabac, Hampstead,<br> +August 29, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Chère Mimi,—Do you remember when Mademoiselle Marcelle taught us to +sing— +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière,</span><br> +<span class="i0">J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en aurais pas?”</span> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p class="noindent"> +There is a song <i>ma mie</i>, which others have been singing this +afternoon in the house which their old comrade Mimi will not enter. +<i>Ah, mes enfants!</i> And what shall I say to them? +</p> + +<p> +Behold the builder, and ask if he be not punished enough. So much is +admitted by those who have climbed upward to this height as you and I, +<i>ma mie</i>, climbed upward in the old days, by the Villa Polichinelle, +under the sails of La Galette, to the little house where Gabriel de +Math had written immortality upon the windows and your old friend +Desmond Barrymore used to sing you to sleep while he painted. +</p> + +<p> +They came here, Mimi, out of the Paris they love, to bring a message +from the Butte to this savage land. But one is missing who should have +welcomed them—<i>ah, mes enfants</i>. +</p> + +<p> +It is not Paris, this new house of the <i>bon Tabac</i> at Hampstead, but +you might rub your eyes sometimes and believe another story. Here, as +upon our own beloved Butte, there stands the villa with the roses +twined about it; here is the same tangle of a garden that served the +Chevalier for his verses; here we sip the red wine and sing the songs +which Jean Bataille taught us. One voice alone is missing. One who +used to love us will not come to us—and the roses droop, and silence +falls, and we know that we have not forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +Riches did not build this house, <i>ma mie</i>, nor will they support it. +We are all poor as in the splendid days. If we open a little window +and look down to the valley, we see the great city, and try to make +believe that it is the Paris we love. Ah, what a cheat is that, and +how willingly we consent to say, There is the dome of the Invalides, +and there St. Jacques, and there the frowsy houses of the Mich’. +Georges Oleander, the pitiful old mendicant, started the game and is +the busiest to play it—but your old friend Desmond Barrymore makes +one of the conspirators, and he has a little bust of you in clay upon +the table as I write. +</p> + +<p> +Not Paris, but to those who will that it shall be so, a city of their +desires. For what land is not a home to us when old friends are about +us and there is good wine upon the table, and we may eat a +Chateaubriand aux pommes and hear the Chevalier singing to us, and +laugh at old Georges Oleander when he would beg the money for a new +debauch to-morrow. Fifty francs may be the sum total of our riches—I +doubt that it will be more. Each is poorer than his neighbour, and +proud of the fact. When you come to us, <i>ma mie</i>, let your hands be +full of gold, or we shall starve. Let Mimi be the Queen of our +Treasury. +</p> + +<p> +You will find the house without difficulty, for your new friends will +be aware of its situation when you tell them that it is in the Walk at +Hampstead Heath, near London, and has the verses of Villon—though +they will not have heard of him—upon the façade. Should you remember +our loneliness, take an early train to London, enter a chariot, and +demand to be driven here. As I say, your friends will direct you—and +are you not rich, Mimi? +</p> + +<p> +This is the message of the Chevalier Honoré de Villefort: Let Mimi +come to us. +</p> + +<p> +And this the command of Georges Oleander: Let Mimi come to us. +</p> + +<p> +And this the great hope upon the lips of Desmond Barrymore: Let Mimi +come to us. +</p> + +<p> +And this the prayer of one whose house is empty when Mimi is not here. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Ah, mes enfants.</i> +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Henry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch20"> +CHAPTER XX. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[In which Mimi replies to Monsieur Henry.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +11, The Parade, Felixstowe,<br> +Wednesday. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, cher Monsieur Henry, if I knew how to answer you. +</p> + +<p> +Why should I go to dream a little while if I must awake to remember. +<i>Ah, mille noms, faut-il être Parisienne.</i> +</p> + +<p> +There must be roses in the heart if we would wear them on the cheek; +but in my heart none, Monsieur Henry; for it has grown empty. +</p> + +<p> +I hear the Chevalier—but why would he call me to that great city of +shadows? Does Monsieur Barrymore laugh at me when he would have me +believe that he is happy in this England? Shall I think well of +Monsieur Oleander because he also is deceived a little while? Here I +look all day across the sea where they tell me that France is. I am a +child, but they call me a woman. <i>Ah, mes enfants!</i> What pages I have +turned in this great book of sorrow that none may see my tears fall +upon them. +</p> + +<p> +A little while and the sun will shine, and then there is the great +cold road again and the sad-faced people, and we go away, oh, so far +away towards the dark and the night; and there is no light in the sky +behind us to tell us where the city is; we hear no laughter anywhere; +but the end of the world is beyond, and we voyage with shut lips +toward it. +</p> + +<p> +I remember such a journey as this; it was long ago when I was so +little, that you, Monsieur Henry, could have put me in your great big +pocket. An old woman led me by the hand away from a great warm house +down to the water and the ships. I remember that it was twilight and +then night, and that I saw my home behind me as a star one sees low +down in the heavens. And then we came to a hut in the wood, and there +were ugly men, and I could not sleep, and when it was day all that I +had known went from my mind, and I remembered nothing but the lonely +road, and the strange faces, and the harsh words I heard. You know how +far I have journeyed since those days. Ah, what palaces we have +visited together, you and I, Monsieur Henry—and how often I have lost +you! Can you wonder that I would rest—even I? +</p> + +<p> +I dance still with these English friends, and they are very kind to +me. The people here say that my dancing is wicked; but there are many +clergymen, and they love to say “shockink.” I live in a little room +where I can watch the sea, and I go out every morning, long before the +people are up, to float on the waves, and look for the ship which will +carry me back to France. But there is no mermaid here, no fairy swims +with me; I cannot find the silver shell, and I return to my little +house to say it will be never, that I shall see France no more, that +all the world has deserted me. +</p> + +<p> +Shall I make you sad, Monsieur Henry, to tell you all these things? If +I do, the Chevalier will make you laugh, and that will be the +recompense. Oh, he is droll, the Chevalier. Do you remember when he +loved Madame la Comtesse de Brianville—and would have borrowed twenty +francs to marry her? <i>Ah, mes enfants</i>—but those were days! +</p> + +<p> +And Monsieur Georges. Yes, I would like to see him again, and that +great Monsieur Barrymore who used to sit me on his knee before he +painted my picture. +</p> + +<p> +And they are all in your Maison du bon Tabac, and there is Paris below +the windows, the Paris you love to dream of, and you sing the songs +that Jean de Bataille made. <i>Ah, mes enfants</i>—if I were there!—Your +friend, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Mimi</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch21"> +CHAPTER XXI. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Being a telegram from Henry Gastonard to his friend Paddy O’Connell +of Glendalough.] +</p> + +<p> +Have news of the gravest importance. Please come to London at once to +the Maison du bon Tabac, at Hampstead. I count upon you.—<span class="sc">Harry +Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch22"> +CHAPTER XXII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Being the reply from Paddy O’Connell to Henry Gastonard’s telegram.] +</p> + +<p> +Impossible to leave before the next train—am catching it.—<span class="sc">Paddy</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch23"> +CHAPTER XXIII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Paddy O’Connell shares the news with his sister Clara.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +4, The Walk, Hampstead, London, N.W.,<br> +September 5th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +My dear Clara,—’Twas a rough crossing I had, and it found me by no +means unwilling to step from the sea to the land. But I’d be no good +Irishman if I complained of a little rough water between me and the +Sassenach; and so here I am and, God be good to me, in the midst of as +wild a company of men as ever drank wine out of a flower vase or +cooked their beef on a spirit stove. And, faith, they do drink and eat +from the morning until the night, and, after that, from night to the +morning again—as the garden bears witness, for I swear ’tis full +already of the bottles, and beginning to be heaped up at that. +</p> + +<p> +There was a man at Euston who clapped a false bag over my valise and +stepped into a cab with it; but I saw him just in time, and jumped +into the cab with him. He appeared by no means pleased at this; and +when the driver asked “Where to?” “Why,” says I, “to Scotland Yard.” +You should have seen the fellow alight, leaving me in possession of a +machine to steal bags which might well be a fortune to me. +</p> + +<p> +But, Clara, I am to tell you of my visit to Hampstead, where Harry +is—and not of any bags at all—which I now proceed to do as well as +these hilarious folks will let me, and as coherently as the madness of +it makes possible. You should know that I found Harry in a little +house on the top of a hill by London, at a place they call Hampstead; +a great, big, bare heath of a wilderness where the folks go to be +happy on Sundays, and which is large enough for the drunken ones to +fall down and sleep convenient. This is the famous Hampstead Heath, +wherefrom, they tell me, you can see the dome of St. Paul’s and +Westminster Abbey, though little of one or the other did I see, but +only a great big hole full of smoke and the roofs of railway stations, +and the factory chimneys sticking up above it. +</p> + +<p> +The house itself is a bit of a place not much bigger than a cabin on a +bog. Some man, who has a wonderful taste for the arts, painted it the +colour of the great Atlantic Ocean, and there are creepers all over +the face of it, and some poor little roses that are pining for the +country but will get no chance of air yet awhile. As for the interior +of the place, well, there we have Harry’s wit at work, for the rascal +has made it as like his little house in Paris as money and pains could +do; and, as if this were not enough, he has invited over a troop of +the rogues that he used to know, and filled them with good red wine +until there isn’t a man among them who could tell you whether he’s +himself or his neighbour. But here I get ahead of the story, and that, +my dear Clara, will never do. +</p> + +<p> +I arrived at the house about six o’clock of the evening. No man could +have mistaken the place, for a great tri-colored flag was flying out +of the bedroom window, and a crowd stood before the windows to hear +the Chevalier Villefort singing the French song which has the fine +classic chorus—“Fifine, elle est doloreuse.” When I knocked at the +door, loud enough to shake the door off its hinges, such a shout went +up as should have brought the fire engines to the street. And what a +rushing to the door, what cries of “Entrez—herein—kum een”—what +hands thrust out to drag me along—what a tossing up of my bag—God +help the whisky—what a pandemonium! A rat fallen among terriers would +not have been so shaken to the very roots as your poor Paddy. Faith, I +think that about forty of them were sitting on my chest at a time, +though it proved afterwards that there were but five in the house, +including the little witch that Greuze should have painted, and she +was as wild as any of them, and as ready for the frolic. +</p> + +<p> +Well, they pulled me into a room that was conveniently furnished with +a piano that had but two or three notes to it, and chairs that had no +proper backs to them; and, seeing that I was hungry and famished after +the journey, they set a bottle of curaçoa and a yard of bread before +me and bade me fall to. +</p> + +<p> +The place itself was so thick with smoke that I was hard put to it to +say whether I was looking out of the front of my head or the back; and +I was in no way surprised to hear that they had made a night and a day +of it, and proposed to double the term. As for the men, their clothes +would have made the fortune of a circus. Harry himself wore a suit of +travelling checks loud enough to knock down a nigger minstrel. The +long-whiskered beggar-man, Georges Oleander, had an old golfer’s red +coat to his back and a sea-green waistcoat for its own brother; the +lady-killer Villefort, a real Frenchman as you see them in Paris and a +gentleman as well, he wore a frock-coat and a rose like a cabbage in +his buttonhole; while as for the little witch Mimi, she was dressed in +a frock down to her knees and a pair of crimson stockings bright +enough to light the candles. What it all meant—the house, the people, +the noise—your Paddy knew no more than the people in the street. What +was worse, no man among them seemed able to tell him. +</p> + +<p> +“Finish your breakfast first,” says Harry—it was then about half-past +six o’clock of the afternoon—“and then we can lay the cloth for +dinner. I’ve ordered it from the confectioner’s, and we’re going to +have a real good time. Upon my word, Paddy, you were an old brick to +come—whatever should we have done without you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” says I, wondering still more, “and what do you propose to do +with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, to make you sing ‘Finnigan’s Wake’ to begin with, and then the +next best song you can remember. Come, Paddy, no heel-taps—you must +be thirsty, and I wish we had something else but curaçoa. They’ve +drunk all the wine and I’ve sent for some more.” +</p> + +<p> +“From what I perceive,” says I, “they have already drunk what you’ve +sent for. Is it a wake or a wedding, Harry? You didn’t send for me all +the way from Ireland to join in a smoking-concert. I’ll not believe it +at all.” +</p> + +<p> +He said “Hush,” and, presently, when the others were fallen to their +games again, he took me out into the bit of a garden, where there was +a fountain and a satyr—though the gentleman had a clay pipe in his +mouth instead of a flute, and someone had sketched the picture of a +broken bottle just where he should have worn his tail. Here we had a +moment’s privacy, and here I began to get at the truth of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Harry,” asks I, “will ye answer me a plain question—what are all +these tipsy gentlemen doing here, and why have you brought that little +lady among them?” +</p> + +<p> +Well, he took me by the arm and began to walk me up and down the +narrow path. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re not tipsy,” says he, “they’re just glad, Paddy. It’s a long +story, my boy, and a good one. But I’ll have to tell it you in two +minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” says I, “and it’s the story of the child, no doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded his head. He’s a fine handsome lad, with a wicked wisp of +brown curls over his handsome forehead, and two clear blue eyes which +should go deep into any woman’s heart. And he never looked handsomer +than he did this night. +</p> + +<p> +“Her story, of course, Paddy. I have won her by a trick, my boy. Don’t +say now that I was wrong to go to my cousin’s house, for it was little +Martha who put the first notion of it into my head.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did the parson call you out?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, he called me in lest the neighbours should see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he complain of his ship coming home—the poor devil of a man?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was a little awkward, certainly—but it saved me, Paddy. I just +ran over to Cromer to see Mimi, and then came on to London to fit up +this house. What will appeal to her, said I, will be a new Maison du +bon Tabac.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve plenty of it here. ’Twould take a telescope to see across the +room.” +</p> + +<p> +He was a little cross with me for interrupting him, and, in faith, I +was as curious to hear his story as he to tell it. So I just held my +tongue and let him run on freely. +</p> + +<p> +“I determined if I could,” he said, “to find Mimi a little house in +London, which would speak to her of the old days in Paris and lead her +to forget that she is among strangers in a strange country. So I +fitted up this place. You see what kind of a place it is, Paddy—just +a replica of the old villa on the Butte, with the very furniture that +we used to laugh at there. Then I sent for my friends, and the good +fellows came at once. How could they keep away?” +</p> + +<p> +“You paid their fares, Harry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and old Georges had an accident with his at the Cabaret of the +Tête Noire—so I had to send it twice. But they came, Paddy, and we +began to live the old life just as we lived it at Montmartre—and then +we wrote to Mimi; we all wrote to her, and we sat down and waited for +her. My God! if you had known what those days of waiting meant to me.” +</p> + +<p> +He was deeply moved, and my heart went out to him. I have spoken to +you before of his great love for this child—and, to be sure, it is an +honest man’s devotion, full of fine, chivalrous thoughts and so +utterly unselfish that it must bring him to abject poverty by and by. +This, however, was not the time to speak of it. +</p> + +<p> +“But she came to you, Harry?” said I; “she came to you, man?” +</p> + +<p> +“God be thanked, she did, Paddy. It was last night—these fellows had +all gone off to dine in Soho at a French café no Christian man has +ever heard of. I was alone in the house—all my spirit had gone, for +Mimi’s letter seemed to say that she would not come. All the prophets +of evil whispered in my ears and promised me misfortunes while I +waited. I lived half a lifetime of poverty, distress, and +disappointment—alone in the dark of the garden looking down upon the +lights of London, and asking if they hid Mimi from my sight. You know +what moods like these can be—how we seem robbed of every shred of +hope, how we say that good fortune will never visit us again—wish +almost that our lives were lived. That was my case for two long +hours—oh, my dear Paddy, may I never live such hours again.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then,” says I, “then, my dear Harry, you were lifted up to heaven +in a jiffy. Elijah didn’t beat you at the flying.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed like a boy at this, while he squeezed my arm as though he +would press all the human kindness out of me and add it to his own +store. Trust a man in love to be a miser with his sympathies. +</p> + +<p> +“As true as gold, Paddy,” says he, “she came at nine o’clock, just +when I had put pistols in the balance with laudanum, and was watching +the scale. I can hear the wheels rolling on the gravel now—ah, the +roll of the wheels that carry your mistress to you, is there any +sweeter music in life?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did she come alone, Harry?” +</p> + +<p> +“The man they call Jack Bendall brought her. I gave him a ten-pound +note for himself and a fiver each for the others of the company. Of +course, I didn’t guess at first that Mimi was in the cab, and my heart +started to beat like a fire-pump. She was ill, I said, gone back to +France perhaps—or even dead. Then, Paddy, I heard her voice! Think of +that, old boy, I heard her voice!” +</p> + +<p> +“ ’Twas what was said in the Dublin Courts last week, when Mary +Wentworth went for a divorce from old Mike. She heard a voice in the +parlour—a female voice——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, be serious, Paddy, be serious.” +</p> + +<p> +“The very words the Judge used. Do you mean to marry her now you’ve +got her here, Harry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I a rogue, Paddy? I’d have married her this morning if the priest +would have done it.” +</p> + +<p> +“The priest—what priest?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the one from the little French church. Old Georges went to fetch +him, but we’d had so much wine that Georges couldn’t explain himself, +and the priest thought there was someone sick, and came immediately. +When he got there, it was just about half-past five in the morning. +The room was full of bottles and tobacco-smoke, and Villefort was +playing ‘All the little sheep and lambs,’ and singing it as well. When +the good father came in and saw Mimi fast asleep in an armchair and +the rest of us looking as though we had been boiled in old Bordeaux, +he just bolted, Paddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” says I, “it’s astonishing how the ecclesiastical mind revolts at +originality. Ye couldn’t call him back, Harry?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I didn’t try. We’re to have a special license now and to be +married in the morning. Mimi’s sent for her clothes, and I’ve got a +frock-coat coming over.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you live in this place when it’s done?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, that’s what I don’t know. You see, I had to catch her by a trick, +but I won’t keep her that way, for we have our livings to get. That’s +a task I must set about at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were for setting about it two years ago. I remember you bought a +quire of paper and two nibs, and were for writing the History of the +Palais Royal. You got as far as a sketch of Cardinal Richelieu dining +at the Ritz Hotel, didn’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Paddy, but it’s a great scheme, and I shall finish it some day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Some day is the Bohemian’s yesterday. He’s always going to do great +things yesterday. Harry, my boy, you’re taking the devil’s own risk; +there are few men who would countenance you, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you, you, Paddy, you don’t forbid it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve wished it from the start. It may be the making of you—if it +isn’t the ruin. I’d sooner see you married to this little girl than +dangling at a married woman’s apron-strings as you were in Paris. +Riches don’t go for much if they can’t do better than that for you, +Harry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but you’re talking of things that have been. I don’t want to hear +about them—heaven knows, there are sad moments enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why sad moments?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell you. It’s just obstinacy. Sometimes I tell myself that +even if I marry Mimi, I shall not keep her with me. I’m afraid of her +own past, afraid of my own future. Consider what gipsy lives we have +led. How are we to go on living them, how am I to hope that she will +settle down to the hum-drum things of a suburban existence? And, of +course, I dare not take her back to Paris; you know how foolish that +would be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Put the thought out of your head. You would be a madman to play with +it. As for keeping her—well, a man who cannot keep a woman who loves +him isn’t worth his salt. I’ll not hear it. You have no right to be +talking like this—not to-night anyway. Begin to speak of dark things +when the sun is setting on your happiness. You can keep it above the +horizon as Joshua did if you set out to slaughter the heathen who are +the masters of your idleness. Work, Harry—that’s the best friend in a +man’s home.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not answer me; in truth, he had no chance. The dinner made its +appearance, and we all sat down to it—such a merry company that must +have recalled all the days of the old Kit Kat Club, and of the wild +dogs that frequented the same. For you must know, Clara, that this +Hampstead place has seen the poets Keats and Leigh Hunt, who was +another writing man, and Charles Dickens, to say nothing of the +prize-fighters who had their training quarters in these parts, as +Harry told me over the dinner-table; and I’ll warrant there has been +many such a carouse as we held this night, and with reasons not half +so good. Meat and drink, song and dance—the men breaking up the +chairs and tables; all sorts of music, wine enough to float a man of +war, French ways and manners of it—ay, a night and a morning, too, +for the bride fell fast asleep in the arm-chair just when the sun came +up, and there were three of us on the benches in the garden when they +cried the milk in the streets. Nor will I write this to our shame. We +were children of the highway for the nonce. God knows, there is too +much of brick and mortar in the world. +</p> + +<p> +You may ask me, Clara, how I, a decent man in my own country, and +respected in County Wicklow—as any clergyman who plays golf will bear +witness—how I can encourage this tipsy life or give moral support to +my old friend, Henry Gastonard, when he is the victim of it. I’ll tell +you in a word. He will go to the devil if he does not marry this +little witch, and the way he has set out to marry her is the only one +by which his journey’s end can be reached. +</p> + +<p> +Think of the child’s life—she who danced in the booths about Paris, +she who has been a fortune hunter—God help her!—almost since she was +old enough to lisp any words at all. Would such a pretty waif and +stray go to a man who had red plush breeches about him and solid +silver on his table? Would she enter a house of double doors with a +marble staircase beyond? Never, I’ll swear, to her life’s end. He has +won her through her heart, and worthily won her too. +</p> + +<p> +They were married this morning at ten o’clock at the French Consulate, +and afterwards by the man that keeps the Registry. The rest of us were +half asleep, but we kept it up to the end, and when we left them at +ten o’clock of the night and they were alone together in the house, we +stood by the window a moment to watch him kiss her very tenderly +before we went down the hill to the pit where London lies. She is now +his wife—God bless her pretty face!—though what their future is to +be, whether a fair way in a garden of roses or all the sorrow of the +children of Alsatia is more than any man may dare to say—let alone +your affectionate brother, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Paddy</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch24"> +CHAPTER XXIV. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[In which Henry Gastonard keeps his promise to Martha Warrington.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +4, The Walk, Hampstead, N.W.,<br> +September 21st, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Martha,—I have owed you a letter for a long time, but really, my +dear cousin, a man whose honeymoon is but a fortnight old has little +time to think of the sun—and his days are brief enough. +</p> + +<p> +I was sorry to hear that Arthur considers my marriage a “mere scramble +on to the banks after a wild plunge into the vortex of sin.” I hope he +was not eating new bread and butter when he uttered this masterpiece. +Marriage, I remember, was not made much of by St. Paul, and Arthur +used to be a Pauline until he met you. What he is now I have not yet +discovered. You, who have broken the box of sweet spices at his feet, +are right to complain of the holes in his socks—but as a married man +I have no sympathy with you. +</p> + +<p> +This is dreadful news, too, about your hair. These new dyes are +troublesome tenants, and do not take our hair upon a repairing lease. +It really was very noble of you to dye it so bright a red for the sake +of the Pageant. And now, you say that the dye won’t come out, and that +you must return to Beldon still wearing the brand of Boadicea. Cheer +up, Martha. Have not some of the noblest women in history—chief +amongst them our Elizabeth of blessed memory—dressed auburn locks for +posterity and gloried in their possessions? For my part, had I known +of the fact when writing my skit, “The People of the Pageant,” I would +have mentioned it to your lasting honour. The little book appears to +be getting about—I had no idea that such a trifle could interest so +many. +</p> + +<p> +But concerning more serious things. I am living, as you wished me to +live, in a box of a cottage upon Hampstead Heath. The place is pretty +enough, and now that we are married I am putting some comfort into it. +This is only to be done secretly and by stealth. Chairs, which were +not there yesternight, are discovered at breakfast time. A new piano +dropped from the heavens, so to speak, and has notes that play. I have +bought a splendid brass bed, and the men rigged it up while Mimi was +out shopping. She suspects me, but says little. I have not told her in +the very word that I am poor; but I have led her to that belief, and +her devotion is the consequence. +</p> + +<p> +Would it be foolish to tell you, Martha, that I am not wholly happy in +spite of all this? The vaguest fears afflict me. I know not from day +to day what evil is to overtake me, and yet I am conscious of evil. +Perchance it is but the aftermath of golden days, lived in a sunshine +I had never hoped to see. Perhaps it is but a lover’s humour—I cannot +say, and yet it is as real as any thought that ever dwelt with me. +</p> + +<p> +You must know that old Paddy O’Connell, the wild Irishman with the +thunderous voice and the jet black locks and the magnificent figure, +remains, good friend that he is, in London to “see me through it,” +whatever that may mean. He is lodged at the Jack Straw Castle Inn, on +the very summit of the Heath here, and he is with us the best part of +the day, and often the best part of the night. As Mimi refuses +(because of my poverty) to engage a servant, and is at once +housekeeper, cook and general servant to the establishment, I welcome +Paddy as valet in ordinary, and do not refuse him. At the brushing of +a coat or the carrying of a coal-hod he is immense; while his choice +of wines and cigars is not to be questioned. For the rest, he has a +new scheme of money-making ready for me every day. His last was as +wild as his first—it would do cousin Arthur good to hear of it. +</p> + +<p> +Paddy thought he had discovered a new furnace and retort for the +making of gas. He wished to put a thousand into the thing and for me +to work it in his interest. The invention, it appears, was run by a +sharp American, who had the machine set up in a mews near +Baker-street, and invited us there to witness his experiments. I went +by appointment, and, of course, Paddy accompanied me. Apparently, the +inventor made gas out of anything you like. He had a small furnace and +a retort with a meter attached. I don’t know much about the business, +but I have a pair of eyes in my head, and I used them carefully while +we witnessed the first experiments. Certainly they were wonderful. The +inventor lighted a fire with a little bundle of sticks and then put +all sorts of things into the furnace—bits of paper, bits of cloth, +rubbish from dust-bins; and all the time the meter showed that gas was +being made. He declared to us on his word of honour that he could make +gas “out of dead cats” if he chose. I went away puzzled, but Paddy was +enchanted. +</p> + +<p> +“See here,” says he, “is it a fortune to ye or is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Paddy,” said I, “fortunes do not come quite so kindly—I want +to think a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Think be hanged!” says he, “ ’tis thinking ye have been for five years +or more. Will ye starve or make gas?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gas,” said I, “does not generally starve, Paddy. There’s a lot of it +about in London.” +</p> + +<p> +“To the devil with it, Harry. Will ye take the man’s offer or leave +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you to-morrow, Paddy, when we have seen him again.” +</p> + +<p> +He was very angry at this, and would not come to lunch with me. Of +course, I told Mimi all about it, and asked her opinion. She knows +less about gas than I do; but she has a wonderful little head of her +own, and her wisdom often puts me to shame. +</p> + +<p> +“People cannot make gas out of rubbish, Harry. I am sure of it. Did +you light the fire yourself, or did he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he did, Mimi.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well; take some wood to-morrow and offer to light it for him.” +</p> + +<p> +I told her that I would do so, and we changed the subject with a +laugh. She had made a wonderful omelet, but had put sugar instead of +salt into it, and I had to confess that a savoury omelet made with +sugar was a delicacy to captivate the heart of Brillat Savarin. The +afternoon we spent in the lanes on our bicycles, and at night a +mollified Paddy came to dine with us and made no reference to the gas, +though I observed that he took but a moderate quantity of that +commodity with his whisky. +</p> + +<p> +Ten o’clock had been the hour fixed for our second visit to +Baker-street, and we were there, as the Americans say, on time. I +don’t know whether the inventor took the matter as already settled, +but he wore a fine frock-coat and had a pretty white rose in his +buttonhole. The usual preliminaries being over, he told me that he +proposed to make gas out of a box of child’s bricks, an old volume of +illustrated newspapers, and a woman’s discarded shawl. I listened +patiently, and did not interfere until the moment he was about to +light the fire; when I stepped forward and produced the bundle of +sticks with which Mimi had provided me. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” said I, “if you expect me to put any money into this, I +must light the fire to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +Well, Martha, if a thunderbolt had hit him the man could not have +looked more surprised. And yet his <i>sang-froid</i> did not desert him; he +pretended to acquiesce with the best of good grace. +</p> + +<p> +“It is immaterial to me,” he said; “you will find the furnace a little +damp—so many queer things get into it. By all means try, and I will +get a pair of bellows to help you.” +</p> + +<p> +He was out of the room in a jiffy, and we heard him running down the +stairs. For my part I made no attempt whatever to light his fire. +</p> + +<p> +“Paddy,” said I, “he will return with those bellows on the kalends of +March. I’ll give you fifty pounds if he comes back to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +Paddy would not hear of it. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” cried he, “d’ye mean to say we have met with a swindler?” +</p> + +<p> +“Undoubtedly, and a very impudent one.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll never believe it. Ye do the man an injustice; ’tis a lie, I +say!” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Paddy; send out for some lunch and the morning newspapers. +We can soon prove it one way or the other.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor man, he was in a fearful state, for there is no more trusting +soul in all Ireland to-day than Paddy O’Connell. I need not tell you, +Martha, that the man never came back. The secret of his furnace was +the secret of the bundle of sticks with which he lighted his fire. +These were chemically prepared, and generated the gas which caused the +meter to register. +</p> + +<p> +And so, alas, poor Paddy! There was no more sorrowful man in Hampstead +than my good friend that night. If he made no actual reference to the +evanescent subject of gas, I observed that he took plain water with +his whisky and uttered certain pious aphorisms concerning the +wickedness of this world in general and of its merchants in +particular. Forty-eight hours afterwards he had another scheme +prepared. I am to set up in London as an art connoisseur—to advise +the dealers concerning old pictures and the public concerning new +ones. This, he says, will bring me a decent income, at any rate, and +assure me the friendship of millionaires. +</p> + +<p> +“And who knows,” he asks me triumphantly, “that one of ’em won’t take +a fancy to you and make you a partner in his affairs? ’Tis a thing +that has happened, and not so wonderful. Ye have Mimi to keep, and ye +may have the children. Will ye be sitting idle while she starves, +Harry? Shame on ye for the thought.” +</p> + +<p> +To which I can make no response, Martha. Idleness has caught me in its +iron grip, and I am spellbound. The sunny days pass so swiftly. There +is a crown of tousled hair upon my pillow when I wake; I see the one +face in all the world that should be there when I go to my sleep at +night. Mimi herself appears to live in a kind of wonderland. Sometimes +she dreams through long spells of silence; there are other hours when +the old life stirs in her blood and all the riot and merriment of the +Butte must claim her. Again and again I have spoken to her of her +childhood, but can awaken no new memories. A wood, and a lonely road, +and a woman’s terrible face—such are her impressions. To speak of +them is to recall those phantoms of fear which have haunted me from +the beginning and are not unknown to her. I repeat that they may be +the creations of happiness itself, for what is left for me to desire +but this possession of all that I have sought—this peace which +passeth understanding? +</p> + +<p> +Convey, I beg of you, to cousin Arthur such impressions of my +affection as will suit his mood. His sermon on the “Damnable Errors of +Modernism” I should have thought a little advanced for the simple +fisherfolk at Lowestoft. As for the holiday-makers, they must be hard +put to it sometimes to discover something new—so I suppose they went +in. The main thing is, did you play to capacity; I mean, in ordinary +parlance, had you a good collection? +</p> + +<p> +It would be cruel to hear that the damnable heresies aforesaid were +assessed by Lowestoft at a sum of seven-and-six sterling—the amount +in the plate upon the last occasion when it was put before—Your +affectionate Cousin, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Harry</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch25"> +CHAPTER XXV. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Containing certain instructions to M. Jules Farman, ex-agent of +police at 4 (bis), Rue du Quatre Septembre, Paris.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +4, The Walk, Hampstead, London, N.W.,<br> +September 28th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Monsieur Farman,—The inquiries set up for me by the French +Consul, of which I spoke to you in a recent letter, appear to have +been without fruit. I am, therefore, craving your kind services once +more in my interest and begging your diligence. +</p> + +<p> +It is known to you that I have married Mademoiselle Mimi, who cost us +so pretty an adventure at Raincy together; but the circumstance of my +marriage and my wife’s own solicitude make it more necessary than ever +that I should be put in possession of all the facts which inquiry and +patience may disclose concerning her birth and parentage. I know no +one in Paris to whom I would as soon commit my interests as to you, +and I hereby beg of you to accept the service and to spare no expense +to further it. From what the Consul has been so good as to tell me, +your inquiries will be best pursued in the neighbourhood of Orleans, +and especially at the house of the old woman Marie, if she be still +living and capable of answering any questions at all. +</p> + +<p> +There is another circumstance—so shadowy that I mention it with +hesitation, but so full of remote possibility that I have no right to +withhold it. For some days now, I have had the idea that this little +house of mine in London is being watched. Possibly my fears are +altogether groundless. We have led an eccentric life in this place and +have carried here some of the habits and practices with which Paris +made us familiar. These may have provoked the curiosity of the +neighbours or of others who have heard of them by rumour. Be that as +it may, my wife has been much alarmed upon more than one occasion, and +I am not without my fears that we are upon the threshold of a greater +mystery than any which has yet attended her adventurous life. +</p> + +<p> +I may add that there is just one man in Paris who, in my wife’s +judgment, should have been sought out by us before but has escaped our +observation and eluded our reckoning. He is a burly ruffian who +frequents the old Café of the Assassins, and he is often to be found +there nowadays. They know him by the name of Jean-le-Mont, a title by +which you will readily discover him. +</p> + +<p> +I commend this man to your notice as one who might be able to help +you. Meanwhile, accept the assurance of my profound +consideration.—And permit me to remain, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Yours very faithfully,<br> +<span class="sc">Henry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + +<p> +I enclose a draft for a hundred pounds. You are to draw upon me +immediately for any further sums you may require. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch26"> +CHAPTER XXVI. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Madame Mimi writes a letter to Paddy O’Connell.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The Hotel Metropole, Brighton,<br> +Sunday. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Great Big Monsieur Paddy,—I cannot very much write the English +as now, but I shall have to say to you what is not proper. Why do you +tell me the untrue things about my husband—that he is the poor man +and no more shall have any of the moneys? Is it, Monsieur Paddy, +because the men always think they are good when they tell the untruth +to the lady? But I know, and I am angry, very angry with you. You +shall never tell me untrue things again—<i>jamais de ma vie</i>. +</p> + +<p> +I would tell you that we have gone away from the Hampstead to the +border of the sea. If Harry had not the moneys he could not have led +me here in the big motor-car—so big, Monsieur Paddy, that we could +have put you in it as well. And we have come to the hotel, and I am so +frightened of the people and I think I shall run away. But Harry says +no—and I remain, for I could not be, oh, not for a little single +hour, away from the place where <i>mon mari</i> dwells. So I stay, but am +very sad—dear friend, if you would understand how sad I am! +</p> + +<p> +Why do the men come to my house and watch me? I do not say to my +husband half the things I know, for that shall make him afraid also. +Is it, Monsieur Paddy, that someone hates me for being his wife? Shall +you think that Madame Lea sends the men? She is not the woman who may +forget him—how well I remember it, and how often I tell it by myself +when no one is in the apartment with me. She will not forget—that +clever, wicked Madame Lea who love all the men for moneys but not any +at all for the love. +</p> + +<p> +It was because I have been afraid that my husband brought me to the +border of the sea. We have put on all our clothes and are very +beautiful. I must not sing as I walk to and fro, and if the music +makes me want to dance I must hold myself down upon my <i>banc</i>. All the +afternoons the <i>monde</i> goes up and down in a carriage—such <i>gros +monsieurs</i> with fur round their necks, and the English lady who is so +sad and makes her shoulders bare before she sits down to dinner. +</p> + +<p> +I like the sun and I like the sea—the great big wild sea, where +across so far is my beloved France. I am very happy with my husband, +but, oh, so much afraid, that I wake in the night and lay my head upon +his breast and cry myself because he is there and I am his wife. Ah, +Monsieur Paddy, how unhappy to be no one—never to have known that you +were a little child and that you had a home. I am that, and I am +ashamed because it has been so—that I am not as the others, and that +my husband shall never be proud of me because of what I was when I +left my father’s house. +</p> + +<p> +Will you not write to me, my dear Monsieur Paddy, and tell me how +wrong I am? Do not refuse Mimi the Simpleton. She is very simple +still, dear Monsieur Paddy, and she have no right to believe that her +happiness is not the dream which will pass away. +</p> + +<p> +Why did you go from us to your desert country? Why did you leave us? +It was not kind, Monsieur—and you have been our friend. All the +others is gone away—the Chevalier, the wicked Monsieur Oleander, the +kind Monsieur Barrymore. They have taken my husband’s money and gone +away—ah, <i>quel drole du monde!</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mais vous</i>,—Well, I shall forgive you, for you will come back to me. +And you will write the letter to say that I am wicked and that I must +not be afraid. And please to tell me that it is not Madame Lea, and +that my husband will never see her—never as long as we both shall +live. +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Your devoted,<br> +<span class="sc">Mimi Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch27"> +CHAPTER XXVII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Paddy O’Connell replies to Mimi’s letter.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The Headland Hotel, Portrush, Ireland,<br> +October 2nd, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Mimi,—Your pretty letter came to me in confidence, my dear, or I +would have answered you with a telegram. Though, to be sure, what a +man puts in a telegram is private enough, neither he nor anyone else +being able to made head nor tail of it sometimes. What I wanted to say +to you was just this—that you are a foolish little girl to write to +me as you did, though there’s no one I’d sooner hear from, and no one +whose letters I’d be readier to answer. +</p> + +<p> +What’s all this nonsense about the men that watch you, Mimi? Don’t the +men always watch a pretty woman anyway? I’ll not flatter you at all, +but if it’s the watching that you’re after, come over to this golfing +country, and you shall have five and fifty men on the first tee to see +you off, and as many of the women behind them to declare you’d be +pretty if it wasn’t for your “faytures.” So have done with your +nonsense! I’ll be writing Harry this very day and giving him a word of +my mind about all that you tell me. He’s made strange friends in his +days of seedtime, and they’re above the ground now at the harvest. +That’s the way we men have ’em, my dear. We sow friendships in our +youth and often enough reap thistles in our old age. +</p> + +<p> +Harry was wise to take you away, and I hope he’ll keep you in the same +place. There’s nothing like change, though precious little of that +same comes the way of Paddy O’Connell. To me the world is all the +same, my dear—just a great grass field with a lot of sand-pits +therein, and your Paddy in one of them for a certainty. +</p> + +<p> +What d’ye think the fellows here had the impudence to do this morning? +Why, to follow me and old Colonel Willis when we were playing a round +of the golf. He’s a very wicked habit of using bad language, which I +have no mind to be listening to, and when I saw a crowd about the +first tee, I asked them what they supposed they had come out to see. +And what do you think they answered me? “Why,” says one of them, “we +haven’t come here to see—we’ve come here to listen.” Be hanged to +their impudence. +</p> + +<p> +There’s one point in your letter which I haven’t spoken of, Mimi, and +I speak of it now unwillingly. ’Twould be about the Lea woman. Be sure +that Harry will see no more of her. I say it, and Paddy O’Connell +makes no mistakes in a matter of this kind. He’s done with her—he +wished to be done with her a year ago, but she wouldn’t let him. And +ask yourself this, my dear—when a man has got the woman he wants, is +he likely to want the woman he hasn’t got? Think no more of it, I say. +Be off with him to all the places where there’s music to be heard and +bright people to be seen, and let me hear of the brave little girl I +used to know in Paris, and will never forget. +</p> + +<p> +So here’s my love to you wrapped up in a bit of a letter and posted in +the great Irish country. ’Tis no great spirit I’m writing in, but +you’d never understand all the trouble that comes to a man who’s +taking three on the greens where he ought to take two, and can never +hold a hand at the cards without somebody insulting him. To the devil +with them all! They put two aces of hearts in the pack of cards I +played Bridge with last night, and me not discovering it until the +second rubber. Would ye wonder that I walked out of the window and +banged it after me. +</p> + +<p> +I write to Harry by this post. If he shouldn’t show you the letter, +don’t pretend to know what’s in it. +</p> + +<p> +But it’s wisdom, my dear, and that’s a rare commodity in these +days.—God bless you—and, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Paddy O’Connell</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch28"> +CHAPTER XXVIII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[The Same Author addresses Henry Gastonard at the Hotel Metropole, +Brighton.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The Headland Hotel, Portrush, Ireland,<br> +October 2nd, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Harry,—What’s all this now about your trouble at home and the +men that are looking after you? Is it dreams, or are spirits about? I +hear from your angel of a wife that some nonsense has come into both +your heads. And I haven’t the patience to hear it—so there’s the +truth. +</p> + +<p> +Now, you have got to be up and doing, and acting the man’s part. +Remember, you have made as odd a marriage—but as wise a one—as any +man that ever put a ring in his waistcoat pocket, and couldn’t find it +there when the parson asked him. Mimi is a little wild animal that you +took from the prairie—as soft as silk, as gentle to your hand; but, +man, with the blood of the prairie in her veins. Remember this every +day you get up from her side—she’s the daughter of savages, and her +birthright will cry out for a hearing sometimes. +</p> + +<p> +What are all these fears of hers? Are they not the alarm of the +gazelle which sniffs a lion on the sky line, and would be moving? What +are the mad outbreaks you speak of—the frenzied desire for change and +movement? Are they not born of the same impulse which sends a wild +pony scampering through the forest and keeps him at it until he’s +exhausted? Be very patient with her. The man who would keep a wild +bird well should not begrudge the money he spends for a decent +cage—and a large one to boot. +</p> + +<p> +To be plain with you, Harry, I’d be less troubled about your good +little wife if I had a better story to tell of her husband. You say +that you are planning a scheme which will surprise me presently. Did +you ever hear tell of the South Sea Bubble where a rogue made a +fortune by advertising a business “presently to be disclosed?” Paddy +O’Connell is not the one to be putting his hopes for you in any +company like that. Be up and doing; do you realise that in a few +months you’ll have no more than a bank clerk, and with a power of +spending which would shame the Jam of Rorypore? +</p> + +<p> +Did I tell you that I had a letter from America which gave me some +concern for a few days? A fellow wrote me that he had discovered a +gold mine, and, being an old friend of my father’s, had put me down at +the beginning for fifty shares. “These,” says the man, “are now worth +about a thousand apiece, and there is gold banked against your name in +New York to that amount.” All that I had to do was to send him a +cheque for five hundred and forty pounds, the unpaid call on the +shares. Bedad, I’d have done it but for McCarthy, the solicitor, who’s +the finest nose in Ireland for scenting out a “do,” and was on the rat +before he’d got half way out of his hole. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” says he, “this is the gold brick over again.” +</p> + +<p> +“What brick?” asks I, astonished. +</p> + +<p> +“The gold brick,” says he; “if you go out there, he’ll show you a lump +of gold as big as a Kerry flint, and there’ll be lead inside of the +same.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve no trust in humanity,” says I—and “Devil a bit,” says he—so +I’m keeping my money, though I’ve heard of a little scheme for +shipping Irish horses to the gold-fields of Alaska, which should be +worth something if worked by honest men. Ay, and that’s the rub. +Henry, my boy, where do the honest men hide themselves these days? I’d +sooner look for an old ball in a bunker full of stones than try to +find one of the same. +</p> + +<p> +You must be coming to Ireland and bringing Mimi with you. We’ll show +her the wild man’s country together, and, perhaps, be teaching her the +golf. ’Tis true that neither of us can play, but, my dear boy, the +best teachers in the world are those who know nothing themselves, as +you’ll observe both in the realms of art and literature, to say +nothing of those of sport. Bring the child over and let’s cheer her up +awhile. I’ll warrant there’ll be men enough to watch her; but she +won’t be afraid of them, devil a bit.—Your friend, as ever, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Paddy</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch29"> +CHAPTER XXIX. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Henry Gastonard makes an urgent appeal to Jules Farman, of the Rue du +Quatre Septembre, Paris.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +4, The Walk, Hampstead,<br> +October 11th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear M. Farman,—Your response to my urgent telegram that you should +leave Paris and come to me immediately, brings the reply that you +cannot leave until to-morrow. I am therefore writing you this letter +with what composure I can in the face of this dreadful event, that you +may be in possession of all the facts before you leave Paris, and able +to deal with them there, if they are of service to you. +</p> + +<p> +It was at nine o’clock last Sunday night that I first discovered the +crime which had been committed in my house. I had been absent, perhaps +the best part of an hour, making a call upon a friend who desired to +consult me upon a French picture he purchased recently. We returned +from Brighton upon the previous afternoon, my wife apparently having +overcome those hallucinations which have troubled her for some weeks +past, and being quite reconciled to the prospect of a continued +residence at Hampstead. She was in no way unhappy at the thought of +being alone, nor did I have any scruples about leaving her. My +suspicions were first awakened when I discovered that my friend had +not written to me at all, and that the letter which I received from +him was a clever but undoubted forgery. +</p> + +<p> +You may imagine with what haste I went back to Hampstead. I had left +my wife at the piano in the sitting-room, where, the weather being +chilly, a bright fire burned; but I perceived immediately I approached +the house that it was in darkness, although a glimmer upon the blind +still spoke of the firelight. This alarmed me greatly. I tried to open +the front door with my latchkey, but found that the bolt had been +slipped. A loud knock and ring obtained no answer. I was now seriously +alarmed, as you may suppose, and being determined to obtain instant +admittance to the house, I smashed the large pane of glass in the +sitting-room, and entered without further delay. +</p> + +<p> +I have told you that I left my wife in this room, seated at the piano +in the further corner near the French window by which you pass out to +the garden. That she had been called away without warning was proved +by the fact that one of the candles still guttered in its socket, +though too faintly to give any light, and that the sheet of music lay +upon the floor, indicating that she had been turning the very page +when the summons came to her. Save for the fact that the fire burned +low and that the electric light was switched off, there was nothing +else in this place to excite suspicion. I called my wife loudly by +name, going to the window and hoping to find her in the garden. She +did not answer me. I returned to the hall, and immediately discovered +the body of the man. +</p> + +<p> +Some of the newspapers, I remember, say that he was a Spaniard. I +should pronounce him nothing of the kind, but one of your own +countrymen who had lived long in the South. When I found him he was +quite dead, and had fallen forward upon a wicker seat at the foot of +the stairs. To this, perhaps, he had staggered after the blow was +struck. I could not at the first detect any mark upon his body, nor +did I wish to believe that he was dead; but, running out into the +street to give the alarm, I sent one of my neighbours for the police, +another for a doctor. The latter told us the worst immediately. The +man had been struck down by a heavy implement; his skull had been +fractured, and he was dead. +</p> + +<p> +It is not my intention, in such a letter as this, to dwell upon my own +state of mind at such a moment, or to relate to you the trivial +incidents of such a momentous hour. My wife’s disappearance, the +evidence of a conflict in the hall, the wild tales told by the +neighbours, were but the first fruits of a tragedy which paralysed my +faculties. To all their questions I could give only the vaguest +answers. I told them that I knew nothing of the wretched man who had +been struck down in my house; I could give them no clue as to the +purpose of his visit. I had never seen him before, did not know him, +could not imagine any business which should bring him to my house. +</p> + +<p> +To the police I confessed Madame Mimi’s story of men who watched her +and of vague fears which had haunted her. They pressed me for +particulars more minute, and I could not answer them. Nor did I +perceive their drift then as I perceive it now. They believe, +incredible as the supposition is, that the murdered man had been one +of my wife’s lovers in Paris, that he visited her secretly, and that +for some reason at present undisclosed she has murdered him. +</p> + +<p> +I must tell you the plain truth: I can keep nothing from you. London +speaks of little else than this appalling crime; nor am I sure that +the voice of popular opinion does not agree with the cruel assumptions +of those officially in charge of this case. +</p> + +<p> +I have, my dear Farman, been associated with you in much that concerns +my private life, and always in the cause of one dear to me and to whom +my happiness is for ever linked. You will imagine my situation this +day in England. I am alone in my house, and there is a hue and cry in +the streets for the woman I love more than anything on earth. I can +say nothing to which the world will listen in her defence. My letter +to the newspapers is printed by some, by others withheld as +indiscreet. The police themselves but repeat a parrot’s tale—“The man +came to the house; he was my wife’s lover; he was killed by her, +aided, it may be, by some of the disreputable friends she knew in +Paris and who are now hiding her for their own ends.” +</p> + +<p> +Admit, my friend, the preposterous nature of this assumption. You have +known the child that the Butte called Mimi La Godiche. Is not her +whole story a refutation of this calumny most base? Did she not guard +her virtue in a circle where the very name of virtue has long been +forgotten? Were not her gentleness, her charity, her forbearance the +wonder even of the outcasts among whom she was thrown? And this child +is now charged with a lover and with his murder! Oh, monstrous, I say! +most monstrous and damnable, as I will presently prove to them. +</p> + +<p> +In a common way, I have now no right to speak of fortune; but I have +been saving of my resources, and still possess a few thousand pounds +of my own, every penny of which goes to the purpose of my wife’s +vindication. If others fail, I will find her. If these vigilant police +cannot track her down, I will do so, going by night and day to my task +until the truth is known and justice accomplished. Be you my friend in +this, I beg of you. By all that is of old association and friendship, +stand by me now and bring your magnificent resources to my aid. +</p> + +<p> +I should tell you that the murdered man was apparently forty years of +age, small of stature, with a trimmed black beard and a wealth of +black hair slightly speckled with grey. He was very well dressed, +apparently a man of the world—but there is nothing on the body to +tell us who he was nor any clue as yet to his identity. Cross to +London, I beg of you, and help us to identify him. Our work will begin +when that is done; it cannot begin before. +</p> + +<p> +So I repeat, come without delay to a man whose friends stand apart +from him but whose faith is unshaken. +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Henry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch30"> +CHAPTER XXX. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Jules Farman sends to Henry Gastonard some account of his +stewardship.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The——Inn, Hampstead,<br> +October 16th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Sir,—I am sending this by a trusty hand to the New Travellers’ +Club in Piccadilly as your esteemed instructions command me. +</p> + +<p> +I have to-day viewed the body of the murdered man and am glad to tell +you that I was immediately able to identify him. He is the Count +d’Antoine, who had an apartment in the Rue Boissiers at Paris, and is +far from being unknown to our best society. +</p> + +<p> +I had the honour to be employed by the Count some three years ago upon +a mission whose particulars do not concern us. He was of an old family +of the Antoines, of Picardy, a well-known shot and horseman, and by no +means an idle member of the Jockey Club. During recent years his +fortunes have been at a low ebb, but he made friendships which served +him well, particularly that of the Marquis de Saint Faur, who will be +desolated to hear this grievous news. +</p> + +<p> +I will say at once that I am utterly unable to imagine any cause of +association between Madame Gastonard and this poor gentleman. He was +not a frequenter of the artistic world; had, to my knowledge, no +interest in books and pictures; had set foot in Montmartre perhaps +twice in the whole course of his life. This I am able to tell you +because I found it necessary to go into the details of his career +somewhat closely when I had the honour to act for him. +</p> + +<p> +I am compelled, Monsieur, to address you very plainly, and to speak at +this moment as I would hesitate to do at any other. The assumption +upon the part of the police in London that Count Antoine had been at +one time the lover of Madame Gastonard is not supported by any +evidence, and is to me entirely incredible. I shall refuse to give +serious consideration to such a supposition until I am compelled to do +so by testimony I cannot refuse. And I would beg you not to bestow +upon it a second thought. +</p> + +<p> +We are therefore confronted by this perplexing fact: That a man, +distinguished in French society, but knowing nothing of London, goes +over to England to see a lady of whom he had no previous knowledge; +that he visits her in a remote quarter of the city when she is alone; +that he is followed there by others and murdered in her very presence. +To this there can be but one explanation. The Count d’Antoine was the +instrument of some secret embassy; he desired to see Madame alone; but +his purpose was known to others, who followed him, and defeated it at +the last moment. Let us analyse the more material evidence for this. +</p> + +<p> +And first, the desire to see Madame alone. Is it possible to believe +that the Count’s arrival at the moment of your absence could have been +coincidence—especially when your own habits are remembered, and the +rare occasions when you quit your house after nightfall? More probable +in every way is the assumption that he had watched the house for some +days, waited patiently for his opportunity, and availed himself +immediately of your absence. +</p> + +<p> +None the less, the fact is significant—for this is done, observe, not +by a low fellow, possibly a blackmailer or a beggar, but by a French +gentleman of position, one justly esteemed for his honourable actions, +and quite incapable of any dishonour in this purpose. Here our +difficulties begin; but here also I think that we begin to see the +light. +</p> + +<p> +Of this it will be time enough to speak when that light shines a +little brighter, and is strong enough to lead us to some surer ground. +My duty at the moment is to place the evidence before you in its +simplest form, and to deduce therefrom such an hypothesis as may be +both reasonably possible and no less serviceable to us. And here I ask +you to observe that the Count d’Antoine would not have approached +Madame as he did unless the disclosure which he had to make must be +embarrassing to her or to others. The alternative is the assumption +that he was her lover—an alternative so grotesque that I do not +permit it so much as to appear in my reckoning. +</p> + +<p> +No, Monsieur; the case is not one of those elementary studies of human +folly or of human passion, with which the police of France are so +often called upon to deal. It is the story of a man who carried a +secret from France to London, who was followed thither by others who +shared that secret with him, and determined either to prevent its +disclosure or themselves to profit by it. Such unknown men shadowed +the Count—it is possible that they watched the house as he watched +it, and were themselves about to do what he would have done but for +this tragic interruption. The question remains: Was their object that +of blackmail, or did they act for some unknown persons who had +determined to guard at any cost this imagined secret? +</p> + +<p> +It is true, Monsieur, that the crime itself gives no clue to such a +study of intention. At the first blush I might argue that the +disappearance of Madame, who, I do not doubt, has been forcibly +abducted from your house, points to the fact that blackmail is the +issue; but we are not to forget that an alternative presents itself, +and that these men having committed this crime, must for very safety’s +sake also silence the solitary witness of it. So they abduct Madame, +and hold her as a hostage either until they gain a place of safety or +have purchased her silence in another way. +</p> + +<p> +Of these alternatives, it is my sincere hope that the former +approximates to the truth rather than to the latter. Men whose one +desire is gain will resort to extreme measures reluctantly. I should +fear less from the avowed criminals of Paris, who have a precious +secret to sell, than from others whose projects may be more daring. +Such evidence as I can collect helps me to the belief that it is with +the criminals of Paris that I have to deal. +</p> + +<p> +Permit me to recapitulate this evidence as briefly as may be. +</p> + +<p> +And firstly, that of your neighbour, Captain Esmond, the officer of +Marine who witnessed the Count’s arrival at your house. This he +declares to have been within ten minutes of your departure—so proving +that the Count was aware of your absence and desired immediately to +avail himself of an unexpected opportunity. +</p> + +<p> +Secondly, the evidence of the cabman Williams, who testifies that a +small covered motor-car waited the third part of an hour or more at +the corner of the street near by the great house, Bell Moor, and +passed him later on near Swiss Cottage station, going at a great pace +in the direction of Regent’s Park. +</p> + +<p> +Thirdly, the evidence of the boy, Harry Carter, who spoke to the +driver of the car and obtained an answer—he believes in the French +tongue, but is unable to say; so ignorant of any other tongue is he. +</p> + +<p> +Fourthly, the evidence of the servant girl, Cecily Rayner, who +declares that she saw a man climbing over the garden wall of No. 4 +about the hour of this crime, and that she mentioned the matter to her +mistress, who immediately went out to the garden but discovered the +house to be in darkness and heard no sound of any kind. +</p> + +<p> +This, Monsieur, is our evidence. To me the conclusions are very +natural: +</p> + +<p> +1—That the Count was murdered almost immediately he entered your +house. +</p> + +<p> +2—That the assassin entered by the way of the garden, passed through +your sitting-room, and struck the unhappy man while he was actually in +conversation with Madame. +</p> + +<p> +3—That this crime was so swift, so brutal, and so remorseless that +your wife fell in a faint—and so lying was carried immediately to the +carriage without being able to offer any resistance whatever. +</p> + +<p> +4—That the assassin was either in the service of the Count, or so +situated as to be in possession of his plans and intentions, and thus +able to forestall them. +</p> + +<p> +Such, Monsieur, is the result of the work I have had the honour to do +for you. I confess with regret that we have dug but a poor foundation, +and that the corner-stone of our house is yet to be laid. This task +must be accomplished not in London but in Paris. I leave to-night by +the boat train from Charing Cross and beg you to accompany me. +</p> + +<p> +For in Paris alone, Monsieur, shall we discover why the Count +d’Antoine visited Madame Gastonard, and what was the secret, so +precious to him and to others, which he could disclose to her alone. +</p> + +<p> +I have the honour to be, Monsieur, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Your obedient servant,<br> +<span class="sc">Jules Henry Farman</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch31"> +CHAPTER XXXI. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Henry Gastonard sends Paddy O’Connell some account of his labours in +Paris.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Hôtel St. Paul, Paris,<br> +October 19th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—Your letter speaks of a good heart and a true friendship. +In your own words, God bless you for it. +</p> + +<p> +I cannot tell you what I have suffered during these terrible days. +There are few to whom I would speak of it. Sometimes I wish to God +that I could wake no more. The world moves about me as a rushing sea +of which I am afraid. I fear for my very reason. +</p> + +<p> +Consider it all and bear with me. I was the happiest man in Europe +before this trouble came. Nothing in life but Mimi mattered then. Oh, +Paddy, if I could tell you what it was to have her always with me—to +wake each day and find her head upon my pillow, to sleep with her +white arms about my neck. None of us knew her a little bit in the old +days. But, Paddy, I learned to know her; I learned the truth which few +men learn—the secret was mine—the sweetness of it past belief. +</p> + +<p> +And to say she is gone from me! If she were dead, the bitterness of +the truth could not be more poignant. I think of every city as her +prison; I pass no house in Paris that I do not say, If Mimi were +there! A thousand suppositions of life and death torment me every day. +Does she know what I suffer? Is it not possible that she will send a +message to me? Day answers nothing—the nights are silent. I can but +wait and pray. +</p> + +<p> +You say that you arrived in London upon the morning after my +departure. I do not ask you to come to me in Paris, because I know not +whether Paris will be my home to-morrow, or some other city to which +destiny may lead me. Be sure that I am prepared for anything. I work +with Jules Farman literally from the rising of the sun until midnight. +We have visited more dens in Paris than I would have numbered for all +the slums of France. And we know no more than the meanest servant of +the police, who writes his theories in five folios, where my wife is +hidden, or what this stupendous mystery may be. +</p> + +<p> +You will have read my letter in the English papers, and I have little +to add to it to-day. It was my purpose to remove the cowardly +suspicions which hover about the name of one of the purest of women, +and this I believe that I have done. Is it not monstrous to see how +ready the world is to doubt a woman’s honour, how willing to +anticipate her guilt. No reason governs the tongue of scandal, nor +does justice curb it. Here was a pretty French girl—she is immoral, +says slander. A man visits her—a man she has never seen before—he is +her lover, says the multitude. He is foully murdered in her house—she +must be the murderess. An English police, never clever when any gift +of subtlety is demanded, will accept no story but the one which +ministers to its love of the commonplace. A French police, readier to +look further afield, still believes that the Count was Mimi’s lover. +And I am alone against these. My love can but speak in a voice which +the clamour of conviction would drown. Ah, Paddy, if I could but call +these slanderers one by one before me; could compel them to answer me; +could wring a cry of justice from their throats. For I alone knew what +Mimi was, and alone I must defend her. +</p> + +<p> +I have told you that we visited many of the dens upon the further side +of the Butte. Our reward is some story of the disappearance of the +notorious ruffian, Jean-le-Mont, and of his aforetime accomplice +Bar-le-Duc the apache. This was learned at the old Café des Assassins +when we visited it the second time. If we risked much, you will +believe how little any thought of personal danger deterred us. Indeed, +I do truly believe that a ruffian there was within an ace of drawing a +pistol upon us both—but Farman is the master of such men as these, +and I am never afraid in his company. +</p> + +<p> +I should tell you that it was mid-day when we visited the Café and +found no one in charge but a very pretty and very ragged little French +girl sitting before a charcoal stove in the outer room. She knew Jules +Farman well, and asked him pointedly why he came there a second time +in as many days. When he answered her evasively she ran away to tell +someone else, who proved to be a dirty and unwashed ruffian, by name +Rogers—for he was an Englishman long known to the English police and +well watched by the French. This fellow was already drunk—a bottle of +spirits stood by the side of his filthy bed; a revolver lay close to +his hand. Had he been sober, there would have been civility enough; +but in his mad state he flourished his pistol wildly upon our entrance +and would have shot us for a word. In the end Farman frightened him +thoroughly, and he told us somewhat abjectly to follow the giant +Jean-le-Mont and to put our questions to him. +</p> + +<p> +It is possible that this is a clue; it may be mere coincidence. You +will not have forgotten my letter to you in which I told you of the +robbery at the Quat-Z-Arts ball, of Mimi’s recovery of my gold +cigarette-case from this very ruffian, and of his subsequent threats +against her. But I find it hard to believe that a monster, whose one +ambition of the day is to steal money for his drink to-morrow should +remember so pitiful an incident, much less the name of one of the +thousand friendless girls who haunt the Butte and its vicinity. +</p> + +<p> +In this Jules Farman agrees with me—but he asks the pertinent +question, Is it not possible that this fellow may be the agent of +others unknown, and that all he has done has been done for money which +comes to him from this undiscovered source? I hope that it may be so. +The police of London are searching Soho and other haunts of Frenchmen +for any news of him—the police here are not less diligent. +</p> + +<p> +You will not be angry with me, Paddy, for speaking of another matter, +and one of which you will hear with little pleasure. Yesterday I had a +letter from Lea d’Alençon inviting me to her house, and assuring me +that Monsieur le Capitaine was heartily ashamed of his treatment of +me. There has been, I understand, something resembling a +reconciliation between the pair, though God knows how long a woman +will be content to be the amiable companion of a man who prefers to go +to bed at eleven o’clock at night and considers a dinner at +Armenonville as the first instalment of his purgatory. I shall not go +to her house, be sure—nor could I contemplate such an infamy as any +renewal of this acquaintanceship would imply. None the less, I am +troubled—for she speaks in a postscript of her ability to help me, +and declares that my happiness may depend upon a prompt response to +her invitation. +</p> + +<p> +You say that you are in London awaiting my return. I can give you no +definite news of this, but I could wish it rather sooner than later. +Everything here reminds me of Mimi and the happy days. I visited the +old Maison du bon Tabac the other day and spent an hour in its empty +rooms. Not a scrawl upon its shabby walls, not a broken pane in its +windows but spoke to me of my little wife and the golden days which +are no more. And just as it is tumbling into decay, so, Paddy, is the +house of my own life falling. I see the great city of Paris below +me—it speaks of eternal things and of the darkness which is eternal. +The green woods rise beyond, and I remember that they gave me Mimi in +the days of the springtime, even as their falling leaves may hide her +to-day from my sight. +</p> + +<p> +All that is here, the voice once musical of Paris, the glare of her +lights, the rolling traffic in the streets, the unceasing business of +pleasure—all this has no meaning for me. I pass by as a man who has +no place in such a pageant, who must walk apart until the end. Even +the memory of the golden days has become an evil thing. I shut the old +pictures from my eyes, but they rise up to mock me. Ah, Paddy, the day +is dark indeed, when a man’s youth stands to him for an evil memory, +and he would blot the yesterday of life from the book he has written. +</p> + +<p> +Write to me often, old friend. Remember how very much I am alone. If +circumstances seem to promise a continued stay here, I will beg you to +come to me. Meanwhile, find me, as always, dear Paddy, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Your friend,<br> +<span class="sc">Harry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch32"> +CHAPTER XXXII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[In which Paddy O’Connell advised his friend Harry to pay a visit.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Jack Straw’s Castle, Hampstead,<br> +October 21st, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Harry,—I have no telegram from you this morning, and am +remaining here. Be good enough to wire upon receipt of this to say if +you would sooner have me in Paris or London—for ’tis little I care +where, so long as I may be of service to you. +</p> + +<p> +Your letter to the daily papers has done a power of good. I had no +idea that any friend of mine could write with so much feeling and good +sense, and I congratulate you upon it. The town, I am told, continues +to talk of little else—but you have given the affair a new turn, and +the newspaper editors have more than they can do with the letters that +come to them. +</p> + +<p> +Now, my boy, I am going to speak very plainly to you. Had you asked me +a month ago whether you should go to Madame Lea’s house, I would have +turned my back upon you for the question, and put it out of your power +to ask me another for many a long day. +</p> + +<p> +But this is not my advice this morning. There is something lying at +the back of my head which may be common sense or may be a fool’s +burden; but it is crying to me all the time that a woman may be the +heart of this mystery, and to a woman you may well go for that news +which no man is able to give you. +</p> + +<p> +I say, go to this Lea d’Alençon and hear what she has to tell you. +When your dear wife is found, ’twill be Paddy O’Connell who will make +his advice good and relieve you of the burden of it. Go to her, and +ask her plainly what is the meaning of the postscript to her letter. +She’ll tell you in five minutes. There never yet was a woman born who +could keep good or bad news from the man who meant to have it from +her. +</p> + +<p> +I shall say no more, lest I should put thoughts into your mind and +inspire you with a hope that has no justification in the facts. One +thing I do ask you to believe, and it is this: that if your wife is +alive and well, and I believe her to be both, we shall have a message +from her before many days have run. ’Tis a poor sort of a house which +can keep a clever woman from speaking out of its windows when she has +the mind to be eloquent—and Mimi is no singing bird to be content +with a spoonful of canary seed. We shall hear from her, I say, and the +news will be good news. So go to visit Madame with a light heart—and +be sure you carry yourself well before her—for a woman tells little +to a coward, and this lady may have much to tell. +</p> + +<p> +I would have you to know that your cousin Martha stands with me in +this opinion, and is all for your going to Madame Lea. “ ’Tis a woman’s +story,” says she, “and a woman must tell it.” I find the little body +mightily concerned about the whole business, and as full of ideas as a +pod of peas. She has been to Hampstead almost every day since I was +here, and we have ransacked your home together for the clues we did +not discover. A livelier companion I would never wish to find, and, +being Arthur’s wife, I forgive her much—even her calling me a fool +for wanting to put an advertisement in the papers advising Mimi that +you are in Paris. +</p> + +<p> +As for Cousin Arthur, there’s a man that has found some heart at last. +I’ll do him the justice to believe that his sympathy is gratis, and +not a return for the seven thousand a year of your money which he +hopes to get in the springtime, and thereafter to preach the Sermon on +the Mount from the neighbourhood of Park-lane. I have here by me, as I +write, a copy of Taylor’s “Holy Living” and a new edition of Smiles’ +“Self Help,” which he has just sent down to you. There is also a slip +of texts underlined, with which I take leave not to trouble you. It is +well meant, and it would be sinful for us to mock him because he wears +a Roman collar and is a little less human than the rest of us. +</p> + +<p> +Don’t fail to let me have the news. The best part of my own is told by +the newspapers before I can breathe a word of it. They have made a +profitable business of this mystery, and there is not a drawing-room, +a club, or a kitchen which does not discuss it every day and all the +days. For you, yourself, I find the warmest sympathy—and it is +possible that you have already done something to earn the same for +your dear wife. God bless her, wherever she is, and send her back to +us before our hearts are broken.—Your friend, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Paddy O’Connell</span>. +</p> + +<p> +P.S.—I have just sent a telegram to an editor man asking him what the +devil he means by an article in his paper this morning suggesting that +Mimi is shielding somebody, and that’s why the police cannot trace +her. It is necessary to be discreet and patient, but if he doesn’t +contradict it to-morrow, I’ll go down and break every bone in his +body, just to show my good opinion of him. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch33"> +CHAPTER XXXIII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[The Reverend Arthur Warrington thanks Paddy O’Connell for services +rendered.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The Red Farm, Beldon, Suffolk,<br> +Eve of the Feast of St. Raphael. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Mr. O’Connell,—I am much obliged by your letter and packages +containing the little books you were unfortunately unable to deliver +to my poor cousin. I thank you also for your friendliness towards Mrs. +Warrington during her mission or charity to the great Metropolis. +</p> + +<p> +That there is no further news concerning this unhappy affair +distresses me greatly. The wages of sin are dreadful indeed; leading, +it would appear, beyond the promises of Holy Writ to these awful +mysteries this twentieth century brings before us. I have no doubt +that poor Harry meant well when he married this girl; but I cannot +forget that he was not blessed by Holy Church, and that he is now +reaping the fruit of his indifference. +</p> + +<p> +A home broken up, this dreadful suspicion hovering about his poor +wife’s name—oh, my dear sir, what moral lessons do not these things +convey. Let us offer him what consolation we can, remembering with the +poet Shakespeare that—murder, though it have no tongue, will speak +with most miraculous organ. +</p> + +<p> +I pray God that these assassins will be brought to justice +speedily.—And am, with renewed thanks, my dear sir, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Yours faithfully,<br> +<span class="sc">Arthur Warrington</span>. +</p> + +<p> +P.S.—Would you be good enough to remind Mrs. Warrington, who in her +distress may have overlooked so trifling a detail of the domestic +curriculum, that the patterns of the chintz did not reach me from +Smallgroves, and that she would do well to see the people about it +while she is in London? +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch34"> +CHAPTER XXXIV. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Henry Gastonard tells Paddy O’Connell of his visit to Madame Lea.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Hôtel St. Paul, Paris,<br> +October 24th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—I had called upon Madame Lea before your letter reached +me. This was done at Jules Farman’s request, for, be sure, that which +you were thinking was not forgotten by a man so able. +</p> + +<p> +I found Madame alone in a handsome apartment in the Avenue Kleber. She +is not changed a wit, is the same beautiful languorous creature that +we knew of old time. +</p> + +<p> +I told you in my last letter that there is some talk of a +reconciliation between her and her husband. This I do not believe, +preferring the view that the Captain’s affections are temporarily +engaged elsewhere. A man who is kind toward his own failings generally +has some charity to spare for those of his wife. Possibly, the man is +merely a philosopher—I do not make myself his judge. +</p> + +<p> +It is sufficient to say that Madame received me with great cordiality, +impressed upon me the fact that we were alone and bade me open my +heart to her. If I did not do this, be sure that my attitude was by no +means irresponsive. I had come to her house to learn if Madame Lea had +a secret, and, learning that, to obtain it from her if that were +possible. A false word would have ruined all. I realised that Mimi’s +very life might depend upon success or failure; nor was I unaware that +my own happiness might be won or lost in that very room. +</p> + +<p> +We begin with a talk that was commonplace enough—her health and mine, +my departure from Paris, the absurdities of our last meeting—and so +to Mimi and my marriage by a natural sequence which diplomacy +demanded. I found her eloquent immediately when Mimi’s name was +mentioned. A woman will discuss a man’s love affair readily enough; +there is no surer passport to his confidence, perhaps to his heart. +And Lea d’Alençon, you will remember, speaks with little fluency upon +any other subject. +</p> + +<p> +Imagine, Paddy, a considerable apartment furnished with all the +precarious grace of the Louis XV. period—but flauntingly modern and +garish in its tone. Say that the walls are panelled in silk of a deep +golden hue; put long mirrors wherever there are niches for them; place +clocks of many kinds upon the tables and in the angles—Cupids marking +the hour of the day; the Hesperides shouldering the golden apple; +“Father Time treading Gaea beneath his giant feet”—all the baubles +which are sold in the Rue de la Paix, and others which came God knows +whence. +</p> + +<p> +The furniture itself was bought, I believe, at the last Exhibition. It +is fine but new, oh, so new!—and Lea’s gown of white and gold brocade +is caught up by it as a flower of bizarre magnificence suitable to so +bright a bed. As for Madame, her eyes are as black as ever, her hair +as splendid—but I think the sun has pencilled that pallid face and +that the years have not forgotten her. Not until I spoke of my +marriage did she betray her wonted energy—not until that moment did +the natural woman reveal itself. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you not tell me that you were in love with the girl when +first I saw you?” she asked. “I would have helped you, Henry—is not a +woman always willing to help a man in love?” +</p> + +<p> +“That, my dear lady,” said I, “is an abstruse speculation. And I am in +no mood for argument. Do you not know what the papers are saying of my +wife?” +</p> + +<p> +She posed languidly and watched me with some cunning. +</p> + +<p> +“I am forgetting how to read English,” she said, “and, Henry, you have +forgotten how to teach me.” +</p> + +<p> +This I passed by. Were Lea d’Alençon upon the scaffold, she would +open a flirtation with the executioner. +</p> + +<p> +“The news is in your own journals,” I said, “and why not? Does Paris +wish to forget one whose picture had no second in last year’s Salon? +But I see that she does—and, Lea, you know the story as well as I do. +Let us abandon the preliminaries, God knows I have little heart to +begin at all.” +</p> + +<p> +She shivered slightly, I knew not why; and for some while her thoughts +appeared to be voyaging afar. Presently she recollected herself and +addressed me seriously. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you know the Count d’Antoine?” +</p> + +<p> +“Absolutely, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never met him while you were in Paris?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never once—but remember my life. The Butte knows little of +society—if there is any democracy in this world, it is that of the +atelier and the conservatoire. At the Hôtel St. Paul I was merely an +English gentleman seeing Paris. Why should I meet the Count +d’Antoine——” +</p> + +<p> +“But your wife——” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you say that she knew him?” +</p> + +<p> +She paused and bit her lip. I could imagine that her thoughts were +travelling again. From this moment, I cannot tell you why, I began to +suspect her. And, Paddy, remember what suspicion meant to me, the +hopes and fears of it, the straw upon the stream of a woman’s caprice, +the light upon the crest, to lose which were a torture. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you say that Mimi knew the Count, Lea?” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled now—a wan smile, not of jest, but of her own endeavour to +deceive. +</p> + +<p> +“There were few pretty women whom the Count did not know——” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you were among the number?” +</p> + +<p> +“I met him twice at the house of the American, Madame Martin, and +again at the Austrian Embassy. A very handsome man, one of those who +bewitch women with the notion that they have a thousand stories, but +would never tell them. Oh, yes, I knew the Count.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you believe it possible that Mimi knew him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Everything is possible in Paris—did she not frequent the gardens?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a lie—she knows the West as a tourist from my own country. Her +home was on the mountain.” +</p> + +<p> +“You say so, Henry—oh, forgive me, I am trying to help you. If she +did not know the Count, why did he go to her house?” +</p> + +<p> +“The question I am here to ask you, Lea.” +</p> + +<p> +“To ask me—am I a sorceress, Henry?” +</p> + +<p> +“In so far as a sorceress is usually cleverer than her kind, yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you think—oh, but it is impossible, it is ridiculous.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed aloud, forcing herself to the mood as an instrument may be +forced by cleverness to a note of discord foreign to it. I perceived +now that she had brought me to her house for curiosity’s sake—not to +tell me what she knew, but to ascertain the extent of my own +suspicions. The discovery maddened me. I could have caught her arms, +and thrust her down, and compelled her to confess. The torture she put +upon me was as deliberate as the insult—and yet I suffered both for +Mimi’s sake. +</p> + +<p> +“It is ridiculous,” she repeated, “the same folly which sends a man to +a woman when his trouble is a woman. I knew the Count; knew him as I +have told you. Would he speak of every chit the atelier or the cabaret +discovered for him? It is madness, Monsieur Henry. You know that I +cannot help you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you invite me to your house?” +</p> + +<p> +“To offer you my sympathy, my friendship—to hear you tell me why you +did this thing; you, who could have a thousand friends among your own +people, to seek one out of the great caravanserai of irresponsibles, +to prate of her virtue, to fight for her, to marry her—is not a +woman’s curiosity justly provoked?” +</p> + +<p> +“And for curiosity’s sake you sent for me to-day—pardon me. I shall +answer that question for you. There was something beyond curiosity, +Madame d’Alençon, there was fear.” +</p> + +<p> +She opened her eyes in wild alarm at this. I had seen her angry +before, but never as she was angry now. There is something of the +tigress in every passionate woman—a good deal of it in Lea +d’Alençon. For a moment I could almost contemplate a second +tragedy—and I do believe, Paddy, had there been a weapon to her hand, +she would have struck me. +</p> + +<p> +“Fear!” she cried, raising herself upon a frail arm, and making no +attempt to modulate the shrill echo of her alarm. “Of what, then, am I +afraid, Monsieur Gastonard?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are afraid of discovery, Madame d’Alençon.” +</p> + +<p> +She laid her head back upon the cushions, and laughed defiantly. I can +give you no better account of her speech and actions than to say that +they were those of an enraged woman whose breeding has no reserves of +self control. A washerwoman complaining at the tub, a virago at the +doors of a tavern had not been a spectacle less repulsive. +</p> + +<p> +“Discovery, Monsieur Gastonard; a precious word, discovery! Are you +mad? Must I say that you have lost your reason? Discovery of whom, of +what—of the fact that all the world knows, that you married a +<i>noctambule</i>, and have been whining ever since for sympathy; that your +Jezebel is as old in her vices as she is young in years; that you were +the dupe, the victim of the <i>canaille</i> of the Butte—must I say +this?—or shall I order you from my house; call my servants to protect +me? Shall I do that, Monsieur Gastonard?” +</p> + +<p> +I kept my temper; the stake was, beyond all belief, momentous to me. A +false step would have put me outside her door; and remember how +premature I had been, how much the unwise agent of my own unwarranted +impulses. +</p> + +<p> +“You are very angry with me,” I said; and added, “perhaps with reason. +Of course, I should not have put it in that way, though it is a method +which others will not hesitate to adopt——” +</p> + +<p> +She turned at this—quickly, as one alarmed, and called to reason by +something which hitherto had escaped her reasoning. +</p> + +<p> +“Others, Monsieur Gastonard?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly—others. There is my friend, Jules Farman, of the Secret +Police. He knows much that neither of us might wish him to know. And +please do not forget that there are circumstances of this crime which +have set the whole world by the ears. There is not a policeman in +Paris or in London who will not move heaven and earth to get at the +truth. So we are all concerned in the matter—and if anyone of us has +been foolish, said or done something which might implicate us, now is +the time to set it right. I put this to you as a friend. Tell me why +you sent for me to-day, and if the confession is to your disadvantage, +I will accept your confidence as an atonement.” +</p> + +<p> +There never was, Paddy, such a wild arrow shot in all this world +before, and never will be again, I do believe. Nothing but a dogged +faith in my own convictions could have bent such a bow. This woman had +sent for me; her manner sufficiently declared her embarrassment. +Unless she had something to offer me, my visit must end in her +discomfiture. Lea d’Alençon is not the woman to bring such an affront +upon herself. This I perceived, and in my mad desire for the truth +could have knelt at her very feet, and implored her to aid me. She +knew—the key was locked in the safe of her intrigues. My God! What a +torture to say as much, and to realise my own impotence! +</p> + +<p> +Well, the shot was fired, and the target touched. She had listened to +me with her eyes wide open, and her mouth pursed up, as though anger +were held at bay a little while by reflection. When she spoke, her +voice had lost its shrill timbre of protest, and all its pleasing +qualities been regained. +</p> + +<p> +“We are all foolish sometimes, Monsieur Gastonard. I was foolish when +I counted you among the number of my friends. Let us not speak of it. +You say that I brought you to my house because I know something. Very +well; I do know something, and you shall know it—the dead Count was +your wife’s lover; that is what I know, Monsieur Gastonard.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a lie,” said I. And I leaned back in my chair, and watched her +critically. “So poor a lie that so clever a woman as Madame Lea should +not have told it.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned her eyes away from me, and continued her infamous story, +unabashed and unashamed. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a lie,” I repeated—but her words held me to my chair as though +an unknown hand caught me by the throat. “Why do you tell me so +foolish a lie, Madame Lea?” +</p> + +<p> +She rose and came across to me. The spell of her mendacity was broken. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell it because I loved you,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes, it is the +truth, and no lie. I loved you, and you left me for this creature, +this <i>canaille</i>, this girl of the fêtes and the circus. Shall I keep +the truth from you now? She murdered the Count when he had no more +money, and his presence was an embarrassment. Do not his friends know +it—did not the Marquis de Saint Faur shut his door upon him for that +very reason?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will ask the Marquis,” said I. But I could hardly speak the word +for trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” she said, “ask him—but you will have far to go, for he is +at Corfu, upon his yacht.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon; he returned to Paris last night.” +</p> + +<p> +It was as though I had struck her in the face. She stood there as some +marble figure of distress, motionless, with a fixed and unchanging +smile upon her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“The Marquis has returned?” +</p> + +<p> +“As I say—last night. I am going now to his house.” +</p> + +<p> +I turned upon my heel, and left her. She had not moved from the place +when I passed out. I could see that a word would have unsealed her +lips and cast her, a mendicant for pity, at my feet. But I went +straight on to the hall and the street, and calling the first cab +which came to my view, I ordered the man to drive me to the house of +Monsieur le Marquis de Saint Faur. +</p> + +<p> +He was not within—he is to see me to-night. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, Paddy, If I could but know what he will say—if I could but be +sure that this foul lie will pass no human lips again! +</p> + +<p> +The heart has gone out of me—I must watch and wait through the long +night— +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Your friend,<br> +<span class="sc">Harry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch35"> +CHAPTER XXXV. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[We meet the Marquis de Saint Faur and another old friend.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Hôtel St. Paul, Paris,<br> +October 25th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—I am keeping my promise, and, at much inconvenience, +hastening to let you know, both what was done last night, and what is +proposed to be done to-day. That you have no news I gather from your +silence. Had there been but a single ray of light, I know with what +speed your kindness would have winged it on to Paris. An empty +letter-bag chills my hope with its intimation of despair and +hopelessness. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, I cannot get away from it, Paddy—asleep or awake, the question +rolls in my ears with a sound of drums. She is alive—she is dead. A +thousand arguments push reason and patience aside, now bidding me +accuse, now reproach her—anon chanting an office of black conspiracy, +again deluding me with fair promises. For would not Mimi, of all +people in the world, have found a way, if any door were open to her +cleverness? What trick, I ask, what mendacity keeps her silent? Has an +unknown assassin dared a second crime, that the first may be covered? +And why, and why—why did this come to me in the springtime of my +happiness? What mockery of my destiny sent it to my door at such a +time? +</p> + +<p> +I have seen the Marquis de Saint Faur, and he has told me that Lea’s +story is a black lie. The arrows of a base calumny rarely stick, +Paddy, but they prick and bruise, and often leave a scar. I am ashamed +of having gone to his house, and yet not ashamed. His manner perplexed +me utterly—we make nothing of him, and yet we may not dismiss him. Is +it not becoming a mystery beyond all hope, all thought? +</p> + +<p> +I am convinced of one thing, and it is this, that Lea d’Alençon never +intended me to hear the Marquis’s name. It escaped her lips by +accident, at a moment of stress, when the lie meant all to her, and +the man who would deny it was, as she believed, beyond the confines of +appeal. An accident of speech, a chance word uttered by Jules Farman, +informed me of St. Faur’s unexpected return to Paris, and last night I +called upon him at his hotel. +</p> + +<p> +This was at nine o’clock. Despite the season, the famous corridor of +the Ritz Hôtel showed me many familiar faces. I heard the American +tongue, with its shrill suggestion of dominance; passed by notorious +“affairs” and discovered the Marquis at last, one of four at a little +table, and two of them as well dressed and elegant women as I have +ever seen in this famous place. +</p> + +<p> +The Marquis himself is all that his ancestors might have been before +the “grand manner” perished in France. Tall and stately, with a +bearing dignified beyond words, his bow is not to be matched off the +boards of the Theatre Français; while his reception of me was that of +a great nobleman who has been unwelcomely disturbed but would utter no +complaint. In his hand he held the card upon which I had scribbled the +words—“concerning Monsieur le Comte d’Antoine.” But I had looked to +see him in a private room, and my apologies were expressed with all +the earnestness I could command. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gastonard,” he asked me, “must this be urgent?” +</p> + +<p> +“It shall be when Monsieur le Marquis may please—but no words will +express my gratitude if it may be soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have an apartment here,” he went on, “will you do me the honour to +come at eleven o’clock to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +I said that I would do so, and turned away. He had named me aloud, +however, and one of the women—of singular beauty and much sweetness +of manner—uttered an audible exclamation, and stared, I thought, more +directly than good manners permitted. At the door the porter, who +knows me well, told me that the Marquis was staying in the house. +</p> + +<p> +“And the ladies with him?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“They are the Princess Hélène of Ilidze and her cousin, Monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing to call for remark here, and I went out and paced +the boulevards until the appointed hour arrived. In the old days, +Paddy, nothing gave me more delight than to walk alone in Paris when +the lights were blazing and the cafés black with people and all the +boulevards alive with the hum of leisure and frivolity. What a scene +unmatched, I used to think it; what drolleries one witnessed; comedies +fed upon sugar and water; tragedies brooding upon black coffee and a +twopenny cigar—everywhere the fiddlers thrashing unoffending catgut; +women talking against time—men against their sweet +persuasiveness—waiters playing the acrobat—fat proprietors of +restaurants perspiring and beaming at their doors—what a scene and +what a people! +</p> + +<p> +And the Jehu on his box and the turbulent sea of crashing traffic +coming whence God alone knew—the ferocious cries of peaceable +men—the glittering pavements—the spreading aureoles of monstrous +lights—theatre flares as triumphal arches of shimmering fire—great +wide windows to bewitch you with their merry revelations—the throat +of Paris grown hoarse but weary—ah, I say, what scenes and what a +people! And yet I could pass them by to-night without a thought, +believe that they mocked me, cry upon the happiness and the laughter +of others, say that the music was discordant, the women so many +Jezebels, the men a company of chattering fools, the whole city a +pandemonium whence I would willingly escape. So does trouble war upon +us, so is this land fair or a wilderness, as fortune shall dictate. +</p> + +<p> +The Marquis was in his room when I returned at eleven o’clock. He wore +a black smoking-cap and had lighted a cigar. You know the rooms upon +the first floor of the Ritz, little arbours, as it were, cut out of +those vast walls, but arbours furnished as the old châteaux were, and +often borrowing the treasures of châteaux for their ornaments. The +apartment was lighted by a single reading-lamp, placed upon a table at +the Marquis’s side. Whisky and soda and tumblers stood to hand. He was +alone and I perceived at once that he received me not unwillingly and +with some curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +“You are here to speak of my poor friend the Count d’Antoine,” he +said. “I know your name, Mr. Gastonard, and the story of these recent +days. Be good enough to sit down. I regret that I should have been +compelled to defer the hour of our meeting, but the reasons were +self-evident. There are the cigarettes, if you will smoke.” +</p> + +<p> +He lighted one himself, standing with his back towards me, but +scanning my face, as I could see, in the mirror above the +chimney-piece. Fear of my own quick tongue bade me imitate him and +smoke—for there is no weapon of discreet speech so sure as a +cigarette in the mouth. When he had seated himself, I stated my +purpose very frankly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I said, “it would be about the Count d’Antoine. He was very +well known to you, Marquis—I may say that he was your friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“Most willingly—one of the oldest of my friends and one of the most +esteemed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then my second question needs no apology. I have been told that my +wife was his mistress. Is that story true or is it false?” +</p> + +<p> +He did not answer me immediately. Perhaps my own pitiful state alarmed +him, for I could not master my distress. It was there for all the +world to spy upon—a man’s heart stripped for others to revile. +</p> + +<p> +“Is the story true or false, Monsieur le Marquis? Pardon my +insistence—your answer means more to me than I can tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +Again a little spell of silence, and that impenetrable mask upon an +immobile face to defy me. Oh, my God, why did he not speak? Did honour +forbid, or the truth? +</p> + +<p> +“I understand you very well, Mr. Gastonard,” he said at last, “and I +think that I may reply as you would wish—” +</p> + +<p> +“You think, Monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +He waved the objection aside a little masterfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Who can answer for a man’s secrets—much less for a woman’s? I +believe that my friend the Count had never seen Madame Gastonard until +he visited her in London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God for that—thank God!” +</p> + +<p> +“He had never mentioned her name to me—so much I remember perfectly. +And I think he would have done so if the facts were as you suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose nothing, Marquis. A woman sent me here—Madame Lea +d’Alençon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Madame d’Alençon—ha!” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled quietly, but a phase of anger succeeded the smile, and upon +that a glance of mistrust. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame d’Alençon—what does she know of my poor friend?” +</p> + +<p> +“She met him at the house of Madame Martin, the American. This story +of an intrigue reached me first from her lips—she sent me to you +believing that you were at Corfu upon your yacht. I had learned by +accident of your altered plans—and so I came to you.” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded his head, staring down into the blazing fire of logs which +had been kindled upon my entry. +</p> + +<p> +“You did very well,” he exclaimed, “very well to come to me. The Count +was more than my friend—he was almost a brother to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you know why he went to England?” +</p> + +<p> +He did not look up, but his very attitude revealed something to me. +This was a question he would willingly have been spared. +</p> + +<p> +“I—what should I know of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me—you were intimate friends, and the supposition is not +illogical. Then you knew nothing, Monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of what happened, nothing. Had it been otherwise, the police would +have heard from me the same day.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you hazard nothing, Monsieur le Marquis?” +</p> + +<p> +He smoked quietly for a little while—but answered me eventually by an +evasion. +</p> + +<p> +“You are asking me many questions—may I put one or two to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall answer everything, Marquis.” +</p> + +<p> +“They will be embarrassing questions, but they are not put without a +purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is understood.” +</p> + +<p> +“You first met Madame Gastonard at one of the Fêtes about Paris, I +think?” +</p> + +<p> +“At the Fête de Neuilly.” +</p> + +<p> +“And were attracted by something in her appearance or manner? Would it +be very difficult to tell me a little intimately of that, Mr. +Gastonard?” +</p> + +<p> +“By no means. I was attracted firstly by her originality, and then by +my belief that she was not born amongst these people. A Louis Quinze +clock is beautiful at Fontainebleau, but you pass it quickly where +there are hundreds like it. In the Rue de Pigalle one would remark it +immediately. I saw that she had not been born to such an environment. +Her voice had the timbre of birth. There were gestures, phrases, a +manner which cried loudly for a truer story. I stayed to talk to her, +as one might rest to pick a rose in a swamp. That was the oddest +thing, Marquis—the advantage remained with her. No one to my +knowledge has ever patronised Mimi the Simpleton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did they give her that name?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can but surmise. She lived in her dreams apart from them. Their +world was not her world. She walked through it with skirts lifted, +upon the tiptoe of her birthright. To me it always seemed that her +mind strove ceaselessly to recall something which illness or terror +had blotted from its recollection. She was a born leader of the +people—she ruled by right of blood—the most ignorant were conscious +of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And she could give you no account of her past?” +</p> + +<p> +“So meagre an account that its pursuit were hopeless. She remembered +an old woman named Marie, the great white road from Blois to Orleans, +voices in a wood—and then the Showman’s booth. The ‘beforetime’ lay +in the golden mists of childhood. She believes that it was a happy +time—this memory of a burden as of happiness has come through the +mists and has never been laid down. Oh, yes, Mimi was happy in her +childhood, I have no doubt of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You pursued your inquiries none the less, Mr. Gastonard?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have spent thousands of pounds in the quest——” +</p> + +<p> +“And nothing further has been learned?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing has been learned.” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded his head, and for quite a long while said no word. He was +standing up when next he spoke and he looked me fairly in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gastonard,” he exclaimed, “I sent the Comte d’Antoine to +England.” +</p> + +<p> +“You, Monsieur!” +</p> + +<p> +“As I say, I sent him to England, to see Madame Gastonard, and, if +possible, to persuade her to pay a brief visit to Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur—Monsieur!” +</p> + +<p> +“For a purpose of an honourable, I will say, in fact, of a noble +character; but one I cannot reveal even to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you know her story, Marquis?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe that I know it—but as belief which is not certainty might +work an inconceivable mischief, my lips are sealed.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but——” +</p> + +<p> +My astonishment did not move him. He continued in an inflexible tone. +</p> + +<p> +“I sent the Comte d’Antoine to England to verify certain facts which +had come to my knowledge. He was murdered in your house; but how or +why he was murdered you have my word that I do not know.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can imagine no reason—think of no possible agent?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of none, or his name would have been known to the police these many +days.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I am not to say that the Count’s errand concerned others?” +</p> + +<p> +“By no means could it possibly have concerned any human being other +than the person who prompted it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not an errand where money was the issue?” +</p> + +<p> +“Absolutely not—I can tell you no more; I am not permitted to tell +you more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Having told me sufficient to make me the most miserable man in Paris! +Are we not now become conspirators in this, Marquis? Are not our +interests common interests?” +</p> + +<p> +“In a measure, yes—I see that you suffer much.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marquis,” I said quietly, “I would give half the years of my life to +see my wife to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“A sentiment most honourable. Should it be possible for me to further +it, count upon my warm endeavour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Meanwhile, you are unable to help me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am quite unable, Mr. Gastonard.” +</p> + +<p> +I did not press the point. Here was a man of honour of the old type; +my knowledge of such men told me that I might question him for a +century and learn nothing if honour sealed his lips. Perhaps some +shadow of a wonderful truth already crossed my path, but made it the +blacker because of these events. Of one fact I had no doubt. He was as +ignorant as I of the story of the Count’s death and of Mimi’s +abduction from my house. +</p> + +<p> +“I am quite unable to help you at present,” he repeated, “and it is +very probable that I shall be leaving Paris to-morrow upon the voyage +of which you have heard. Before I go, let me say that you have my good +wishes, my warmest wishes for your success. Good night, Mr. Gastonard; +do not hesitate to write to me—or to come to me, if that be +advisable. And be sure of my interest whatever happens.” +</p> + +<p> +I thanked him, plainly perceiving that he wished to terminate the +interview and that any further question would be unwelcome to him. It +was after midnight when I went out to meet a chill night, with a +drizzle of hostile rain which drove the people from the boulevards and +sent the loafers to the baser cafés. For my part, although there were +cabs at the doors of the Ritz, I determined to walk to my hotel. So +many strange thoughts came to me, so many hopes, so many fears have +been my portion, that I have learned to dread the constraint of rooms +and turn to the liberty of streets and the darkness. Here, under God’s +sky, be there a heaven of stars or a veil of cloud, I may still +believe that my little wife is looking upward, that her eyes are +cleaving the night as mine, and that the same prayer which I breathe +is also upon her lips. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, Paddy, will it ever be that I shall wake again to find her +pillowed head upon my arm, to know that I have won her love and will +keep it to the end? If Paris would but answer me that—the mocking +crowds, the darkened canopy of night, the unknown voices which torment +me! Shall to-morrow be as yesterday and all the morrows after? Oh, God +forbid!—I cannot lose her; I will not cease to hope that even as she +came to me in this city of my youth, so shall Paris surrender her now +in the hour of my need.—Your friend, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Harry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + +<p> +I had closed this letter, but must open it again. Jules Farman brings +me a strange piece of news. It may mean much or little. He followed +me, it seems, to the Ritz last night believing that I also had been +followed now for some days in Paris. He had waited some twenty minutes +in the Place Vendome, when a man passed whom he recognised. It was our +old friend the famous ruffian Jean-le-Mont, from the old Café of the +Assassins. The man lingered a little while outside the Ritz, and then +went on toward the Boulevards. +</p> + +<p> +Now, what does this mean—what does your wisdom make of it? Jules +Farman will say nothing. He has been very silent these last few days. +Is it possible that our first ideas are to be justified? I begin to +believe so, even if the light be dim and the path uncertain. Tell me +what you think and do not fail to write to me. I am very lonely, +Paddy. There is not a man in all the world so wistful of sympathy as +your friend Harry to-night. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch36"> +CHAPTER XXXVI. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Paddy O’Connell writes a brief letter from Jack Straw’s Castle at +Hampstead.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Jack Straw’s Castle, Hampstead,<br> +October 27, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Harry,—I’ve no mind to be writing letters on a Friday, but as we +can’t blot that same day out of the week, anyway, and there’s good +luck to come in this world as well as bad, here goes for a trial of +it. +</p> + +<p> +I am still fixed upon this wild heath, though God knows why. You tell +me neither to come nor to go, so here I am for the middle course, as +the car-driver said when he put me into the canal for fear of spoiling +the banks with his wheels. Little Martha I see every day, and we’ve +had more than one lunch and dinner at the foreign cafés down West, on +the off-chance that we might do some good to you—though this is not a +matter that should be named to her preaching man of a husband. What a +poor thing he is, to be sure—preaching on a text of St. Paul about +marriage directly her back is turned, and giving it out to the flock +that celibacy is the blessed state! She’ll give him celibacy when she +gets home! Faith, I’d like to be there when his ears are boxed. +</p> + +<p> +Your letter speaks of no good spirit, my boy, and I’m not wondering at +it. But you’ll be good enough to believe this—that if any harm had +happened to Mimi, your wife, the news of it would have come home to +you before this time. She’s well, and she’s kept away from you by some +villain or the other who would profit by her story later on. That’s my +certain belief, and nothing will shake it. A girl as clever as Mimi +the Simpleton is not going to stay in any cage while her wit can +squeeze through the bars thereof; and we’ll be hearing from her, with +any luck, before the year is very much older. +</p> + +<p> +So I say to you, cheer up. Hope’s a good friend, even if he does treat +us uncivilly sometimes. Many the time, after taking ten in a bunker, +have I forsworn the pastime of golf, and resolved, by my father’s +name, to take to hoeing turnips. But here I am, at a sixteen handicap +still, and willing to back my luck against the company should occasion +offer. +</p> + +<p> +I would tell you that we put the advertisement offering your thousand +pounds for news of Mimi in all the papers, and have had perhaps a +thousand answers. This London is a funny place, and as many rogues as +fools in it. Sometimes I think that half the world’s gone mad. Is our +dear little girl a wild animal that people should be writing to you as +they are writing? Every crank with a bee in his bonnet, every +wide-eyed lunatic who thinks his sister passed somebody like Mimi in +the streets is spoiling good paper and pestering us. And then the +newspapers themselves, still at it with their theories, and the great +doctors of learning, and the scholars from the colleges, and the +lunatics that have escaped out of Bedlam, all large in print with +their stories of what happened, and their advice gratis to the rest of +the company. ’Tis a very pandemonium of suggestion, and not one idea +worth a silver threepenny among the whole of them. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Harry, my boy, will you be letting Paddy O’Connell know +what he can do for you? ’Tis no pleasant holiday-time—ten days for +eleven guineas—that I’m spending in these parts. +</p> + +<p> +Picture your friend walking on the lonely heath, and hunted about by +vulgar men in buttons if he so much as drives a golf ball into a +perambulator. This is my occupation—and when I’m tired of it, there +are the horse-riders to be seen on the tan, and the motor-cars, which +the police are fining. +</p> + +<p> +As for the horsemen, we’ve no such riding in Ireland, and wonderful it +is to see, especially the elderly gentlemen on the six-and-sixpenny +nags, who take a little horse exercise for the liver’s sake. One of +them fell off by the pond yesterday, and I caught his steeplechaser +for him. Such a sorry nag never came out of a knacker’s yard in +Ireland; but the man himself was shivering like a half-drowned dog +when he came up, and sovereigns would not have persuaded him to mount +again. +</p> + +<p> +“Did ye see that?” he asks me; “did ye see him buck?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” says I, “not exactly. But if you’ll get up and make him do it +again, I’ll tell you what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +He was very angry at this, and wouldn’t hear of it. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not a jockey,” says he. “Do you suppose I’m going to ride a +buck-jumper? Wait till I get back—I’ll tell Boulder what I think of +him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Just clap your hands,” says I to this, “and the old horse will run +home by himself. ’Tis a fine afternoon for walking, and good for the +spirits. I would be taking the second hour first next time you go out. +’Tis cheaper in the long run.” +</p> + +<p> +You can see any amount of these fellows on this “blasted heath,” +Harry, but not much else that I know of. And I am staying here because +my old friend asked that same of me; and, if he wishes it, I’ll remain +until they wake me and afterwards. As for the little house, the +curious folk still come to stare at the place, and Sunday finds them +loafing about half the day, just as though there were to be another +bad business for their amusement, and a wrong done to them should it +not happen. Yesterday one of them pushed his nose so far into the +garden that for a halfpenny I would have punched it. +</p> + +<p> +He turned out to be a French waiter from a little hotel in Soho, and +had much intelligence of his own; so I fell to some agreeable talk +with him, and was much struck with his remark that the real way to get +at the truth would be by offering money to one of the gang to turn +King’s evidence. To be sure, we’d have to learn the name of the fellow +first—but that’s to be done, I am persuaded—and if you would hear +the Frenchmen for yourself write to Monsieur Jean Rabasseur at the +Café Bousson, Soho. A man of some intellect who might be useful to +us. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, for the sake of all that’s charitable, either summon me to +Paris or send me back to Ireland. Your letters speak of a poor spirit; +and if there is one man in this land of Sassenachs who could cheer you +up, ’tis that same rogue Paddy O’Connell. So send for me and have done +with it. Martha leaves London to-morrow, and then I’ll be lonely +indeed. “I must go back to my dear husband,” says she; and when I +offered to send for him to London, ’twas just “Heaven forbid, Mr. +O’Connell! would you spoil my holiday?” +</p> + +<p> +So you see, women are much the same all the world over; and, if ever I +would marry a wife, I’ll look her up and down first, and ask myself +some questions. Is she the kind to go in double harness, and how will +she run without blinkers? Is it my money she’s after, or the beautiful +face I see in the glass? Be sure, I’ll be hard to convince. ’Tis +rarely a husband’s face the women see in that same mirror; and lucky +for the husbands that they have no gift of second sight—all of which +goes to the making of that incurable old bachelor—Your friend, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Paddy</span>. +</p> + +<p> +P.S.—There was a letter came to-day from the office of the “Daily +Bulletin.” I’m sending it on. You’ll see it’s marked “urgent,” so +don’t answer it until you get it. Meanwhile, the others are going to +the waste-paper basket, especially the bills, which have an ugly look, +and should not be left lying about any house to annoy a man. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch37"> +CHAPTER XXXVII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[In which we hear of Henry Gastonard at the Pavilion Henry Quatre in +the town of St. Germain by Paris.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Pavilion Henry Quatre, St Germain, By Paris,<br> +November 5th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—I have very great news for you, and I hardly know how to +tell it. This must be the excuse for my silence these many days. Oh, +my dear old chap, if you knew what it all meant to me! But I will try +to tell you soberly, though God knows how much my impatience tempts me +to heroics. +</p> + +<p> +You have been to St. Germain in my motor, and will not have forgotten +it. Don’t you remember that great forest plateau above the river; how +the old car groaned to climb the height, and what a lovely view we had +from the very terrace before the windows? +</p> + +<p> +That was in the “witching month of summer.” I remember that we set out +after a dinner at Bernotti’s, which you thought execrable, and a +supper, <i>chez Maxim</i>, which won upon your fancy. We were a <i>partie +carrée</i> in the car, and you were not a little alarmed lest news of +the escapade, and of two young and amiable ladies from the Chatelet +should ever reach the secluded shades of Glendalough. +</p> + +<p> +Those, my dear Paddy, were the roses of yesteryear. We gathered them +upon the velvet sward of youth, the vine leaves in our hair, and the +garlands of eternal hope about our brows. You, I remember, were all +for a fortune your uncle was about to leave you, and a chateau at +Bougival—I for a gold medal at the salon and a niche in the eternal +temple. Let us draw the veil upon such a treacherous jade. Did not old +John O’Connell leave every shilling to the priests—bad cess to him, +and is not the very bust I then worked upon become a corner-stone in +the house of my abasement? +</p> + +<p> +I am once again at St. Germain, Paddy, and the changed season of the +year speaks eloquently for me. What a rare day of autumn, what a +chill, bleak night, with a voice to whisper of winter! Here is the +very same terrace, magnificent as of yore—that terrace upon a +glorious height wherefrom you look down to the valley of the shining +river, away across the desolate plain of poplars, whereupon humanity +plays its Lilliputian <i>rôle</i> upon a mighty field, and beyond which +Paris herself is but a blur upon a far horizon. But it is a silent +terrace, Paddy, and the “monde” has deserted it. No gay music of +fiddles now; no majesty of womanhood; no rustling silks and floating +chiffon, and “Monsieur” to glance to the right of him and to the left +of him ere sitting at the table of his guilt. Even the “teuf teuf” is +silent, and the very stables cry desolation to you. The sun gave and +the sun has taken away; and for want of that little sunbeam the +chiffoned elves are hidden, and the world of laughter has fled the +woods. +</p> + +<p> +But I hear you resenting this philosophy and asking for the news. Let +an excuse of prolixity be that of the day and of the hour. It is +Sunday, and but two parties at this famous house. I linger here +because the events of these latter days forbid me to tear myself away. +Would you have it otherwise as the circumstances go? Was it not on +Friday that Jules Farman came to me, whispered a word in my ear that +quickened my pulse as wine, and even hinted that the end was near? A +more reticent man does not exist—there is no greater pessimist in all +the service. And <i>he</i> came to me and told me—<i>he</i> permitted me to +hope—<i>he</i> encouraged me to believe the best. Do you wonder that I +behaved like a fool for three good hours, and did not cease so to +behave until he threatened to leave me behind and to do the work—if +work were to be done—himself? +</p> + +<p> +There are some private affairs, Paddy, which are better for the wisdom +of an old friend’s tongue—and this is one of them. I was in a poor +way when Farman came to me and had begun to say that the Marquis de +Saint Faur would never reveal what he knew of the Count d’Antoine’s +visit to London. More than that, I imagined that the purpose of the +visit could throw no light upon its dreadful sequel. Here was a French +gentleman, of the older fashion, who told me plainly that he kept a +secret from me, but begged me to believe that his reticence was both +wise and honourable. And I must believe him; I must carry the +assurance that he knew, and that his knowledge must be hidden from me. +</p> + +<p> +A torture truly—for what burden is so heavy to a man in doubt as the +silence of another who could speak? I perceived that the Marquis would +never speak; and, driven to the belief that my little wife had not +left England at all, was upon the point of keeping my promise to you +when Farman came with his amazing story, and all the castles of +despair were demolished in an instant. +</p> + +<p> +This was at five o’clock of the afternoon of Friday. There had been a +day of wonderful sunshine for the month of November, and many people +in the streets. I lunched with that pleasant fellow, the Chevalier +Honoré de Villefort, at the Madrid, and went with him afterwards to +the house of the famous painter, Delmormet, who has a studio for +portraits in the Avenue de Malakoff. A promise to Villefort that we +would go up to the Butte together to dine, and then make a tour of the +old cafés, was not fulfilled, for I had no sooner come in sight of +the Hôtel St. Paul than I remarked a large motor-car standing at the +door, and leaped to the conclusion that it had come for me. In this I +was not mistaken. Jules Farman himself waited in my room, and +instantly informed me of the truth. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame Gastonard is at Bougival—in an old house near the river,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +I looked at him, but did not answer. The room and all things in it +were spinning before me as a gyroscope. The temptation to laugh was +almost uncontrollable. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you say, Farman?” +</p> + +<p> +“That Madame Gastonard is at Bougival, and that we must go there +immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +I walked across to the buffet and filled a wineglass with brandy. It +was odd to hear my own heart beating, odd to be lifted in an instant, +as it were, upon the wings of light to a very heaven of gratitude and +thanksgiving—and yet my prudence saved me. Doubt whispered loudly in +my ear. I could laugh for excitement and yet curse the fate which made +me doubt. Even Jules Farman was powerless against that native caution +which has saved me so many days. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you believe this, Farman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” he said very simply, “the man Jean-le-Mont has told us +something.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has told you something—yes—but what? Speak, man, for God’s sake! +Is your heart of marble that you play with me like this?” +</p> + +<p> +He seemed astonished. He is officialdom personified. What are men and +women to him but names to be docketed, identities to be established, +the persons of the drama which can move him to no excitements. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a long story,” he said next, “and we have little time. If you +are ready, we will go to Bougival.” +</p> + +<p> +I did not answer him immediately. The voice of prudence cried to me to +make haste. Good God, that I should delay, I who would have gone +through fire and water for Mimi’s sake! And he reproached me, this +smooth-faced servant of bureaucracy who had done his work so well. +</p> + +<p> +“I am ready, Farman—let us go,” I said—for he delayed now. +</p> + +<p> +He pointed to my thin overcoat. +</p> + +<p> +“Not without our furs, monsieur; the night will be cold.” +</p> + +<p> +The rebuke was just, and I perceived that he was heavily clad, though +in other respects the same reticent, unobtrusive creature we have +always known. When all was ready, he gave a direction to the driver to +go to Asnières—a suburb to the northwest of Paris—and taking his +seat beside me in the tonneau, we made the journey without a single +word spoken between us. +</p> + +<p> +And what could I say to him? What treasure of my inmost thoughts +should I lay bare at such an hour? My love? Impossible to speak of +that. My gratitude? He was well aware of it. The doubts lingering, the +spectres of incredulity? They sat by his side too, for his very +reservations betrayed him. Enough for me to say, Mimi is at Bougival; +I am going to her; I shall find her to-night; to-morrow she will awake +upon my heart. Were we not flying towards her?—streets and boulevards +devoured us with an appetite of distance insatiable; houses and shops, +cafés and restaurants—so many stars of light to guide us; intervals +of blackness; bridges above and rivers below; trains crashing upon +iron girders; trams humming toward the city—all the panorama of the +flight as though shown upon a cloth. And afterwards the open country. +Streets emaciated; factories at intervals; red blasts of light against +a black sky; the fresher air of fields and parks; and beyond all, one +clear star upon an imagined horizon—the star of our faith and +purpose. +</p> + +<p> +I have never been more grateful to a motor-car in my life, and may +never be as grateful again. Here was a machine of steel whose soul +sent out a sympathetic message to my own. “I know, know, know,” the +voice of it seemed to say. A horse bending to the whip could not have +answered more readily to the fevered cries of a despairing master. We +covered the ground as upon some magic carpet stretched out at my +desire. When the flight ended, when the voice from the heart of steel +was no longer heard, I noticed that we stood before a little café in +the narrow street of an inconsiderable town. And I was as one awakened +from a nightmare of sleep. Was she here; was this the house? The omens +said, no. I glanced at the café and perceived two old friends +standing at its doorway. They were the mendicant Georges Oleander and +the merry Chevalier Honoré de Villefort—whom I had but just left in +Paris. +</p> + +<p> +“We are here to dine with the Chevalier,” Farman whispered to me as we +descended; “please to remember that. We are returning at eleven +o’clock. I wish no other suggestion to be made. It is very important.” +</p> + +<p> +I nodded my head to him, and we entered the house together. A zeal, +burning to a point almost beyond endurance, bade me welcome this +respite, as a man may welcome an inn upon a journey to the house of +his pleasures. The café, I observed, was one frequented by the +students; a shabby little place, with a damp, stained frieze of faded +gilt to speak of ancient glories. The occupants of it were a dozen +students, poets, painters, and the riff-raff of the schools. Dinner +had been set for us in a mock <i>cabinet particulier</i>—but a sorry +imitation of the genuine article. Here, anon, we were joined by +Desmond Barrymore, and immediately he had entered, the <i>patron</i> +himself served up the first course of a dinner whose menu might have +been in Chinese, for all I remember of it. +</p> + +<p> +Imagine my feelings, Paddy, as I sat at this rude table with the old +friends who have fought so many battles—and cracked so many +bottles—of Bohemia in my company. Not many months ago, Barrymore and +I were fighting for little Mimi’s very life in the Lapin Agil on the +Butte. I left Paris, and he came across the sea to witness my +marriage. Again a few weeks roll on, and he is here as a silent +witness of my despair. The others, good fellows that they were, could +but act a mean part on such a night. Ah, for the old times when no man +cared a sou for the morrow, and sufficient for the day was the evening +thereof. This thought tempted me sometimes. We may well dread a gift +of happiness, for shall there not be an aftermath of sorrow, whatever +our fortune? +</p> + +<p> +It was not hidden from me that Jules Farman had called upon these good +comrades of mine to share his confidence. They were excited, but not +eloquent. Recalling old days of the games, I found them in that mood +which overtakes a man when he is about to run or row a race, and +believes that he will win it. They talked at rare intervals, drank +much wine, evaded my questions, and rarely looked me in the face. +</p> + +<p> +When dinner was over, we went into the outer room and joined the +Bohemians there. This I understood to be part of the stratagem, and I +made no comment upon it; and, for that matter, the scene was droll +enough. The artist—especially the French artist—in Suburbia is a +wild creature, as you know well; nor were these men exceptions. We +discovered them in all attitudes, some sprawling at the tables, some +billing and cooing in far secluded corners. The man at the piano had a +girl upon his knees, and cuddled her while he played. The shadowgraph +which they acted presently would have brought the police into any +establishment in London. But here it seemed innocent enough. After +all, the spirit of the play goes for much. +</p> + +<p> +Depict a far from clean sheet drawn across one end of this mean room, +and a shadow-play cast upon it. There is a sick man shown, and he is +<i>in extremis</i>. Appear a doctor, who pulls out the fellow’s tongue with +a pair of pliers, and rams it in again with a motor tyre lever. +Medicine is administered to the moribund creature as a horse is +drenched with drugs. The relatives gather round the bed, and begin to +divide up the man’s property between them. But they are reckoning +without their host. The wonderful drug acts upon the sick man with +amazing and miraculous results. He sits up in bed, waves the throng +off, spurns his wife aside, leaps from his couch, and embraces the +pretty nurse ecstatically. This is the whole cure; and those who were +the spectators have now become the imitators, inspired by the <i>mens +sana</i>. The artists embrace all the pretty girls near them. Somebody +puts out the electric light, and in the darkness we hear squeals and +giggles. Thus genius amuses itself—thus, the story of the youth of +to-day, whom Fame will acclaim at maturity to-morrow. +</p> + +<p> +Just as a man upon his way to a <i>rendezvous</i>, where the opportunity of +a lifetime awaits him, may be amused by the <i>gamins</i> of the pavement, +so did this absurdity of the café engross me. It was something to +lean back in my chair and to tell myself that I was a prisoner there +for Mimi’s sake. Later on, when the appointed hour came, I would go to +her and tell her how I had waited. And prudence said that Jules Farman +delayed because our very success depended on his cleverness. +</p> + +<p> +Strangers at the café—would not that rumour be bruited abroad +quickly enough. I imagined also that he waited for some man to come or +go, was watching patiently as we sat, and numbering the very minutes +as the old wooden clock above the doorway numbered them. Nor in this +was I mistaken. At eleven o’clock precisely he rose, and we followed +him from the place without a word. The great car stood already at the +door; we entered it, and were whirled away as it might seem toward +Paris, but in reality toward St. Germain and the chateau of Bougival +below the heights. +</p> + +<p> +Now, this was not a long journey, but to my impatience nigh +intolerable. I knew nothing of the road we followed; the night was so +black that the sharpest eyes could make little either of the route or +its environment. I can only tell you that we perceived the lights of +St. Germain at last, and had no sooner set our course toward them than +we turned from the high road and entered upon a narrow track which was +little better than a waggon-way. This we followed, perhaps for the +half of a mile, then the River Seine came to our view, and at the same +moment the car stopped, and I knew that this was our destination. +</p> + +<p> +There is no moon before midnight this month, and we had fallen upon a +black, dark night. My busy eyes could follow the silver shimmer upon +the still water of the river, but little else of the scene about. It +is true that a glint of light at the far side of a meadow seemed to +tell of a house there, though of what nature I could not hazard. +Farman himself carried many anxieties, and he entered the wood at the +roadside, and remained there some minutes alone before we had his +confidence. When he returned, he gathered us about him, and began to +speak in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame Gastonard,” he said, “has been in that house for three days. +She was taken there by a man named Bedotte and the old woman Marie +from Orleans. I have reason to believe that both of them are in the +house to-night. The others were the man Jean-le-Mont and the showman +Gondré. The former is now in our pay, and the latter has been +arrested at Asnières to-night. We shall find the man Bedotte +dangerous, but I do not think he will trouble us very much. If there +should be others with him, whose names I do not know, I may have to +ask you gentlemen to give me some help. Be pleased to take these—and +to use them if I bid you.” +</p> + +<p> +He went to the car, and produced three revolvers from it. Old Georges +Oleander’s protest that he was more likely to shoot one of us than any +other caused a smile even at such a time. But we gave him a heavy +knobbed stick in place of the pistol, and so set out in single file +across a marshy meadow toward the house. My own place was upon +Farman’s heels, and I would have given much for another word with him. +But he walked fast and resolutely, and did not stop until a hound +began to bay and another to answer from a house upon the further side +of the river. Then he stopped and listened. +</p> + +<p> +“I had not thought of a dog,” he said quietly; “we must remember him, +gentlemen.” +</p> + +<p> +The Chevalier assented with a jest, Georges Oleander, I thought, a +little dolefully. As for me, I did not lift my eyes from the lamp +which shone across the fields as an omen of salvation. Mimi was there, +harboured in that mean house. Men so vile that no man could name them +truly were her jailors, and she stood alone among them. Incredible! +and this was Farman’s story—the word of a man who had never lied to +me. Oh, think of it all, Paddy, and try to follow my footsteps toward +the house. Be patient if the record is not to be set down without +emotion. +</p> + +<p> +I had supposed that we should approach the place covertly and a +tip-toe. Such, however, was not to the mind of this amazing Jules +Farman. He crossed the meadow as bold as any pedestrian out for the +air on the Champs Elysées, and with less concern. As the villa took +shape against the curtain of the sky, I made it out to be little more +than a modern cottage set in a narrow garden which sloped toward the +river. There was no other house in sight, nor any outstanding object +to relieve the sense of isolation and security. But the river at the +back was plainly in our favour, and I judged that the common at the +front could conceal no sentinel. So perhaps I began to understand why +Farman went so resolutely, and did not halt until we were but fifty +paces from the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur Gastonard,” he said quietly, “you will please to use force +should the occasion arise. I am hoping that it will not arise, and +that our visit to the café will have been useful to us. If you +please, gentlemen.” +</p> + +<p> +He waited for them to go on, smiling, I thought, for a brief instant +at old Oleander’s hesitation. When they had opened the garden +gate—whereby they paused a little while—the hound ceased to bay, and +as hounds will, at a resolute approach, began to fawn upon them. They +were lost to our view, and with no further delay, Farman walked toward +the villa and knocked three times upon its door. +</p> + +<p> +It would be impossible, Paddy, to tell you of my own sensations during +these instants of waiting. Depict me standing in the miserable patch +of formal garden, at the door of a paltry red brick villa, listening, +as I have never listened in all my life, trembling, I do believe, in +the very excitement of my hope. More than once the temptation to cry +out almost overpowered me. I must tell her that I had come—must let +Mimi know that I waited for her. I could have beaten down twenty doors +in my rage against delay, smashed the glass of the window to atoms, +and razed the very building to the ground. Upon the other side was +this imperturbable Farman, as quiet, as cat-like as ever, listening +with bent ear, betraying no emotion; seemingly convinced already of +his success. And I must obey him faithfully, wait as he waited, crush +my impatience in hands of iron. Oh, I say, it was intolerable, and yet +it was the truth! +</p> + +<p> +No one answered to our bold knock; the silence became almost +insupportable. A minute we waited, two minutes, and still there was no +sound but that of our own quick breathing. As for the lamp which +burned so brightly, we could see it plainly, standing upon the table +of the front room and the single ornament of that bare apartment. For +the rest, there was no carpet on the floor, no ornament, no +picture—but just the room itself and the bare wooden table and the +lamp standing upon it. This we might have looked for, but not for the +mystery of the silence, the absolute stillness which met us—so that +one could have heard a watch ticking in the hand. Were the men warned, +then? Had they fled the place? My heart sank low at the thought—and +yet it was a thought that crept upon me. +</p> + +<p> +I had spoken no word to Farman since we entered the garden of the +house, but this new turn was not to be borne, and I could suffer it no +longer. A hurried whisper asked him what he made of it—and, a little +to my surprise, he answered me aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“They are asleep,” he said quietly; “we must wake them”—and he +knocked so loudly that the hound began to bay again, and I could hear +the voice of Oleander cursing him. Plainly, we had no further need of +concealment. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is asleep?” I asked a little brutally. “Did you not tell me that +Madame Gastonard was here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believed so,” he answered as quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“You believed so—well?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall tell you presently.” +</p> + +<p> +His answer told me that he, with all his discernment, could make +little of the situation. My own advice had been to force the window of +the room, and this he now proceeded to do—but first he lighted a +little lantern and laid his pistol on the sill. A disingenuous catch +gave way at the first attempt, and we climbed through immediately, and +went straight toward the inner door. Here for an instant Farman stood +irresolute. +</p> + +<p> +“There may be some danger,” he said—and then he asked me—“are you +quite prepared?” +</p> + +<p> +I whispered that I was, and he flung the door wide open, searching the +hall beyond with the faint rays from a policeman’s lantern. There were +signs of habitation here such as we might have expected—a felt hat +upon a cane-seated chair, a basket such as women take to market, a +stick so heavy that it was almost a bludgeon, an old mackintosh +hanging upon a nail driven into the wall. The floor was uncarpeted and +showed mud from clumsy boots—at the far end the door of the kitchen +stood open, and a flicker of firelight from the grate still flashed +upon its plastered walls. Thither now we went cautiously. But the +place was tenantless—though a kettle still sang upon the hob and some +dishes stood unwashed upon the table. +</p> + +<p> +I often think, Paddy, that nothing is so sure a test of a man’s nerves +as a house of unknown perils, which we must search room by room. I am +afraid of little in this world. It is no mere boast—for these things +are purely physical—but I possess some presence of mind beyond +ordinary, and a contempt for many of the situations of danger which +tradition has glorified. And yet I swear to you, the sweat ran down my +face like rain while I stood by Farman’s side in that shabby kitchen +and asked him, what next? +</p> + +<p> +No longer did I believe that Mimi was here—and yet I was forbidden to +say that she was not here. The evidence of recent occupation, the +shreds of coarse food, the empty bottles lying pell-mell in the +scullery, a woman’s tattered bonnet flung to a corner, a little jug of +milk set apart with a few dry biscuits—these were the witnesses to +Farman’s good faith and witnesses no logic could shake. +</p> + +<p> +As he had spoken, so the truth—that my dear wife had been the captive +of these ruffians in this very house, that she might even be a captive +still or worse than a captive. For now I shall tell you that an +overmastering fear of the worst took possession of me and would not be +quieted. I cared nothing for the men or the danger of their presence. +Every step, long dragged out and heavy, was as a step toward a +dreadful secret. The upper stories of the house became in an instant +the chambers of the terrible truth. And above all was the torture of +the thought that we had come too late, and but for those useless hours +at St. Germain might have saved her. This latter brought me to the +nadir of despair. Even Farman took pity upon me. +</p> + +<p> +“I begin to think that Madame is not here,” he said quietly. “Let us +go upstairs—we shall not be long in doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +I looked him full in the face, and did not spare him the question. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she alive, Farman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should they kill her? The blackmailer never kills—he has not the +courage.” +</p> + +<p> +I could but shrug my shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Then their object has been blackmail?” +</p> + +<p> +“It could be nothing else, Monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +I admitted his reasoning, but it did little to console me. If there +were peril of our proceeding this must be the moment of it. For we had +to climb the narrow stairway, ignorant of those who were above, and +powerless to shield ourselves from their attack. +</p> + +<p> +How it came that I was up on the first floor before Jules Farman I am +not able to tell you. I remember only that I stood on a dark landing +listening to my own heavy breathing, and unable to distinguish other +sounds. What light there was came astreak through a narrow window high +above us. I could make out the shapes of doors, but they were shut and +meaningless. The floor was but a black patch until a warm ray of light +shone down upon it from my companion’s lantern and instantly declared +its secret. +</p> + +<p> +An old woman lay there—a shrivelled, white-faced hag of a woman, +whose clothes were little more than a bundle of rags, whose hand still +clutched the heavy stick with which, perchance, she had been struck +down. And this Jezebel had gone to her account. The mask of death is +sometimes unmistakable. It was unmistakable on Friday night when I +came face to face with the old woman, Marie of Orleans, upon the +landing of the house at Bougival. +</p> + +<p> +I say that it was a dreadful discovery, and yet, God knows, my +thoughts in the instant of it were less of this stricken huddled body +upon the floor than of the events which had preceded the murder. There +is always awe of death, Paddy, however humble the subject, however +callous the discoverer. And at the dark of the night in a lonely house +with mystery whispering all about, the awe is manifold. Here we were, +stooping to put our hands upon the dead woman’s heart, listening as we +did so for any sounds from the secret rooms, and yet, perchance +thinking of our own safety all the while. Who had been the instruments +of our vengeance upon this mumbling hag? Must we unearth them +presently, strike them down as they had struck her, spend the precious +hours in such a butcher’s task? +</p> + +<p> +For my part, I thought that any instant might bring the ruffians upon +us. It was a trial intolerable to watch the closed doors and wait for +them to open. Why did the men delay? And Mimi—my God, why was she +silent? Then a better instinct began to say that she was not here, and +this gave me courage. Let me know the fact for a truth, and I cared +not how many villains were harboured here. +</p> + +<p> +We opened the doors one by one, Farman carrying his lantern. I had a +revolver at the cock. But I shall tell you at once that we discovered +nothing. There were beds in two of the rooms, and a third had a paltry +<i>ameublement</i> which spoke of a gentler occupation. But in the main the +house remained the same hard and chilling villa that we had imagined +it to be—and I vow that there was something beyond all words +melancholy in that secret which lay at the heart of it. An empty, +barren house and a dead woman’s body upon the stairs. So much for +Bougival—so much for all our plotting and our planning and our bold +emprise. +</p> + +<p> +The men who had done this thing had been warned. They had fled the +neighbourhood, cheated us, and perchance the police. Even Farman +admitted as much when he called us together and deigned, for the first +time, to share a confidence. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen,” he said, “I cannot blame myself. The man Bedotte was here +an hour ago—I knew that Madame Gastonard was here at sunset. You see +what has happened—there has been a quarrel, and this woman has been +killed. I would have come to Bougival sooner if it had been safe to +come—but I was afraid for Madame Gastonard while the showman Gondré +was here. We set a trap for him and he has been taken at Asnières +to-night. The other man, Bedotte, has not been sober for many days. +That is why I came to the house as I did; but, believe me, if what I +surmise be true, nothing has been lost by delay, and we shall have +good news of Madame to-morrow. I am now to leave the police to do +their own business here and to advise Monsieur Lepine of ours. We may +return immediately to Paris, for our work is done.” +</p> + +<p> +And so, Paddy, we left this melancholy house and returned to the car. +I can still see the villa, the lamp shining from the lonely room, and +the river bathed in moonlight—for the moon was up by this time and +all the scene made glorious. It was something, at least, to know that +my beloved wife had escaped that mean temple of death, perchance had +known nothing of its secrets. None the less, I clung to the +neighbourhood as to some place which should minister to my sentiment, +and, determining to stay the night at St. Germain, returned thither +with my companions. They, be sure, were not the men to decline such +hospitality, and they sat up with me until dawn, offering a thousand +explanations of Farman’s conduct, and justifying it in no way. +</p> + +<p> +What was this man keeping back from us? Why did he, who had served me +so faithfully many a day, serve me so ill to-night? Recollect that I +had but the shabbiest of facts from him. He had told me merely that my +wife had been abducted from her house by those who had known her as +Mimi La Godiche at Montmartre, and who believed that they could profit +by the knowledge. And upon this a talk of blackmail—yet not a word +that would enlighten me, no names, no histories—nothing but the +intimation. This we said again and again as we sat in my room at the +Pavilion Hotel and waited for the day. Circumstance had deluded us. We +could make nothing of it. +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +I had nothing from Farman yesterday, but to-day there came a little +note in which, evading other issues, he tells me that the man Bedotte +has been traced to Rheims, and is evidently making for Brussels; but +that the police are close upon his track, and an immediate arrest is +expected. “As for Madame,” he says, “the opinion is growing that she +escaped from the house and need no longer be sought among these +people.” But of this he will write me further at a later hour. +</p> + +<p> +And so you see, Paddy, that I am tied to this hotel in as great a +state of doubt and perplexity, of hope and longing, as ever mortal +suffered. I know not what to decide, what to believe. Inconceivable, +indeed, that Mimi should not have gone straight to Paris, if this tale +of escape were true. A telegram assures me that nothing is known of +her, either at the Hôtel St. Paul or at Montmartre; and had you in +England any news, I doubt not it would have come to me before this. +What, then, am I to say? That she has not wished to return to me? God +forbid any such thought. +</p> + +<p> +I will send you another letter in the morning, as soon as the event +permits. Should anything happen in London, let nothing delay a +telegram. Of the trivial affairs, there is a request here from the +editor of the “Daily Bulletin” that I will write a second letter for +him. It would serve no purpose, and I have said so. His desire to see +me privately dictates the wish that you shall be my ambassador. Quit +the game of golf and the perambulators and spend a quiet hour in +Fleet-street. The power of the press is a wonderful thing, I assure +you, but the journalist at lunch by no means terrifying. Ask the good +fellow to meet you at the Savoy, and I do not think the state of +parties will forbid. +</p> + +<p> +How odd it seems to be writing like this. I feel it not at all. The +shadows crowd upon me. If I could but say, Let there be light! +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Yours, dear Paddy,<br> +<span class="sc">Henry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch38"> +CHAPTER XXXVIII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[The Reverend Arthur Warrington rebukes his wife, Martha Warrington, +upon a trivial account.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The Red Farm, Baldon, Suffolk,<br> +Sunday within the Octave of All Saints. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Martha,—Your continued stay with my cousins at Cambridge does +not seem a great compliment to your husband. John is a very estimable +man, it is true; but I ask you if it is discreet or prudent that a +clergyman’s wife should associate with one who is not ashamed to +attend the horse races at Newmarket, and has declared from a public +platform that the Anti-Field Sports’ League is a society of +charlatans. +</p> + +<p> +I had expected you to return and tell me more of this dreadful affair +in which our cousin Henry is implicated. Is it kind to protract my +anxieties? If it indeed be true that his unhappy wife has fled, then I +think that the future need give us little anxiety. I say, God forbid +that any harm should have overtaken the poor creature; but the human +destinies are not in our hands, and we must humbly bow to them. To-day +I wrote to Mr. Frogg, suggesting that we had some right to an +inventory of the property. The great house at Fawlands, now let to +Lord Lesborough, contains priceless furniture bought by Henry’s +father, my uncle, and of this a valuation should be made. It is +possible that by judicious economy and some practice of +self-denial—in which I shall invite your cordial help—we might be +able to live there ourselves when the present tenancy is terminated. +But I shall permit no worldly ambitions to hamper my sacred calling, +and in this course I must be guided by the Bishop. There is a See to +be founded presently at Bury St. Edmunds, and there should be four +residentiary canonries as a minimum. Here your brother’s influence +with the Lord Chancellor may help us, and I should not hesitate to +give a series of dinners in London to promote so worthy an aim. After +all, rich men owe something to society, to do their duty in that state +into which they were born; and we should be strangely forgetful of our +privileges if we were merely to husband this money which the Lord has +put into our keeping. +</p> + +<p> +Would you not like to be a canon’s wife, Martha? Remember that a +Deanery may lie beyond, or even a Bishopric. I will not permit myself +to think of these things. To-morrow I should have an answer from Mr. +Frogg, and also, I hope, a letter announcing your return. These +sporting people, surely, are no fit companions for a clergyman’s wife! +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Your devoted husband,<br> +<span class="sc">Arthur</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch39"> +CHAPTER XXXIX. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[We hear of Paddy O’Connell in a letter to Martha Warrington at +Cambridge.] +</p> + +<p> +Dear Mrs. Warrington,—I am careful, you see, not to say “Martha,” +lest this letter should fall into your husband’s hands—bad cess to +him! and he be making a fool of himself, as you say that he would. So +it shall just be “Mrs. Warrington,” though laughing up my sleeve I am +all the time, and you the same, I do not doubt. +</p> + +<p> +Well, my dear, I am having the blazes of a time in this wilderness of +a place, and all for my friend’s sake; though, God knows what use I am +to him any more than the policeman at the corner, who has had many a +good glass of my whisky, and would like many another. Harry says ’tis +to Paris I am to go presently, though what for the old gentleman +himself would be hard put to it to guess. The last news I have from +him speaks of the dreadful things we read in the papers this morning. +It would be clear that the little witch is gone from the people that +have had charge of her, and that this wicked story of wrong and +mystery is no clearer to us than ever it was. But so far as it goes, +we must be content with it; for I would no more doubt her than I would +doubt my sister Clara, and whatever she has done has been done for the +best—of that I am sure. +</p> + +<p> +Did it never occur to you that this pretty child may have a history +out of the ordinary? It has been in my mind since the first day of our +meeting, and as more in my mind than ever to-day. Who was her father? +but, more important to ask, what was her mother’s name? Did you never +hear tell of the airs and graces of her, the pretty ways that were +strange in a showman’s tent, and the dignity which no man ever +humbled? We may have lost good manners in this twentieth century, Mrs. +Warrington, but we haven’t lost the good sense which tells us whether +our fathers were gentlemen or villains, and this is an instinct we’ll +keep yet awhile. +</p> + +<p> +I say that Mimi Gastonard is the daughter neither of a showman nor a +peasant, and if my surmise is not correct, put Paddy O’Connell down +with the fools. +</p> + +<p> +To speak of things better understood, I don’t wonder to hear that you +were annoyed about the horse-racing. ’Tis no consolation to have +missed those same great races, the Cæsarewitch and Cambridgeshire, +and you so near to the course. Your cousin John evidently knows a good +thing, and his win upon the double event must have gladdened your +heart. But I’m sorry to hear that he put but a sovereign apiece on for +you, and he might well have made it a tenner. Man is a curious animal, +and always niggardly about his own kills. I shall tell Mr. John that +same if ever I meet him. +</p> + +<p> +Well, Martha, I miss the piquet we used to play on quiet afternoons, +and that’s a certainty. This god-forsaken Hampstead puts pistols in my +hands every evening, and takes them out again when the sun shines in +the morning. Just to think that the riding has begun in Ireland, and +me, Paddy O’Connell, doomed to a six-shilling hack and a gallop as far +as your arms can reach. Yesterday, in Harry’s interest, I lunched with +a newspaper man at the Savoy Hotel, and was much disappointed to find +that he drank water. “ ’Tis a little gas one needs in politics,” says +I, “and champagne’s the stuff;” but he would have none of it. I should +tell you that he has big notions of Harry’s literary gifts, and wants +some more letters out of him. I told him a story or two about the +parish priest of Glendalough, who, when the Bishop told him that golf +was sending men to the devil fast, replied that he wondered at it, for +they did it mostly on sloe gin. After this, he asked me to write a +series of papers on “a humorist in the mountains of Ireland.” But I +declined immediately. “ ’Twould be over the heads of your people,” says +I, “and that’s where all good Catholics should be in this life or the +next.” +</p> + +<p> +I expect to go to Paris to-morrow or the day after, and will write you +when I get there. There is a parcel of books at the house, sent to you +by your husband; but you don’t seem to have opened them. Will I +forward them on or give them to the heathen? Advise me by return. +</p> + +<p> +And with kind regards, please find me, yours, as per last, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Paddy O’Connell</span>. +</p> + +<p> +There was a curate man got hold of me in Hampstead, and took me to a +Christian Endeavour meeting. He persuaded me to put on the boxing +gloves, and one of his flock gave me a precious black eye. ’Twas a +Christian endeavour surely, and cost me a bandage. So I’m only seeing +half of this letter, which you can tell your husband if it should fall +into his hands. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch40"> +CHAPTER XL. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[A Brief Note from Jules Farman in Paris to Henry Gastonard at St. +Germain.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +4 (bis), Rue du Quatre Septembre,<br> +November 8th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur,—I am very well able to understand your displeasure, and +regret that it should have been incurred. Permit me to assure you that +I have not deserved it. The circumstances of this unhappy case concern +so many others, there are so many threads to this tangled skein that I +crave your indulgence if all does not march as you would wish it. +</p> + +<p> +You heard from me yesterday the welcome tidings both of Madame’s +safety and of her content. When the moment comes—and it is hourly +expected—I feel that you will be the first to acquit me of the +deception which has been practised. Madame believes that you are on +your way from England, and will arrive in Paris, it may be to-day, it +may be to-morrow. When you are with her, I doubt not that you will +readily understand both our desire for delay and her continued +residence. This story, believe me, is put forward for the best of +reasons—reasons, I repeat, which you cannot fail to approve. +</p> + +<p> +But something, Monsieur, may be told by me in the meanwhile, and that +I do not hesitate to write. It is now clear that Madame Gastonard was +placed as a child at the Convent of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart at +Feonville, near Orleans. A childish frolic carried her from the +gardens of the old house to the woods upon the road to Blois, where +she fell into the evil hands of the murdered woman, Marie Bordon, and +was by her sold to the travelling showman, Gondré. So, passed from +hand to hand, she becomes the servant of these rogues, and is lucky to +find a home at last with that honest man Cassadore. Her story until +the moment of her entry into the Convent School will be told to you by +others, I trust, before many days are passed. +</p> + +<p> +I have directed, Monsieur, that this message shall reach you at St. +Germain, believing that your continued stay in that town is both wise +and convenient. In the meantime, dear sir, be assured of the loyal +service of, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Your devoted,<br> +<span class="sc">Jules Henry Farman</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch41"> +CHAPTER XLI. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[In which Henry Gastonard receives a summons from the Marquis de Saint +Faur.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Château of Bougival,<br> +November 8th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Mr. Gastonard,—The obligation of silence which recent events +have imposed upon me is the more deserving of apology as it is the +less possible of explanation. +</p> + +<p> +May I beg of you to believe that all which has been done, or +contemplated, is such as would appeal to any man of honour, and +particularly to one who has shown such gifts of prudence and +self-restraint as you have done these latter days? +</p> + +<p> +The story of Madame Gastonard’s infancy is not one which may be +written circumstantially even for you, Monsieur. But the pages which +are missing will be supplied by your knowledge and experience of the +world and of men, and will not be regretted because of that knowledge. +Great names are implicated, and particularly the name of a noble +woman, who has suffered much, and yet must suffer. I beg you, in the +name of womanhood, to bear this fact in mind from the beginning. +</p> + +<p> +For the rest, I am content that your judgment shall decide what is to +be told to the world and what concealed. The rest is your own—an +inheritance of a destiny once decreed and irrevocable. +</p> + +<p> +Do me the honour, I beg of you, to come to the Château de Bougival +without delay, there to hear from Madame Gastonard’s own lips both the +story of these recent days as she alone may tell it, and that other +story, which will be told for the first time to any man by, Yours, +with cordial esteem, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Gaspard de Saint Faur</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch42"> +CHAPTER XLII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Paddy O’Connell hears that he may leave London, and is invited to +take the first train to Paris.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Château de Bougival, near Paris,<br> +November 15th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—Please to pack that monstrous bag of yours, and to come +to us immediately. You will get a train from Paris to St. Germain, and +I will send a motor there to meet you. But be sure to wire, for Mimi +says you are more likely to send your telegram from this house than +from London. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, Paddy, Paddy—what a day, what news, what happiness! I am here in +this old château, and Mimi is at my feet while I write to you. We +have before us the great park of Bougival; there is warm sunshine +though the month is November; the trees are bare and leafless, but +they show us the shining river, and it shall wing our message to the +friends who love us. For thirty-six hours I have hardly let Mimi +escape from my arms, but to-day she bids me write to you; and I obey, +even as she who watches me with such a story of love and gratitude in +her childish eyes. +</p> + +<p> +I have found her—the dreadful days will come no more; already we have +learned to believe that yesterday was not, and that to-day is eternal. +So much is to be told immediately; but of the rest your own perception +shall tell you, and you alone, when you come to Bougival. And you will +come without delay. Trains shall be too slow for you; the sea shall +provoke you; the inventions of man imprison those kindly thoughts you +would speed to us. As you stood beside us in the hour of darkness, so +now will you stand with us in the light—the first and best and +biggest-hearted of our friends. So I repeat, let nothing prevent you, +but come, for we weary for you. +</p> + +<p> +It was on Wednesday afternoon that I received a letter from the +Marquis de Saint Faur inviting me to this place. There was little in +it that would interest you beyond the invitation which it contained, +and you may imagine with what haste I set out at its commands. Oh, be +sure, I had some dim perception of the truth, or I would not have been +content to rest in that lonely hotel, as I did, and to suffer +patiently the mysteries which crowded upon me. Mimi was well, I said, +and had the best of reasons for her silence. +</p> + +<p> +To-day I know it was the truth. If you ever come to understand, +Paddy—in which case you will be the one man in all Europe who will +share the great truth with me—then your own shrewd common-sense will +have written the story for you. My lips are sealed; I am content that +they should be sealed. For is not Mimi at my feet while I write, and +may not I stoop to kiss her rosy cheeks when I will? +</p> + +<p> +I set out for Bougival on Wednesday night, then, and in 20 minutes was +at its gates. To my inquiry whether the Marquis owned the Château, +the people about gave an evasive answer. Some seemed to think that he +did; others spoke of a foreign tenancy, chiefly by that beautiful but +notorious woman the Princess Hélène of Ilidze, and her cousin the +Duchess de Bourg. Both these ladies had been with Saint Faur when I +met him at the Ritz Hotel in Paris; and from all that gossip says, it +was no surprise to me that one of them, at any rate, should be found +at Bougival. But of this I had little time to speculate, for I set out +for the Château within half an hour of receiving the Marquis’s +letter, and was at the gates exactly at seven o’clock on Wednesday +evening. +</p> + +<p> +I knew that it was seven o’clock, for bells chimed as my car raced up +the long avenue from the lodge, and the great clock above the stables +was still telling the hour when a butler opened the door to me and +invited me within. That the servants expected me it was not possible +to doubt. Neither my name nor my business was asked, but being +conducted directly into the great hall of the château, footmen +relieved me of my wraps and assured me that Monsieur le Marquis should +at once be informed of my arrival. And so they left me in that stately +place; and for the first time since the letter came to me, I could ask +myself the meaning both of it and of this bewildering sequel. +</p> + +<p> +Imagine a vast apartment, Paddy, domed above and built almost entirely +of marble. There were mosaics in gold for the frieze and paintings +above, such paintings as Vernet made for the ceilings of the Louvre, +but skilfully adapted to a vast and ornate concavity. A wide staircase +glowing with a crimson carpet boasts five caryatides to bear its +burdens. The chimney is a masterpiece by an unknown artist—a colossal +structure protruding centaurs far into the room and pillared with +jasper and chalcedony. Above there is a great picture of Turenne, the +Turenne of the fables and the wars, mounted and riding as a +Marshal-General of France. Other portraits also of soldiers adorn the +place, but there is one of the Empress Josephine, painted, I imagine, +during the stormy days of St. Cloud, and cleverly reflective of that +turbulent time, which is a masterpiece beyond all question. As to the +furniture, it is sparse but very beautiful. I note a clock with the +Graces which could not be bettered at Fontainebleau. A massive bureau +is in the finest style of that magnificent Boulle whom posterity has +imitated and derided. A brief glance says that this apartment stands +as an atrium to a house of princes. The manner of it, the size of it, +that indefinable atmosphere which the ages create could never mislead. +I am in the house of an aristocrat, and he has summoned me to find +Mimi there. +</p> + +<p> +So much is plain from the beginning, but the event which carried my +beloved wife to such a place, which sealed her lips while she resided +there, and brings me to her as a very suppliant, is dwelt upon almost +with reluctance, stands, it may be, almost as a shadow beyond. I seem +to know, and yet I do not know. You, Paddy, with your powers of swift +perception, will not fail to understand me. You will read already in +this book of an amazing destiny. +</p> + +<p> +I say that they left me in this splendid hall, and that for many +minutes I had no companion there. The house itself spoke both of +occupation and of ceremony. I perceived footmen about the table in the +dining-room, whose door opened to the right of the great fireplace +where the logs blazed brightly. The landing above echoed the voices of +maids, and, upon that, another voice which caused my heart to leap as +though one had spoken to me from the grave. When a chime of bells +echoed musically in the heights of the dome, I understood that they +were ringing the dressing-bell, and remembered with some consternation +that I had come to the château “as I was.” But the thought passed +away as swiftly as car and train could carry me. +</p> + +<p> +If anything disturbed my serenity, it was the absence of the Marquis. +He knew of my arrival, and should, I thought, have welcomed me the +sooner. But the minutes passed, and still he did not come; and one by +one the old phantoms swarmed up to torment me. If she were not here, +after all! If a trick had been played me! Inconceivable, and yet how +real to a man who had suffered so much. +</p> + +<p> +It was odd, Paddy, but all memory of the tragic days we have lived +through passed utterly from my recollection in that house. No longer +did I care what the world had said of Mimi or what it would say +to-morrow. That awful night, when I stood upon the threshold of my +little house to gape upon a dead man’s body and to know that my wife +had left me; that had been wiped out of my calendar as though a hand +of mercy reviewed the page. The house in which I stood, the great +names I had heard, Mimi’s presence at the château—with what woeful +reiteration did I not repeat the harassing questions to which I had no +answer. She knew that I was here and yet she did not come to me! How +my heart sank at that! What an abasement of love and faith—and how +swift a repentance! +</p> + +<p> +She comes at last—I hear the patter of feet on the stairs above—so +gentle that it might be the south wind brushing the cheeks of a rose. +What a moment to live as I turn about to spy a sweet apparition on the +stairs, to watch a girlish figure descend them one by one, to say that +she is my Mimi, and yet to remain almost unbelieving. Stand so far +with me, Paddy, but then shall you turn your eyes away. There are +things said and done between two who love which are holy in their +sanctity and God-given in their secrecy. Were it otherwise I could no +more tell you what befell us in that instant of greeting than I could +speak the dreams which the lightest hours of sleep have given me. Was +it not enough that I caught her in my arms and that kisses forbade her +to speak at all? Are there not hours of living so precious that they +would remain heaven though it were hell afterwards to all eternity? +And such an hour was that at the Château of Bougival—when Mimi ran +down the great staircase to my embrace, and my lips sealed her sweet +confession. +</p> + +<p> +You will remember that she wore a trim black dress when she was with +us at Hampstead, made cleverly as the French make all these things; +but a little overmuch in the fashion of the nunneries. I recollect +that we chaffed her about it, and that the Chevalier would have gone +out to get a Franciscan robe to match it; while old Georges Oleander +was all for singing the office, especially that part of it which +counsels the giving of alms to the needy. +</p> + +<p> +This dress and the pretty picture it enshrined have stood during all +these weary days for my image of Mimi as I should find her at last and +take her again to my house. But it was not to be. The Château of +Bougival has dealt too well by its prisoner. No little girl of the +atelier and the mountain descended that proud staircase to my embrace. +In her place I found a stately figure of Paris, gowned and dining; a +Mimi robed in silk and chiffon, with a gift of jewels about her white +neck and a sparkle of diamonds upon her arms. Oh, and the grace and +shyness of her, as though she were half afraid, but wholly sure of her +reception! And here is the wonder. She spoke not at all of the things +I had expected to hear from her lips. She told me nothing of the night +of crime and flight; nothing of the days intervening; no story of her +coming to this house—but happy in my arms she laughed at my +perplexities and asked me if I would have her otherwise. And, Paddy, I +knew not what to say to her. She is changed as it were in a twinkling. +My quick perception could not put the fact aside. She has come into +her inheritance—she is Mimi of the Butte no longer and never will be +again. +</p> + +<p> +Let me try to tell you of the talk which passed between us as we stood +together in the hall and cared less than nothing though all France had +been listening. It will not be to write down the sighs and sounds of a +lover’s meeting—you, Paddy, of all men care nothing for those since +you met the widow at Ostend; but I would wish to tell you how cleverly +this mere child kept, even from me, the things she had been charged to +hold sacred, and how even my persistency could not shake her. And +first, of our meeting in the house at all. +</p> + +<p> +“The Marquis sent for me, Mimi,” said I; “I looked to find him here.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you found me, Monsieur Henry——” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur Henry! Am I that to you, Mimi? Is it the Mimi of the Lapin +Agil again? Let me look into your eyes—let me see why you are +changed.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not changed,” she rejoined very sweetly, “but I am very happy, +<i>mon mari</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long have you been in this house, Mimi?” +</p> + +<p> +She tried to think. An impaired memory is among the first fruits of +all that has befallen her. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ah, mes enfants</i>, how long have I been here? There would be nights +and days—long nights and days. Then Madame came and I was happy. She +will tell you, Harry—she can remember how long I have been here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did the Marquis bring you, then? Did he discover you at the villa?” +</p> + +<p> +She shuddered; a spasm of pain crossed her face. I regretted that I +had spoken of such a place at all. +</p> + +<p> +“Bedotte went down to the river,” she said presently, her mind +gathering the threads one by one, “I was alone and afraid. <i>Alors</i>, +the woman Marie is there and I think of her. <i>Ah, mes enfants!</i> She +comes to my bedroom and begins to tell me the things I heard long ago, +when I was a little child and ran away to the woods. I think she was +<i>ivre, mon mari</i>—and I laughed at her. Then I saw that she was no +longer the Madame Marie who had frightened me. She prayed and mumbled +and wept. Oh, it was droll, for she seemed to think I was a baby again +and would have sung me to the sleep. But I crept away, and then she +told me to go. It was <i>mechante</i> to hear that. ‘Go,’ she said, and she +tumbled to the door and held it wide open—and the black house was +there and the men to kill me. I was afraid to go, and I told her so, +and then she wept again and sat by the fire rocking herself as a baby. +I was frightened, <i>affreusement</i>, but I went to the top of the stairs +and then a little way down them. Monsieur Bedotte had not returned, so +I opened the door. And then I ran away from them—Jésu, how I ran! +The woman called to me from the window, but still I ran, until I heard +her scream, and then I could run no more. A long while afterwards I +came to the river and the boat; and when I asked the boatman to take +me to Paris he laughed. I should have been afraid of him also, <i>mon +mari</i>, if there had not been someone else in the ship, a great big +monsieur, big as Monsieur Paddy and as kind. He asked me why I wished +to go to Paris, and I told him. He said he would take me there but +that I must rest first. Then he brought me to this house and Monsieur +the Marquis came to speak to me. He promised that he would write to +you—and now you have come—<i>ah, mes enfants</i>, you have come and I am +happy.” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke slowly, Paddy, and with less than a Frenchwoman’s +volubility. Perceive that she had told me nothing of the house itself, +of its master or its mistress. The dramatic story of her flight from +the villa may have been her apology. +</p> + +<p> +Cannot you depict the scene—the rogue’s house standing apart in the +meadow by the river—one blackguard summoned to Asnières by a trick +and arrested there—another betraying the gang; a third leaving the +old witch in charge and going, perchance to a cabaret to drink? +</p> + +<p> +He returns and finds the captive fled; in a savage outburst he strikes +the old woman dead and leaves her body in the house. We arrive when +all this has happened, but our knowledge of human nature is not deep +enough to read the riddle aright. We do not say that even this hag may +have known an instant’s humanity, though it were the humanity of the +bottle. She moans and babbles and weeps—the motherhood of the dead +past stirs again in her veins, warmed by absinthe or bad brandy—and +she bids the child to go. Thus in a frenzy she invites the death which +must await her. The man returns and attacks her brutally. He knows +that the game is up, while we are but guessing at the nature of his +pastime. +</p> + +<p> +This much was plain to me; but the sequel to the story I found as +perplexing as ever. Nor had I any further opportunity at that moment +to question the little girl who shrank in my embrace as though afraid +of her own narration. For that matter the Marquis himself appeared +now, and hastened to excuse himself. He was a fine figure of a man in +his dinner dress, and so natural in his grand manner that none but a +clown would have mocked it. Almost his first words informed me that he +had sent a motor to St. Germain for my baggage and commanded me to +sleep at the Chateau. +</p> + +<p> +“There will be much to speak of to-morrow,” he said, addressing both +my little wife and myself; “for the moment it is sufficient to dine. +Let Joseph show you to your room, Mr. Gastonard. I am sure you are +very tired.” +</p> + +<p> +I did not demur, and finding my clothes already laid out for me, I +dressed with what haste I could and descended to a little salon upon +the first floor where they told me I should find the ladies. Mimi was +here, and with her that remarkable woman the Princess Helene of Ilidze +and her constant companion the Duchesse de Bourg. Even you know +something of the adventurous life of the former. All the world +followed her flight from the Austrian Court with the singer Monterez; +her amazing escapades at Geneva have never been concealed; her +subsequent appearance in Paris and friendship with the Marquis de +Saint Faur have long ceased to amuse as gossip. +</p> + +<p> +An old story now, but unforgotten, Paddy. She preserves an ancient +beauty with little art, I perceive. There is no finer intellect in all +Europe, no woman possessing so many accomplishments with so little of +mediocrity in their display. Her volume on the “Story of Hungary” is a +classic. She has had an operetta done in Milan with sufficient +critical abuse to ensure its success. Kindly tongues would give her +forty-five years, I suppose. She might be anything from thirty-five to +fifty; for she is one of those women who go arm in arm with Time and +are careful not to quarrel with him. +</p> + +<p> +This was the lady who presided on Wednesday night at the dinner-table +in the Château of Bougival. The little dark Duchesse, her companion, +is but the setting to the jewel. I noticed that she ate and drank with +much dispatch, as subservient people will—wreaking her silent +vengeance upon the viands. The Princess herself talked incessantly, +and chiefly to me. Her range of subjects was amazing. I laughed at the +sketch of the typical Englishman, whose foot is on his native heath +but whose heart is in the Jardin de Paris. The Emperor Franz Joseph is +the greatest man in the world, she thinks, and Anatole France the next +to him. Paris, she declares, is being spoiled by the Socialists. The +new Frenchman is well represented by the ugly steam trams which +disfigure his streets. Religion is fashionable only among monarchists, +and will profit eventually by their conservative traditions. Sentiment +is departing from France; it would be a good thing if a king were +chosen and murdered—for that would revive sentiment. As for art, the +moderns are getting as good as they deserve, and if they desire +better, they should hang the picture-dealers. She herself has recently +discovered Corfu and means to build a villa there. She declares it to +be the finest climate in the world—and you can only play roulette +when the sun is shining. All this, mind you, in a mood most frivolous; +by no means embarrassed, casting sweet smiles about her, and stroking +little Mimi’s hands from time to time as though a new pet had come +into her house and must be made much of. +</p> + +<p> +Now, Paddy, I am but a narrator of facts as far as this letter +goes—the thinking must be done by you. Why has this extraordinary +woman kept Mimi in this house? And what is the meaning of such amity? +I could but make a hazard at the dinner-table and less than a hazard +afterwards. In truth we settled down to a formal evening, just as +though Mimi and I had driven over from a neighbouring château and +were to return presently. A game of billiards with the Marquis, a +little gallantry played by the obliging Duchesse—and then to bed. And +through it all my dear wife acting a part to perfection. +</p> + +<p> +I swear she was wonderful, Paddy—this flower of the fêtes, this +child of the atelier playing the grand dame at the Château of +Bougival as though born to it. If she tripped once or twice the +stumbles were humorous enough, just a catchword from the Butte, a +sudden jest—it may be an inelegant attitude. But in the main as +little to be criticised as Madame the Princess herself—a woman who +also has lived in the ateliers and is not entirely a stranger to the +student’s quarters. +</p> + +<p> +I say that I watched the play amazed alike at Mimi’s part therein and +understanding little until we were alone in our bedroom together. Then +almost with dramatic suddenness the child’s courage left her. She fell +into my arms in a passion of weeping—she whispered in my ear a truth +that I had expected from the beginning. Pride in it, love, shame,—all +were there. And I hushed her to sleep upon it, my beloved, who has +come to me from the unknown but can speak to-day with other children +of immortal memories and the golden days. Let this be her message to +you, Paddy—and let this be my Good Night. Mimi is happy and knows the +secrets of the years. Do you in your turn come to us as swiftly as may +be. Have we not as much need of our friends in our joy as in our +sorrow? +</p> + +<p> +And so I shall look for you by any—or as you would say, by every +train. <i>Bis dat qui cito dat</i>—which is to say “Hasten.” +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Yours ever,<br> +<span class="sc">Harry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch43"> +CHAPTER XLIII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Martha Warrington, being returned to her home, receives there a +letter from the Château of Bougival.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Château de Bougival,<br> +November 19th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Mrs. Warrington,—I have to tell you that I have left the +horse-riders of Hampstead and am come to this house, which is a palace +not far from Paris, and as comfortable quarters as Paddy O’Connell has +’lighted upon these many days. Should you wish to write to me, address +the letter as above, though you might put “care of the Marquis de +Saint Faur,” who is one of my friends, and a very noble gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +Well, I arrived here after the blazes of a journey, and not knowing at +all why Henry had sent for me. At first I thought it would be some +news which he could not well put on paper, and after that I thought it +wouldn’t. Bougival, I would tell you, is a stretch of park-land on the +river near Paris, lying under the height of St. Germain, which you +will have heard of in the French books your husband forbids you to +read. The train took me to the station of the place, and a fine +motor-car from there to the house; so, you see, I was made much of, +and mighty pleased with myself when I set foot in what the French call +“the vestibule.” +</p> + +<p> +’Tis true that the footmen—and the Marquis must have half a hundred +of them in this place—speak the French tongue poorly, and that I had +to fall back on my Sassenach; but we must allow something to +ignorance, and that is as cheap an article in France as in England. +Any way, I couldn’t be angry in so fine a house; and, being fortunate +enough to arrive about half-past seven o’clock of the evening, they +conducted me to a bedroom as big as a church, and sent as many men to +wait upon me as though I had been an Emperor. This put Paddy in a +dilemma, for, notwithstanding that his forefathers were kings in their +own countries, he can’t suffer another man to put a shirt on his back, +nor is he happy when a couple of flunkeys would see his head in the +washtub. +</p> + +<p> +You must know that Harry wrote me a long letter inviting me to this +house, and telling me nothing at all, except that his wife was here. +I’d suspected it all along, though hearing the name of the place for +the first time; and now, says I, the truth is coming out at last. ’Tis +some great man or woman in Paris who has been after hunting the child, +and that poor Count d’Antoine who was murdered at Hampstead was but +his or her ambassador. I’d have been worse than a fool not to have +guessed as much after receiving Harry’s letter and reading the +papers—though God forbid I should come to believe any newspaper at my +time of life. For all that, I know a fox when I see one; and what I +say is this, that Mimi has aristocratic friends in Paris, and there +were rogues who got news of those friends, and set out to blackmail +them. I’ll swear as much against all the justices. ’Tis a vulgar +crime, after all, and the truth will make it no better. +</p> + +<p> +This I must tell you to begin with, for ’tis a different kind of story +which must come after. The last paragraph of this letter left me in +the dressing-room at the château—and that’s no place for a lady. I’d +been there about five minutes, I suppose, when Harry came roaring in, +and hailed me with a hunting cry you could have heard away in Paris. +Faith, the man had lost his head entirely, and when he had kissed me +on both cheeks as the Frenchmen do, he rolled me over and over on the +bed—though I had a clean shirt on my back—and treated me worse than +any terrier. ’Twas “Paddy, you brick!” and “Paddy, such news!” and +“She’s here, in the house, Paddy!” until my ears were bursting with +it. Not a word would he let me speak, though I had a king’s message to +bear him, and when I got down to the drawing-room at last my collar +was up to my ears and my white choker on top of it. A fine figure of a +man I must have looked among such company—and the Marquis bowing to +me until his nose almost touched his boots, and Madame the Princess +flashing a pair of eyes nearly as black and as wicked as your own. But +there I was, and I had to make the best of it, and not a man or a +woman would I notice until I had caught the little Greuze girl in my +arms and squeezed her until she hollered. +</p> + +<p> +Well, they were all amused at this, and Madame, the Princess Hélène, +who is one of my friends, and a great lady in Paris, she took my arm +and led me off to the dinner-table. I had the Duchesse upon one side +of me and the Princess upon the other; and faith, says I, what a tale +to tell at Glendalough. Such gold and silver plate, Martha; such +glass, such paintings! My neck aches this very day for staring up to +the ceilings to look at the gods and goddesses dancing in the +hayfields, and caring no more for the liquor down below than the +archbishop at a teetotalers’ meeting. What with these bare-legged +beauties and the great ladies and the witty talk, bedad, I could have +been content to stop at the table a month, and to have thought twice +about leaving it then. +</p> + +<p> +But this is to speak of Paddy O’Connell, and you, woman-like, will be +all for hearing of Madame Mimi. How did she bear herself, you ask? The +little colleen out of the cafés and the circus—how did she carry +herself in such a place? Why, no grand dame born to it could have done +better. Even my friend the Marquis told me so afterwards; while, as +for the Princess, she couldn’t like the child better if she were her +own daughter. Not one of them that does not spoil and pet her, believe +me. I listen to their talk, and a thousand wild thoughts run in my +head. What is Mimi to them? Why did they send to London for her? How +comes it that ruffians would have blackmailed them? +</p> + +<p> +You are a discreet little body, and you will not speak of this to any +human being; but you’ll think about it very much, Martha, as I am +thinking about it this minute, and saying I’d be a fool not to guess +the truth of it. And if my suppositions are true, is the child’s +behaviour a wonder to be gaped at? You will be the first to say “no” +to that. She has the blood of nobles in her veins, and what matter a +jot if the bend sinister is written across her story? Let the story go +where it will. I would be proud of it if I were Harry—and so much I +have told him to-day. +</p> + +<p> +Write to me as soon as you can—when your husband is at his sermons +should be a good opportunity—and tell me how far I am right. My own +programme is uncertain. This lovely November weather makes life well +enough in the glorious park about this château, and a sweet time we +are having of it. The Marquis plays golf very well, and I am winning +money of him. Mimi and Harry are nearly always on horseback, for he is +teaching her to ride, and a willing pupil he has found. What is +troubling them is the approaching trial of the man Bedotte, who, it +seems, was Count d’Antoine’s valet, and is to be tried at St. Germain +for the murder of the old woman Marie. I fear the public, which laps +up a scandalous story as a dog takes water, will insist upon much +being told which otherwise should be concealed. But we shall have the +judge with us, for where is the lawyer born who could write unkind +things about that beautiful woman the Princess Hélène? +</p> + +<p> +Rely upon me, in any case, to send you all the news. Harry is fretting +still for his fortune, though Mimi, I hear, is to have two thousand a +year from the Marquis. He says he means to accept an offer from the +editor of the “Daily Bulletin” to become Paris correspondent at a +stiffish sum, and I do believe he’ll carry out the threat. In which +case they will have an apartment in Paris and a villa at Fontainebleau +which he discovered the other day when in his motor-car. +</p> + +<p> +I’ll be a lonely man then, Martha, and glad to see you sometimes. +Should the “Society for the Suppression of Human Emotions” determine +to hold its meetings in London, you’ll be going there and may manage +to let me know. In which case, an accident might find me in the great +Metropolis also. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, with my kind regards, believe me, dear Mrs. Warrington, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Yours faithfully,<br> +<span class="sc">Paddy O’Connell</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch44"> +CHAPTER XLIV. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Mr. James Frogg, of Serjeant’s Inn, receives an unexpected answer to +an expectant letter.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Château de Bougival, near Paris,<br> +December 2nd, 1905. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +James Frogg, Esq. +</p> + +<p> +Sir,—In answer to your esteemed letter demanding to know how far the +conditions of my revered father’s will have been observed by me, I beg +to state: +</p> + +<p> +1. That they have been wholly fulfilled. +</p> + +<p> +2. That an agreement was signed yesterday between the editor of the +“Daily Bulletin” and myself, in which I am engaged by him as his Paris +correspondent for the term of one year, at a salary of seven hundred +pounds. +</p> + +<p> +A copy of this agreement I beg to enclose for your inspection, and +remain, Sir, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Yours faithfully,<br> +<span class="sc">Henry Gastonard</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch45"> +CHAPTER XLV. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Mr. James Frogg, of Serjeant’s Inn, passes on the unpleasant news to +the Reverend Arthur Warrington, of Beldon, Suffolk.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +3, Serjeant’s Inn, London, E.C.,<br> +December 4th, 1905. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The Reverend Arthur Warrington, M.A. +</p> + +<p> +Reverend and dear Sir,—I have this day received the enclosed letter +from Mr. Gastonard. Its claims, I fear, are incontestable. +</p> + +<p> +The Will of the late Henry Gastonard, of Bordeaux and London, provided +that the bulk of his considerable fortune should pass from the +possession of his only son in the case that the young man was not +earning five hundred pounds a year by his own efforts at the age of +twenty-five years. +</p> + +<p> +Such a condition, I regret to say, has now been fulfilled. The +Agreement between Henry Gastonard and the editor of the “Daily +Bulletin” is not a document I should advise you to contest. No court +would question its <i>bona fides</i>; nor would any Chancery judge be +willing to interpret the Will in any strict sense. +</p> + +<p> +Such are the facts. Believe me, dear Sir, that I deplore them, and am, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Your faithful servant,<br> +<span class="sc">James Frogg</span>. +</p> + +<p> +My charges in the matter of this business, £74 6s. 8d., are detailed +in the schedule I have the honour to enclose. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch46"> +CHAPTER XLVI. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[The Reverend Arthur Warrington receives the news and makes some +complaint of it.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The Red Farm, Beldon, Suffolk,<br> +December 5th, 1905. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +James Frogg, Esq. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Mr. Frogg,—God’s will be done—though this, indeed, is dreadful +news. That the cup should be dashed from my lips at the last moment! I +can hardly believe my eyes while I read. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, this alleged contract is nothing but a trick. Would anyone +pay seven hundred pounds a year to a youth who has lived a worthless +life? Why, even I cannot earn a hundred pounds a year by my writings, +and you know how voluminous they have been. +</p> + +<p> +I must tell you plainly that if I cannot derive some benefit under +this Will, my affairs will be in a very bad way. The debts incurred by +my wife at the time of that miserable and insensate pageant at +Lowestoft still press heavily upon me and interfere with my work among +the poor. I owe some two hundred pounds beside, chiefly to my +publishers, who brought out my last volumes upon Athanasius and St. +John Chrysostom. They have the indelicacy to say that there is no +money in the Apostles. I must pay their account immediately, and also +your own charges. +</p> + +<p> +Would it be possible, do you think, to find some wealthy person who +would lend me money upon note of hand alone? I should not object to a +reasonable rate of interest—though perhaps they would lend it to the +Lord at a lower figure? How can a clergyman do his duty when harassed +by debt? +</p> + +<p> +This is a dreadful misfortune, and I cannot contemplate it with +equanimity. What will Henry do with his vast fortune? Oh, it is +deplorable to think that it may be spent chiefly upon this dancing +girl, who, I have reason to believe, is the natural daughter of a +dissolute French nobleman. My own position is rendered more difficult +by the fact that I have already entered into considerable engagements +upon the supposition that nothing could deprive me of the money. And +now Henry so far forgets his birth and tradition as to write for a +common newspaper. +</p> + +<p> +Will you please to let me know what I shall have to pay by way of +interest for a loan, say of five hundred pounds? Would fifteen per +cent. satisfy the lender? I have some hopes of being chosen for one of +the new canonries at Bury St. Edmunds, which is about to become a +cathedral city. This would mean eight hundred pounds a year and a +house, I suppose. I could pay off the money in three years. +</p> + +<p> +Kindly write to me without delay. +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Yours truly,<br> +<span class="sc">Arthur Warrington</span>. +</p> + +<p> +P.S.—Should you see Mrs. Warrington, I beg you will not mention to +her the fact that I am trying to borrow money. My loss, I regret to +say, causes her some amusement. She is going to London this week to +support the meeting of the Society for the Suppression of the Human +Emotions—but I have not the heart to accompany her. She would have +gone to the Charing Cross Hotel, but she hears by accident that a very +objectionable Irishman, who is her particular aversion, happens to be +staying there; so she will be at the Grand. She may call upon you. Be +discreet, I pray. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch47"> +CHAPTER XLVII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Paddy O’Connell informs his sister Clara that he is detained in +London upon business of some importance.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The Grand Hotel, Charing Cross,<br> +December 13th, 1905. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Clara,—I arrived here on Saturday night from Paris, but I didn’t +come on to you for reasons which the great Deep can speak of, and +especially that part of it which lies between Dover and Calais. Faith, +every soul on board but me was sick; and nothing but the natural +delicacy of my feelings prevented that same calamity overtaking me. +</p> + +<p> +I propose now to rest a few days in London. There are my stockbrokers +to see, and some of Harry’s business to be attended to. You have heard +by my letters and the newspapers all that has been going on in France, +so I do no more than to tell you that Harry is hard at work already as +a newspaper correspondent, and a mighty pretty one at that. If he +doesn’t succeed as a newspaper man, it will be because he tells the +truth, which is not what some of ’em in Fleet-street want at all, as I +found out when I called John Ferguson, of the “Daily Herald,” a +black-hearted liar. But Harry will do well, I hope; and he’s saved his +fortune for certain. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Apropos</i> of this, ’tis the oddest thing in the world, but I met Mrs. +Warrington in this very hotel, and had some talk with her. She is a +sensible little body, and doesn’t grudge Harry his fortune at all. +</p> + +<p> +“After all,” says she, “ ’twas his father’s money and not ours.” But I +fear the parson man, her husband, is in a bad way about it and +swearing like the devil. It appears that he’s been counting his +chickens before they were hatched, and a pretty brood of blue +envelopes have come out of the nest. I shall have to be writing to +Harry to do something for him. ’Tis not cricket at all to be expecting +a fool to pay the whole price of his folly, for God knows, we are no +wiser than we were born, and that’s not very wise at all where some of +us are concerned. +</p> + +<p> +I shall stay a few days in London, though I expect to be very busy all +the time. To-night I may go to the theatre by way of relaxation; you +wouldn’t have me kill myself with hard work, though anxious I am to +get home to Ireland and the riding. +</p> + +<p> +I will just say that Harry writes to me almost every day, and is full +of his happiness. My friend, the Princess Hélène, has gone to Corfu +on the Marquis’s yacht, and the Duchesse de Bourg with her. Harry and +Mimi could have the great château to themselves if they chose; but, +will you believe it, they have gone up to the little house on the +Butte, just to pass a day or two, they say, and to see what the old +life was like. ’Twould be odd to hear that the little Greuze girl +cared anything about that now, but I suppose Harry knows what he is +doing, and he’ll have plenty of murders to send to the newspapers. +</p> + +<p> +Do not be at the pains to write to me, Clara. I shall be coming home +as soon as all these lawyer men have finished with me. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, I am, as ever, your affectionate brother, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +<span class="sc">Paddy</span>. +</p> + +<p> +There was a man stopped me by Charing Cross Station yesterday, and +asked me if I could direct him to the house of the Archdeacon of +Middlesex. I had a little talk with him, and took him afterwards to my +hotel. ’Twas a most wonderful story he had to tell me. His cousin, it +appears, is a prisoner, in Spain, and knows of a buried treasure near +Cadiz. About fifty pounds will buy the man’s liberty, and he’s willing +to share the treasure, which dates back from Columbus’ day, and is +mostly in moidores, though all sound gold, with any man that will find +him the money. I’m of the mind to join them. ’Twould be something to +come home to you, Clara, with a ship full of guineas. And all for a +paltry fifty pounds. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch48"> +CHAPTER XLVIII. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[In which Henry Gastonard hears of Jules Farman again, and of the +criminal known as Bedotte the valet.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +4 (bis), Rue du Quatre Septembre, Paris,<br> +February 21st, 1906. +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur,—I have the honour to report as follows:— +</p> + +<p> +The criminal Henry Bedotte Sanvalier was executed this morning on the +public ground between the prisons of La Roquette and Les Jeunes +Detenues. +</p> + +<p> +I was privileged to visit the prisoner at five o’clock and spent some +minutes alone with him. He was entirely unrepentent, and heard with +much satisfaction that his comrade, Gondré, the showman, had received +a sentence of ten years’ forced labour. I have, monsieur, seen many +men die before the gates of La Roquette, but no man more contemptuous +of death or its sequel. Of this, however, you will read in the +newspapers. +</p> + +<p> +My questions to Bedotte were few but important. I had to discover (a) +if Madame d’Alençon had played any conspicuous part in this affair, +and (b) under what circumstances the abduction of Madame Gastonard +from the Convent of Orleans was safely accomplished. To both of these +I had satisfactory answers. +</p> + +<p> +There was another actor in this drama, monsieur, but he is dead. I +refer to the husband of the woman Marie, a man who had been in the +service of the Marquis de Saint Faur, who planned the abduction of the +child, and who hid her successfully from the police during the active +weeks of the pursuit. +</p> + +<p> +Madame, your wife, is speaking but in general terms when she tells us +that she has no clear memory of this criminal—nor might we expect it. +But it is clear that no convent would be so conducted that children +could pass its gates when they chose; and that if any such event had +occurred, the police of Orleans would not have failed in their duty. +</p> + +<p> +No, monsieur, Madame Gastonard was cleverly kidnapped from the house +during the hour of the children’s recreation. She was carried to the +poorer quarter of Orleans, and there hidden for many weeks. In the +interval an unforeseen event occurred: the husband—the man who knew +the truth—was arrested. The old woman had but a vague notion of it; +she carried the child away with her upon a gipsy’s journey, fell in +with the showman Gondré, and finally sold her prize to that honest +fellow Cassadore. And now, monsieur, the sequel becomes clearer. +</p> + +<p> +When you sent me to make enquiries at Orleans as to the truth of +certain stories you had heard concerning the infancy of Madame +Gastonard, it chanced that another was similarly occupied for a +purpose which will be self-evident. She was Madame Lea d’Alençon, +then posing in Paris as your friend. Her acquaintance with Count +d’Antoine was slight, but she used it as a clever woman could to +extort from him some confession of the truth. Possibly, although this +could not be proved in a court of law, she herself set counter +agencies to work. She may have betrayed the secret to the man Gondré; +if not to him, then to the old woman Marie. The criminals themselves +appear, upon this, to have joined forces and arrived at a +determination to work together. They did not know where Madame +Gastonard was to be found in London; but they followed the Count to +her house, and there murdered him—as Bedotte declares—because he +threatened them with the police. Their object was to blackmail the +Marquis de Saint Faur and the Princess Hélène. But most fortunately +this was prevented. The public may have guessed the truth; but many +truths are guessed by the public, monsieur, and remain guesses to the +end. +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur, the world forgets these things very quickly, and it will not +be less willing to blot out this page. If it should be turned once +more, you will have Madame d’Alençon to thank. But I shall not fail +to frighten her, and fear is the only weapon which will silence a +woman’s tongue. In this you may count upon me, not only in your own +interests but in those of my esteemed patron, the Marquis de Saint +Faur. +</p> + +<p> +I will add, monsieur, that a vast crowd assembled to see Sanvalier +die, and that his death was accompanied by that brutal circumstance +which unhappily is still favoured by our French law: the man would not +receive the priest Abbé Falier nor permit any consolations but those +of a glass of brandy and of a cigarette. He smoked when they had bound +him, and the cigarette was still between his lips when the head fell. +Such was the end of a very evil scoundrel who murdered a noble +gentleman and deserved a fate less kind. +</p> + +<p> +I will add that at the moment when the knife descended and struck the +head from the body, I heard a shout from the crowd, and perceived +there the notorious Jean-le-Mont. This man’s release was necessary, +but I regret it. He has returned to the old Lapin Agil on the Butte, +where I doubt not that I shall soon have the pleasure of arresting him +upon another account. +</p> + +<p> +Be assured, monsieur, of my esteem, and permit me to remain, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Your faithful servant,<br> +<span class="sc">Jules Henry Farman</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch49"> +CHAPTER XLIX. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Madame Lea d’Alençon has really nothing to say; but she says it +charmingly as ever.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The Hôtel Metropole, Monte Carlo,<br> +February 25th, 1906. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Mr. Gastonard,—I compliment you upon your self-denial. To refuse +an invitation to dinner with your old friend! And to forbid me the +opportunity of complimenting Madame! +</p> + +<p> +Surely it is not true, cher Monsieur Henry, that Madame Gastonard is +about to return to the circus? I positively refuse to believe it. But +the world has such a <i>méchante</i> tongue. Tell me that it is not so. +Indeed, the report—and your unkindness—move me to some envy. Must I +tame the lions—at my age? Helas, the spangles do not suit me! +</p> + +<p> +It was good of you to come here, for now we may talk. How proud you +must be of Madame’s success. I have even heard it said that she is +learning to speak grammatically. How clever of her when one remembers +the lions and the hoop! I am sure you are very, very proud! +</p> + +<p> +My dear husband has returned from Tunis. We were laughing together +yesterday at your misfortune—but very kindly of course. How very +foolish of you to amuse Paris as you did. And all for a mere woman. +</p> + +<p> +Ah well, as the proverb goes—<i>il n’y a que le matin en toutes +choses</i>. +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Your friend,<br> +<span class="sc">Lea d’Alençon</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch50"> +CHAPTER L. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Mimi the Simpleton writes a brief note to Madame the Princess Hélène +of Ilidze and we translate it.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +The Riviera Palace Hotel, Monte Carlo,<br> +March 3d, 1906. +</p> + +<p> +Dearest Mother,—We return to Paris to-day, and Harry says that I may +write to you. I have wished to write so many times, but he has +forbidden me. We are to go to Paris and then to London to see that +great big Monsieur Paddy, who loves me. +</p> + +<p> +Dearest mother, there has never been anyone in my life to whom I could +speak as I have spoken to you. All the secrets have been locked in my +own heart, but you have shared them. When I was in Paris at the cafés +and the circus, I knew that someone would come some day and open the +secret place of my love. You only in all the world can do so. Many, +many years I carried my hope with me and never dared to speak of it. +How much, dearest mother, is a woman alone among men. We bear our +burdens and none knows of them. +</p> + +<p> +Will you write to me, dearest, to the château; and I will have the +letters sent to London, if we go there. I know that I may not see you +often, but I will count the days until I see you again. Our jewels do +not shine less brightly because we do not look at them, and I know +that you think of me as your child. So often have I said she is my +mother, and that is the sweetest word. The years were long, dearest, +until I learned it; but I would live them all again if the end might +be like this. +</p> + +<p> +Harry writes so well that they wish him to go to England. He has +promised to go there to see his cousin, Madame Martha, who is in +trouble. She has lost all her money and Harry is going to give her +some, for her husband the clergyman cannot preach without money, and +that would make the people unhappy, she says. Afterwards we wish to +buy the Château of Marcey-le-Rideau and to go there for all our +holidays. Harry says that he does not wish to write any more for the +newspapers. It makes him so angry when they leave his work out and put +someone else’s in. And it is never so good as Harry’s. +</p> + +<p> +Dearest mother, will you come to Marcey-le-Rideau and let me call you +mother there? It will not be my home if you do not. +</p> + +<p> +All the lonely, lonely years forgotten! Dearest, will you say that +they must never return? +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Your loving daughter,<br> +<span class="sc">Mimi</span>. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch51"> +CHAPTER LI. +</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +[Mimi and Harry write to Paddy and advise him of their approaching +visit to Ireland.] +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +On board the Lapin Agil, Lisbon,<br> +April 2d, 1906. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Paddy,—You have been too long without a letter, so now we are +both writing to you. +</p> + +<p> +I am holding the pen and Harry is spelling the English words. That is +why there are so many blots. +</p> + +<p> +Dear Mr. Paddy, we cannot go back to Paris. We went there once and +lived for three days at the old Maison du bon Tabac. It was so +beastly. Harry says you (meaning me) must be very young to live where +the people have nothing to do but to say what they will do some day. +So we have grown up and do not do it. +</p> + +<p> +We are now in Lisbon, where, Harry says, they used to have an +earthquake. It has not swallowed up all the people, but there are a +great many left. Harry says the girls are very pretty, but I do not +think so. +</p> + +<p> +It is better to be on a yacht when she is standing still than when she +is walking. I do not like the sea, but Harry says it is good for me. +</p> + +<p> +Please, Mr. Paddy, may we come to Ireland to see you? It was very +naughty of you to quarrel with cousin Martha because she said you +could not play golf. And to go back to Ireland in a huff. Of course, +we shall say you play golf very well when we are at your castle. +</p> + +<p> +Harry has bought the Château of Marcey-le-Rideau, and we are to +descend there in the summer. One room is to be called Mr. Paddy’s +room. Harry says it shall be very big, so that you can beat the floor +with the golf clubs. He is building a little house in the grounds +which we have named the Maison du bon Tabac. You may smoke there, Mr. +Paddy, when you are angry and cannot get out of the bunker. +</p> + +<p> +We met Madame Lea at Monte Carlo, and I did not bow to her. She has +grown so ugly and has fallen in love with her husband. <i>Ah, mes +enfants!</i> What would happen to people if they were to fall in love +with their husbands! +</p> + +<p> +At Cintra, which is a very beautiful mountain near here, we met an +American lady, who, Harry says, is an heiress. You should come out and +marry her. Perhaps she would fall in love with you afterwards. +</p> + +<p> +But I will not have anybody falling in love with Mr. Paddy. He is my +friend. I wish him to die as a bachelor. Harry says he will do it, so +I am happy. +</p> + +<p> +Please say if we may come to your castle. The yacht will take us, but +I shall go upon the railway line. +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +Your affectionate,<br> +<span class="sc">Mimi</span>. +</p> + +<p> +P.S.—Say if it’s convenient, old chap? Don’t for heaven’s sake turn +your good sister out to grass, or anything of that sort. Just a bed +and a crust, with a pipe and a whisky afterwards. It will be enough to +see you, old Brian Boru. And God bless you, anyway. +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +THE END. +</p> + + +<h2> +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES +</h2> + +<p> +The Bernhard Tauchnitz edition (Leipzig, 1910) was consulted for many +of the changes listed below. +</p> + +<p> +Cyrus Cuneo provided the frontispiece. +</p> + +<p> +Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. Chatelet/Châtelet, music +halls/music-halls, tiptoe/tip-toe, etc.) have been preserved. +</p> + +<p class="noindent mt1"> +<b>Alterations to the text</b>: +</p> + +<p> +Punctuation fixes: some quotation mark pairings, and some missing +periods and commas. Also, adjust some of the letterheads’ location +lines to end with a comma. +</p> + +<p> +Change four instances of Mr. <i>Fogg</i> to <i>Frogg</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter I] +</p> + +<p> +Change “lunch in a frock coat and glory with Lea <i>d’ Alençon</i>” to +<i>d’Alençon</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter V] +</p> + +<p> +“The suspicion that this chit of the <i>fétes</i> foraines may yet startle” +to <i>fêtes</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter IX] +</p> + +<p> +“but you will not have come here for the <i>fish ing</i>, perhaps?” to +<i>fishing</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XII] +</p> + +<p> +“bears witness once more to the smallness of this <i>terrestial</i> globe” +to <i>terrestrial</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XVI] +</p> + +<p> +“for <i>litttle</i> Martha insisted on shewing me the greenhouses” to +<i>little</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XIX] +</p> + +<p> +“the house which their old comrade Mimi <i>wil</i> not enter” to <i>will</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XXVIII] +</p> + +<p> +“Is it dreams, or <i>is</i> spirits about?” to <i>are</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XXXIV] +</p> + +<p> +“She posed <i>lanquidly</i> and watched me with some cunning” to +<i>languidly</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XLIX] +</p> + +<p> +(letter signature) Change Lea <i>d’Alencon</i> to <i>d’Alençon</i>. +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +[End of text] +</p> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78976 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78976-h/images/cover.jpg b/78976-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..09e317f --- /dev/null +++ b/78976-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/78976-h/images/img_fp.jpg b/78976-h/images/img_fp.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5f3d834 --- /dev/null +++ b/78976-h/images/img_fp.jpg diff --git a/78976-h/images/img_fp_th.jpg b/78976-h/images/img_fp_th.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..48e68d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/78976-h/images/img_fp_th.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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